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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476630" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I Drag On My Cigarette</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I drag on my cigarette <br>and pull the coffee up to my mouth<br>as if I were officiating at a sacrament <br>and it were some holy bell <br>extolling the black wine of the bean.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am always more in the morning <br>than I will be again all day<br>and the light is creative until precisely noon<br>and I am at peace in the impersonal intimacy <br>of flowing along like a star or a man or a leaf<br>in this great dynamic that never goes anywhere outside itself <br>like a bloodstream, a mindstream, the nightstream <br>that flashes in the woods like the eyes of a beautiful woman, <br>and yet all these worlds within worlds move with it <br>as fluently as thought and feeling <br>in a mind that is not divided by decisions<br>or trying to locate itself like a constellation <br>on a starmap in the rain, <br>insanely fitting every dropp <br>with the axis of a pin<br>to divine the source of the shining.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And it's always been a mystery to me <br>how I can be so ignorant and all-seeing simultaneously <br>but what keeps me alive, breathing, beating, baffled and alert, <br>a gust of awareness, of wheeling air and images <br>in a moment of joy and dispersal <br>where the light touches the dirt like a lover<br>and the dirt rises, <br>is this infinite instance <br>of an inconceivable intelligence so intimately close <br>the flame leaps from the fire, <br>and the moon falls from its flower <br>like the petal of an hour that overslept<br>and the birds are swimming in the shadow-waters of the trees<br>like elegant, inexhaustible pens in ink<br>that leave no trace on the sky of anything <br>beyond what the mind can think <br>until it stops turning the days like the pages<br>of a journal only the wind keeps <br>like autumn leaves and mindless sages<br>and learns from the seed-mouth how to sing<br>of the abundance that flows from its undoing. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Stop trying to prune the rose with its own thorns.<br>You can't put serpent fire out with water<br>or grasp a question by the neck <br>to milk the crescents of the moon for an antidote. <br>Would you put a bit in the mouth of the wave? <br>Would you uncoil your cravings like flypaper <br>to catch a star<br>then green it through the glass of a canning-jar? <br>Is the you of what you do<br>the you of who you are <br>or deep inside is there a blind jewel <br>that's waiting for you to turn the light around<br>and give it eyes<br>so you can see through yourself<br>and stop trying to net fish with the moon's reflection? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But if you think the answers will put the matter to rest, <br>get the world off your chest <br>like the shadow of the stone twin<br>that mimicked you into self-consciousness<br>and stalks you even now unseen <br>like a dog or the moon or eclipse of the blood <br>closing the mouths of the lilies that speak for the starmud, <br>you have not followed the questions <br>far enough into your life <br>where you have never been <br>to understand how little the answers really mean <br>when the ant moves the mountain<br>and the grass is green. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I stand in the furnace of the worlds like wax <br>and know the fury of the fire is everywhere at peace with itself, <br>and the only holy wars are lonely and creative.<br>As I am, as I am, as I am, <br>my singular appeal and pulse, <br>my homely simulacrum for the event I call me <br>when I knock like waves on my own door<br>to ask whose footprints line the shore<br>and only the moon's face on a threshold of water<br>rises like the gentile coast of a skull <br>to say I don't live here anymore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You can't wash the night off <br>by taking a bath in an eclipse<br>and there are darknesses so intensely clear <br>that colours would only pollute the brutal purity <br>of the eye that dispossessed them, <br>poured them out like a delirium of words and wine<br>that could no longer dumbfound the emptiness <br>with the enlightened delusion of being forsakenly me. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And to say whatever this is before me now is nothing<br>is wrong<br>and to say this darkness myriads into form<br>and lucidly fills the world with things<br>is wrong, <br>and it is not mind or death or dark matter <br>nor me nor you nor God nor the devil <br>and yet its utter stillness mountains into mushrooms and fountains<br>and the whole issue is apparent in every event<br>like the taste of salt and stars<br>in the mouth of an open wound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is your skull honoured by what it must contain, <br>is the stone you lay your head upon <br>appalled by what it props up <br>when its metals reveal <br>the swords and crowns <br>you've poppied with blood, <br>or is your head still cooling <br>like mystic bread on a windowsill<br>like the universe <br>straight from the ovens of hell<br>in a purgatorial breeze <br>your goodness defanged like a whip? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or maybe you're writing love poems <br>on the sails of a boney ghost ship<br>to a lifeboat on the moon<br>bobbing in a sea of shadows? <br>Or the leaves at your door <br>who show up with maps to save you <br>don't know what autumn is anymore <br>or how to follow the wind to the far shore<br>where the straw keeps faith with the grain <br>and the scarecrow is feathered with fire<br>and there is no distinction between joy and pain <br>and the stone dances as fleetly as moonlight <br>silvers the vein of the garden snail<br>that smears the slow stream of its going <br>across my radiant path<br>like the enlightened thought of a tiny brain? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Have we not already come again and again <br>to a place we have never existed, <br>is this not the effusive locus of every moment, <br>the inceptive finish of every breath we give back <br>to the sustaining intimacy of the unconceived <br>who nourish conception with their emptiness <br>and confide themselves like seeing to the seen<br>and shape space like water into eyes<br>deeper than a full eclipse of the moon? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You cannot fathom the strangeness of this moment you are, <br>you cannot assess the span of your being with wings<br>or appeal to a god like a bloodstream <br>you can pour yourself back into like wine <br>seeking tomorrow's delirium with yesterday's vine, <br>when the whole of creation is the merest suggestion of you<br>out to the furthest star <br>that puts itself out like a torch <br>in its own reflection of who you are.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You don't have to study your eyes to see<br>or cultivate your features like a holy book to be. <br>Because there is no intention in the emptiness <br>there is no karma to redress <br>and nothing to bind or separate<br>and no witness to affirm or deny <br>and nothing to diminish or enlarge<br>and no wisdom in the waterlily<br>nor ignorance in the swamp, <br>and the clouds let go <br>and the chains lay hold <br>and the lead doesn't taste of gold <br>but the union doesn't differentiate <br>among its exquisite distinctions <br>and the old woman is not old <br>and the cripples run <br>and the road outpaces the racers <br>like a long finish line<br>and there are no fractures when everything is whole <br>and no god when everything is.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476630" data-title="I Drag On My Cigarette de Patrick White" data-description="I drag on my cigarette 
and pull the coffee up to my mouth
as if I were officiating at a sacrament 
and it were some holy bell 
extolling the black wine of the bean.

I am always more in the morning 
than I will be again all day
and the light is c..."></div>
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