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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476643" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I Long For Words</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I long for words that don’t exist; <br>	I long for a light <br>		that my eyes have never flowered in before, <br>but hope is a gravedigger <br>	singing in a pit <br>		and I removed those bones long ago <br>to accommodate the newly dead. <br>	Now I conduct night-classes under a bridge <br>		for working constellations. <br>And I don’t really know what I’d say <br>	if the silence were ever <br>		to shape the urn of my voice <br>into an uncontainable emptiness again; <br>	so that every dropp of dew <br>		on every blade of grass, <br>while the moon rose <br>through the broad-leaved basswood grove <br>	were wrapped like a sky <br>		in the skin of my eyes. <br>What can be understood <br>	is already slurred by signs, <br>		and the best way to hide <br>is to go looking for yourself. <br>	Forgetting for the moment <br>		that ignorant doors <br>are not looking for enlightened keys, <br>	maybe I would still try to express <br>		that first dark kiss<br>of the original fountain-mouth <br>	that stepped out of the tide of an eclipse <br>		like an island or a woman <br>who wore the shore of her own shapeshifting body<br>	to walk like a watershed into consciousness.<br>		But the light cloaks as well as reveals <br>and eventually the eyes <br>	evaporate into their visions, <br>		and the hearts of the seers<br>hang like drops of blood <br>	above the cold and empty cauldron of the universe. <br>		Time and suffering <br>will enlighten the profound folly <br>	of your most sacred delusion <br>		and in a black lightning flash <br>before the arising of signs<br>	you’ll know whose signature the wind is. <br>		How many tomorrows ago, <br>furious and young, <br>	did I make a ladder <br>		out of violated thresholds <br>to climb up to the window of a burning lighthouse <br>	and rescue myself like a child <br>		from this moment now? <br>Follow someone else’s road <br>	and you walk your own wake.<br>		Make your own <br>and you are everywhere <br>	the immoveable seed<br>		the world flowers for.<br>When your silence turned grey, <br>	and your jewels <br>		no longer hosted the light <br>in their darkening palaces, <br>	and your echoes rewrote the original play <br>		for three actors with the same voice, <br>and all your one-legged bridges <br>	stood on a single bank, <br>		longing to straddle heaven, <br>and you let your heart wither<br>	until it was only a medicine bag <br>		full of sacred dirt, <br>and what you once knew<br>	without a witness, <br>		you now forced yourself to believe in<br>like a sinner you thought you were <br>	pressed into jury duty against herself<br>		because eventually all the lies come true <br>and sin is just another form <br>	of back porch enlightenment<br>		to obviate your entrance<br>into the greater delusion of virtue. <br>	Do you remember what it was like <br>		to see clearly<br>before you poured <br>all this snakefire and moonsilt into the well? <br>	Now you’re trying <br>		to wash a mudslide off <br>in a dropp of dew, <br>	straining to cast the shadow of a mountain <br>		behind every grain of dust. <br>And you’re afraid<br>	to be afraid that all <br>		your goofy revelations of personal apocalypse <br>are cliches of other people’s wisdom <br>	on the back of a matchbook, <br>		that you’ve passed <br>through the gates of midnight thousands of times <br>	only to find <br>		you’re still veiled like a nun <br>by the light of your own passage. <br>	The answer shows up<br>		and you start looking for the question.<br>You wear your nakedness on the outside <br>	to disguise your masks <br>		and what kind of a lover can you be now <br>that you’re too shy<br>	to undress in front of yourself? <br>		How many skeletons<br>have you tried like keys <br>	on the doors of your emptiness, <br>		trying to get out of yourself, <br>only to realize <br>	the abyss between your legs <br>		has no inside or outside, <br>that the void never checks its mail <br>	for love-letters, <br>		that all your scars and bruises <br>rolled up into a ball<br>still don’t make a moon <br>		with a sea and an atmosphere? <br>You never liked me <br>	because I wouldn’t lie to you, <br>		and though I ached for the oblivion <br>in the black fire of your lust, <br>	and waited for you to rise from the lake <br>		to claim my burning body, <br>and loved you like the death I was meant for, <br>	I never could teach you<br>		to swim through ashes with dragons, <br>or convince you you weren’t blind<br>when the mirrors turned their backs <br>	to prove by the light of a brighter darkness<br>your eyes were your own.<br>	You shot past me <br>		like a near-sighted asteroid<br>thrown like the first stone <br>	at a planet grown stubborn with life <br>		the cold, igneous ore of your porous heart <br>could not sponsor on its own. <br>	You took what you thought was aim<br>		and squeezed one off <br>the trigger of the moon<br>	as the hammer fell on the anvil of your body<br>		and you recoiled like a serpent with intent.<br>You missed <br>	and have gone on as you are forever, <br>		stunned by the concussion that proved <br>beyond the shadow of a misfire<br>	you’re bad ammo, <br>		a leaky white phosphorus grenade <br>advancing rapidly toward the front lines <br>	of a war with yourself<br>		already well lost <br>when you came out of the tent <br>of your high command like a worm <br>		with the battle plan of your next breath<br>and the junkie poppies <br>	that blow like kisses between your crosses <br>		row on row <br>o.d.’d en masse like a blood transfusion<br>	rather than remember <br>		anything about you.<br>Some people just make more of an impact <br>	than others I guess. <br>		But I haven’t completely forgotten you. <br>You were the pygmy empress <br>	in the shadows of the single matchstick pillar <br>		of your own self-renown, <br>trying to plough the moon with a sword<br>	that couldn’t tell the difference <br>		between a crater and a crown.</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=476643" data-title="I Long For Words de Patrick White" data-description="I long for words that don’t exist; 
	I long for a light 
		that my eyes have never flowered in before, 
but hope is a gravedigger 
	singing in a pit 
		and I removed those bones long ago 
to accommodate the newly dead. 
	Now I conduct night-clas..."></div>
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