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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476642" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I Listen To The Silence</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I listen to the silence, not the ambassador birds of the message <br>	aligned along the branch of a black tree, <br>		waiting to have their say, deliver <br>the formal meaning; I follow them back <br>	to the original fountain-mouth of the silence <br>		that isn't dawn or sunset, or a woman in a garden, <br>but a clear light with the presence of a feather<br>	and, almost at times, a face, that's always been there <br>		behind the racket and the paint rags <br>of the cacophonous actors gathering on stage, <br>	the understudy that hovers like a silver fish <br>		in the reeds and the shadows of the undulant curtains, <br>rarely seen, and more of a fragrance of light<br>	than a second queen, an unverifiable void<br>		with delicate gestures that turn all my questions <br>back on me like the soft underside of milky green leaves, <br>	as if something took my hand and turned it over <br>		to show me the answers pearled in my palm.<br>And it would be wrong to attribute eyes to this silence <br>	though I feel it's the space where the seeing happens <br>		in the beginningless moment before <br>the watcher and the watched rework the seeing up into a play <br>	of heroes, villains, events, and fireflies of awareness <br>		in a chronic struggle of opposites. <br>And it would be wrong to accord it a mouth, lips, a tongue<br>	because it seems to say everything <br>		without saying anything, without <br>wounding itself on the quick edge of a word. And there are times <br>	when it almost seems to smile upon my childish efforts <br>		to know what it is, to return to the sea, <br>to the corals of the moon, with my hands full of cherries and stars, <br>	the abundance of living on the earth <br>		with waterlilies and rat snakes.<br>It indulges me with the serenity of an old, unknown sorrow <br>	that had to create the world to speak itself to the end<br>		and now sits enthroned in the emptiness of its own presence. <br>And just when I think I've come up against its impassable clarity <br>	like a fly against a windowpane; <br>		I discover myself immersed in it like an eel <br>undulating like a free banner of water<br>	 through its unpartitioned enclosure, <br>		hardly a wavelength of distinction between myself and it; <br>and everything I write is an oracle <br>	that swims away knowing more about it than I do<br>		before I decided not to ask it for a name.<br>And though it may have been the voiceless cachet <br>	of the divine numinosities that opened <br>		the resplendent roses of the past <br>that squandered their eyelids on asphalt and scripture, <br>	the watershed of the snow-robed mountain gods, <br>		now it's a dropp of water holding its breath like the moon <br>at the tip of the green sword of the cattails<br>	ready to send a shudder of tears and blood and fruit <br>		through the mirror again like the first pulse <br>of its falling into existence, hazelnuts into the mouths <br>	of waiting salmon, things losing their balance <br>		against the backdropp of the hidden harmony <br>by which they are created in the image of their own conception <br>	and known: apple-blow from the orchard <br>		or ashes from the nightshift crematoria.<br>And, perhaps, this is that silence that seizes the heart with the love<br>	of an unsayable emptiness as infinite as the beloved<br>		that can't be filled by anyone less, <br>as a question must be returned like a wave to the sea that asked it<br>	before it realizes on the threshold of its own depths<br>		there never was a brevity of being<br>	that hasn't always been the perfect answer.</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=476642" data-title="I Listen To The Silence de Patrick White" data-description="I listen to the silence, not the ambassador birds of the message 
	aligned along the branch of a black tree, 
		waiting to have their say, deliver 
the formal meaning; I follow them back 
	to the original fountain-mouth of the silence 
		that isn'..."></div>
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