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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476650" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I Remember The Bees</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I remember the bees <br>moving like heavy slow notes <br>among the sunflower microphones<br>two octaves lower than the fireflies <br>on late August afternoons<br>perishing in the light. <br>And the irrelevant felicity of being me<br>with nothing to do but time. <br>Many roads and years away now <br>and this is another life <br>another town <br>and I'm staring out of a window<br>that's been forgotten by the eyes <br>that used to look through it <br>at the bleak winter rain<br>trying to distinguish the oases <br>from the mirages <br>in this glass-blowing desert of pain.<br>I remember white sweet clover along the dusty roadside <br>overwhelming the still hot air with its sweetness <br>and how it grew so high and thick <br>in the drainage ditches <br>it folded it wings over the road like a swan. <br>I remember watching the moon <br>lower its hook into the lake <br>hoping to catch something. <br>And now I'm trying to get it out of my mouth<br>like a question I can't answer. <br>I'm envious of the happiness I used to know <br>as if it had all happened to someone else<br>I could never be again <br>because even a river <br>can't step into itself twice<br>and the same is true of a bloodstream. <br>So do we all wash ourselves clean of ourselves in the running.<br>It's the mind's way of not staining its own clarity. <br>You don't need to see to shine. <br>There are quantum events of the mind.<br>There are insights and thoughts <br>auroral premonitions <br>and solar prophecies <br>that flare like the Medusa's hair on fire.<br>There are shadows of the unforeseeable <br>that cast their eclipses and sunspots <br>like exponentially tiny black holes<br>that steal the seeing from the light<br>and make space and time gape at their own measure<br>in the darkness of the heart of a human.<br>And in the next era of a moment<br>terrify them with the wonder of breaking into stars.<br>And most strange and astonishing of all <br>elaborated out of a chaos of photons<br>emerging out of the random<br>like wind on water <br>like Penelope weaving and undoing the moon on the lake <br>membranous worlds in hyperspace <br>blowing bubbles at each other <br>as if the light in their eyes <br>were life itself<br>shaping the multiverse playfully <br>into mystic glains swallowed by cosmic serpents <br>and fireflies caught in the drapes <br>by the open window<br>like jewels in the net of Indra, <br>like primordial atoms going off spontaneously<br>for the sheer thrill of it. <br>Mark one world and they're all marked.<br>And there's no end of the accounting.<br>That's why the most gracious of numbers is zero<br>and in any world I find myself possible in <br>I am the spacious friend of its infinite variety. <br>Even in Perth on a Sunday <br>among the flagging ambitions of leafless backyard trees <br>that have given up <br>dreaming of the doors and arrows <br>the coffins and lifeboats<br>they could have become in the hands of a mastercraftsman <br>and content themselves by staying out of the way of the powerlines. <br>Worlds within worlds within worlds being born <br>under my skin <br>at the tip of my nose <br>the end of my fingertips my tongue<br>pouring from the precipice of my lips<br>like lemmings and words not afraid to take a chance<br>the wind might feather their falling.<br>If compassion is worth the weight <br>of one single tear <br>of what life suffers here<br>then all things must be falling toward paradise. <br>Even the willows with their yellow-tinged hair trapped in ice. <br>Even the mailman who was convicted of taking his own advice. <br>Even the young beauty queen whose mouth overflows with saliva <br>as she dreams her makeup has turned into a pillow <br>that's trying to smother her like a serial killer <br>trying to get her attention on the news. <br>Do you see? <br>When you get right down to the point<br>there is no point.<br>Ask Heisenberg. <br>There's only you and I<br>and what we are<br>embodied in this memory <br>is merely the shadow cast <br>by what we are becoming.<br>Ask any star. <br>Keep the light behind you <br>like a ufo file with a due date. <br>Make a photonic leap into space.<br>Jump orbitals.<br>Release your infinitesimal quantum of energy<br>into the mind-bending unforeseeable gateless expanses of space <br>and instead of depending <br>on the fossils of cyanobacteria in Martian meteors <br>to improve on being alone <br>create worlds of your own <br>where space isn't time flatlining <br>but a field of imagination <br>where the absurd lets its muse run free as an enzyme.<br>Why do you keep coming home empty-handed <br>like Ponce de Leon searching <br>for the disabled fountains of youth<br>when you must know by now <br>it's the questions that are the watersheds of the truth? <br>It's the questions that keep you alive and searching. <br>It's the looking and not knowing <br>that keeps the fires of life <br>moving and growing <br>one step ahead of their ashs.<br>It's not the questions. <br>It's the answers that are killing you. <br>You might seek like a phoenix<br>but all your lanterns are ghosts. <br>Your eyes might be faster than light <br>but you're still blind if you can't see <br>that the world is <br>merely the shadow of an insight <br>you cast behind you<br>like the stars <br>like the candles <br>like the fireflies in your skull. <br>And it's good to know them all. <br>It's good to trace the lifelines <br>on the palm of your hand <br>and follow them back to the source of the Nile.