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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476651" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I See Myself Happening</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I see myself happening <br>in the flight of a bird across the moon, <br>in the appearance of the leaves <br>and the leftover flowers <br>that have gone on blooming<br>in the corner of the yard <br>longer than anyone ever thought <br>and in the light of the star <br>through the branches of a tree <br>that's rooted in me like an emotion<br>that's grown beyond its rings.<br>For a moment the moon<br>holds the spring leaves up before her<br>like the cards of a new hand<br>to make sails and water of their shadows<br>and I am all arrivals and tides and departures, <br>the skeleton of a battered ark <br>scuttled in the mountains of the moon <br>after the flood receded <br>and everything was land<br>and I was the two of every kind <br>that disembarked like a mind <br>to elaborate itself through a bloodline <br>that wound many threads <br>into one strong rope<br>that might bind me like a spinal cord<br>to a place in an empty lifeboat. <br>We all have our protean myths of origin. <br>The wounded lies we use to exempt <br>our intimate extinctions <br>from the obvious suicides<br>who trusted death not to judge. <br>One voice says it's merely a witness <br>while another tries to interpret <br>the meaning of the life that's going on <br>without consultation <br>and another scoffs at them all <br>as if bitterness could save you from being a fool.<br>And tired of having my teachers <br>interrupt my truancy <br>with rational voices <br>that always knew better, <br>I suspended the school <br>with an unfinished loveletter<br>that got things off my chest<br>like baby crows in a nest.<br>No rule, no fool. And now I'm free<br>to taste the moon for myself <br>and know it tastes like scars. <br>And there are commotions of life in the grass <br>that don't violate <br>the incredible privacy of creation<br>by trying to assert what they are<br>to the secret that gave them birth. <br>What child was ever of no worth <br>in the scales of a grieving mother? <br>The moment you affirm you exist, you don't; <br>and denying you do won't do either. <br>In a single scale of the fish, <br>the whole ocean <br>and in a feather, the sky.<br>Sometimes reality hangs <br>like a tear from an eyelash <br>or a dropp of water from the tip of your nose, <br>reflecting the entirety of the world <br>and sometimes it's a grain of dust <br>that humbles the mountains.<br>The moment you go looking <br>for the meaning of things <br>you pry the jewel out of the ring <br>and all that's left is the eye-socket <br>of a skull full of fire ants. <br>No exit, no entrance, <br>no inside, no out, <br>isn't it obvious by now<br>there's no theshold, no door, <br>no far shore <br>no road to follow or not <br>no passage to anywhere <br>no aspiration or desire <br>no sage or liar <br>no mirage on the moon <br>or shadow born again <br>in the fires of the sun at midnight<br>pouring itself into forms<br>to ensnare you like love and war? <br>There's no need to air <br>your private or public ordeals.<br>Just realize your formlessness, <br>your lack of beginnings and ends. <br>Mind is space. What's to liberate? <br>Nothing gained, nothing lost, <br>nothing large or small, <br>nothing wounded or healed, <br>full or empty, bound or free, <br>and yet nothing is ever missing<br>because time and mind and space <br>are three echoes of you in the same empty well. <br>Why struggle exhaustively <br>like a wave that takes up arms <br>against the sea <br>or a light at odds with its lamp, <br>a flame that sobs in the ashes of its fire, <br>or a breath that holds itself aloof from the wind <br>stringing yourself out like beads <br>along the spinal thread <br>of your hydra-headed rosary, <br>trying to pry the pearl of the moon <br>out of every dropp of water <br>that falls from the tip of your tongue? <br>If you think your life was attained at birth <br>then surely you will lose it when you die, <br>but when you realize<br>that origins and ends <br>are both eyes <br>of the one seeing, <br>the same breath <br>on the threshold of now <br>without an eyelash in between <br>like the moon on water, <br>everything you've ever looked for <br>asks you <br>where you have been, <br>and what, if anything, <br>among the inexhaustible answers <br>you might possibly mean. <br>You'll finally realize<br>though you've looked everywhere <br>on worlds as numerous as grains of sand<br>and plunged through the darkness <br>like the only fish in an infinite, eyeless sea, <br>and cobbled the road <br>you hoped would lead you home <br>with the prophetic skulls<br>of all your past lives, <br>and pondered your purposeless beginning <br>like a funeral bell that never knew you well, <br>the source of the mind you look for <br>is as close as the lamp in your hand<br>and everywhere your eyes inspire the light to dare, <br>you see the black squirrel in the blue patch of grape hyacinth <br>watching you watching it <br>and thought-years beyond the exhibits of meaning, <br>you understand.</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=476651" data-title="I See Myself Happening de Patrick White" data-description="I see myself happening 
in the flight of a bird across the moon, 
in the appearance of the leaves 
and the leftover flowers 
that have gone on blooming
in the corner of the yard 
longer than anyone ever thought 
and in the light of the star 
throu..."></div>
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