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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476662" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I Want To Make A Contribution</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I want to make a contribution. <br>I want to leave something on the stairs of the temple <br>in the dead of the night and steal away like a shadow, <br>hoping my small gift of a gift is well-received. <br>That the stars don't think they're wasting their light <br>to shine down upon it. Nor the wind resent the seeds it carries. <br>Fifty years of poetry. Painting the picture-music <br>the darkness pours into my heart and my heart conveys to my ears. <br>I can taste thousands of wildflowers like eyes in my blood. <br>I can taste the homelessness of the rogue stars in my tears, <br>and pull the wounded swords I cull like thorns of the rose <br>from the stone of my brain that fell in the farmer's field <br>like a rock through the window of the abyss <br>and make it clear as Merlin locked in his tower of glass, <br>that the stars only look fixed from a distance, <br>up close and intimate as atoms they're in a frenzy of creation <br>like a cloud of gnats in the last rapture of the sunset <br>radioactive with the bliss of being alive to know this.<br>That we're all longing for home in the lap of an expansive awareness <br>that threw the starmaps away the moment we were born<br>into the radiance of things that let go of the light<br>as if they knew something they just couldn't keep to themselves <br>without doing great injury to the flowers of life<br>that space was mind, and time was its emotional life<br>and as the dark mother said to her last incarnation <br>as it was stepping through the doorway into a stranger, <br>we're just going to wing it from here on end.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I want to be a strong storm tree twisted and bent by the wind <br>like the last letter of a sacred alphabet with no alpha or omega <br>to mark where things begin and end like death in life. <br>And wind up like a windfall of sweet fruit without end. <br>I want to make something of my falling, I want to honour <br>the table I eat at like iron and carbon and oxygen <br>by bringing something back for what I have received<br>without asking, or making a decision when I was not aware <br>of some unimaginable god that holds me personally responsible for it.<br>What a sleight to humans everywhere matter enjoins them <br>in a common labour to resonate so perfectly with the light <br>that lucidity isn't the exclusive property of the unknown, <br>and just because it's dark, the new moon of the black swan <br>shedding the feathers of the white, doesn't mean, it's not enlightened.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though I come like a bird to a windowsill, though I pass <br>like a star from the window, though I sing of death <br>on the green bough, though I sing of life on the dead, <br>though I have been a dragon, a kitten, and a bee, <br>though I have floundered in sorrows like a lifeboat <br>way over my head, and lived through starless nights of fear <br>pulled down like executioners hoods over my eyes, <br>waiting to see what the morning brings that's vital, <br>I have not trafficked with my life like a pimp in a flower bed. <br>I have endured whatever excruciating transfigurations <br>I've ever had to go through, naked as a knife of light <br>unsheathed from the ore of this body that can no more <br>be cast off on the slag heap, than my spirit can paint in blood <br>a mural of all the changes we've been through like stars and mud. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I want to deepen the roots of the flowering night.<br>I want to beseech the poppies with my eyes <br>for more luminous experiences of cadmium red light <br>for more mystery among the stars than even they're aware of, <br>for more moons in the apple, more suns in the bread, <br>for more crazy wisdom than there is the Tibetan Book of the Dead. <br>I want to show the pine-cones they're pagodas as well <br>and point out where the mourning doves nest under their eyelids<br>and the shamans dwell in the upper branches of their evergreens <br>waiting to see if down will come cradle, baby and all, <br>or the next ascent is a red-tailed hawk at liberty <br>to fall upon whatever it likes, raising the snake of the lowest<br>up into the mystic delirium of the highest <br>to feather its scales in boas of oxymoronic light. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I want to intensify the dark until people can find <br>their way home by it, stars that broke into themselves<br>like morning glory tangled in an old bicycle wheel.<br>A pine-cone would do, a locket of sky, a piece of straw, <br>I could offer anything I wanted to, all those nests and pockets <br>I made in my pillow for years like a cat with a catcher's mitt<br>trying to find the perfect spot for its nightmare to sleep.<br>Or any one of a hundred cornerstones that were never built upon<br>or were torn down before the first brick laid. <br>Or I could lay my life down like a grain of wheat<br>among millions, at the feet of a silo so immaculately empty <br>it's never needed a single one of us, or all the animals <br>that bleated and bellowed and bled upon the earth <br>because we started drinking blood long before <br>we turned to bread like a better body to sacrifice. <br>Or my eyes like little thumb-drives of everything they've seen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A gift of a gift as was given to me without a giver, <br>the ashes of a dead butterfly on a pyre of autumn leaves, <br>without ritual, celestial spin, I just want to come by myself <br>like a human in confusion we make the labour of our lives<br>as if I were stepping out of the trees like a white-tailed buck <br>come down to the river to drink from the moonlight<br>and add my reflection to the water that gave it to me, <br>with my head bowed toward the earth like a broken branch <br>heavy with the scarred fruits of life that have sweetened <br>like the moon over the years, poems I can recite by heart, <br>like the names of the stars and the flowers and the birds <br>and the ghosts of all those sad, passionate women who <br>tried so hard to be happy their tears clung like eyes<br>to the mystery of the windows they kept looking through <br>as if they were resilvering the mirrors of old telescopes <br>with the dew of a morning from a long time ago <br>witching in the dark for stars to explain their loss. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I want to bring a word that's been so deeply hidden in the open <br>like the flower of a rootless tree, it's got no colour of its own, <br>no seed, no leaf, no humming bird or bee, the tuning fork <br>of the nightbird, but no song, no honey, no nectar, <br>no likeness anywhere to compare it with, demonic or benign, <br>no meaning no mouth has ever wrapped itself around <br>like the atmosphere of a habitable planet, though the wind has tried, <br>a word so indelibly original it can't be washed out <br>like the whisper of a watercolour in the ear of a solar flare, <br>a word so private it gets said over the graves of the sacred syllables<br>that died in the mouths of men like the names of their gods, <br>not a prayer, not a mantra, not the shriek of a war-cry, <br>not a curse, not a blessing, not the answer to anything, <br>and I want to say the unsayable so unsayably free of veils <br>no junkie in the snakepit of a burning spoon, no lover<br>thawing virgin watersheds in the nunnery of Madame Moon<br>has ever stood so naked in their own eyes <br>even the emptiness inside felt overdressed for the occasion.</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=476662" data-title="I Want To Make A Contribution de Patrick White" data-description="I want to make a contribution. 
I want to leave something on the stairs of the temple 
in the dead of the night and steal away like a shadow, 
hoping my small gift of a gift is well-received. 
That the stars don't think they're wasting their light..."></div>
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