<br>It's good to know the imaginary animals <br>that talk like your fingers <br>held up to the lamp<br>like constellations on a starmap<br>like zodiacs and arks <br>like a dog that barks <br>in the voice of a human.<br>It's good to see your own face <br>in the shadowplay <br>of subatomic particles<br>and take small intimacies with the profound<br>as if you'd just opened your eyes<br>like God's umbrella <br>in the spirit's lost and found.<br>It's good to stand in your own light<br>under the nightskies<br>and add your lustre to the stars.<br>It's good to abide in clarity and law. <br>But enlightenment is a darkness that shines <br>beyond the reach of your eyes<br>and just as space is bent <br>by the mass of Mars <br>so time is as supple as water and silk <br>and yesterday <br>is just as much the future of tomorrow <br>as the perennial brevity of this moment now <br>flowing down the lifelines of the mindstream<br>like a wavelength of night and time <br>that can't be measured in lightyears.<br>I reflect on everything I'm missing<br>and my grief turns to wine, <br>my tears to honey.<br>I resonate with the forked harmonies of time<br>like the tremulous skin of serpentine cosines<br>it sheds as it moves up my spine <br>like a waterclock of snakefire<br>pouring into the watershed of my mind. <br>And all the threads and rivulets<br>of my string theory thought<br>and the membranous theses <br>that are spun from them <br>are gathered up <br>and woven into whole cloth<br>over the black hole <br>of an acoustic guitar <br>the shape of a universe<br>as if it were a loom of music.<br>Time is music. <br>Space is music. <br>Life is music. <br>And death isn't where the music stops. <br>When you listen to it <br>not just with your ears <br>but with your eyes your heart your mind your blood your skin.<br>When you let it come empty-handed <br>and go empty-handed <br>without trying to grasp it like a thing<br>you realize that everything is singing <br>about what it is to be a human.<br>And you must be a human to hear it as such<br>because you can never understand <br>more than what you are<br>out to and beyond the youngest stars <br>that are the oldest of your insights <br>into the birth of the universe.<br>Time is music<br>and neither time nor music <br>leave anything behind.<br>Here once <br>here for good.<br>Though time has a past and future <br>a coming and going <br>a lament and a longing fulfilled<br>reflected like opposites on the watermirrors of the mind <br>it's still the same waterbird <br>cosmic note <br>first word<br>from the void in the mouth of now <br>waking itself up from a dark dream <br>with the sound of our voices<br>arriving in joy <br>and crying with relief when we leave. <br>I can hear the locust tree in spring<br>even with snow on the ground <br>and this hopeless duty <br>of a bleak window before me <br>singing in my ear<br>like the slow whisper, <br>the murmurous humming <br>of an intimate voice full of bees. <br>Time is music. <br>Life is music. <br>Death is music. <br>All the syllables colours notes thoughts feelings images and symbols<br>all the doubts and half-lives of the certainties <br>all the ardency of our holiest guesses <br>and starless inspirations<br>all the brutal black lightning insights <br>and firefly epiphanies<br>that have ever expressed the hearts and minds of humans<br>all the homeless clarities <br>and godless vagrancies<br>of what we're doing in the world <br>feeling lost in the doorways of our own thresholds<br>where every step we take is arrival and departure.<br>They're all the picture-music of us <br>and we're as indelible <br>as the moon dropping her petals and feathers <br>her hooks and thorns <br>her horns and claws and surgical fangs<br>like white swans and peonies on the river<br>like the eyelids of a mask she takes off<br>a drowned nurse<br>to remember whose face she's looking at.<br>And you can't remove a quaver of it. <br>Not the slightest detail.<br>Not one black swan. <br>Not the swerve of a single photon <br>with an identity crisis<br>striking the lightning rod of a nerve<br>that runs it to ground <br>and roots it in the body<br>until the mind opens <br>like the eye of a flower<br>a New England aster <br>that can see from the inside out<br>that life is a phoenix <br>in the ashs of a blue guitar <br>with the wingspan<br>of a locust tree in the spring<br>and the afterlife of a star.<br>Light flows through the roots <br>of my dendritic lifelines<br>like a zodiac of fireflies<br>streaming through space <br>for a place in the sun <br>and I can remember the bees <br>before the arising of signs.<br>I can hear them with my eyes.<br>I can see them with my tongue. <br>And I might not know <br>all the words to the song<br>or even what the lyrics <br>are all about<br>but that's never kept me <br>from singing my heart out.</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=476650" data-title="I Remember The Bees de Patrick White" data-description="I remember the bees 
moving like heavy slow notes 
among the sunflower microphones
two octaves lower than the fireflies 
on late August afternoons
perishing in the light. 
And the irrelevant felicity of being me
with nothing to do but time. 
Many ..."></div>
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