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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476663" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I Want To Take The Moon Out of the Sky</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I want to take the moon out of the sky <br>	like a cup, like a rose of black wine <br>		and drink it down to the last shadow of a mountain, <br>the last, lost eyelash of the light<br>	 that floats on the surface, the final crescent. <br>		If I could inhale fire, or snort the stars <br>like a rail of radiant coke on a black mirror<br>	and pull the darkness up around me <br>		to keep me warm in the night <br>against the cold drafts that barge through the window, <br>	if the darkness were a woman <br>		I could throw my arms around <br>and hold her back against my chest in the bay of my body, <br>	a shore I liked to wake up on<br>		still drunk on the moon<br>and walk in the morning as she <br>	dazzles me with her nakedness and veils, <br>		the litter of the broken jewelry<br> she arrays in the sprawling waves, I would, o<br>	believe me I would. I would<br>		take this paint rag of a life <br>this hard, dirty smear of leftovers on the plate <br>	of so many paintings, this injured towel <br>		that has wiped the blood and tears and clouds, <br>the wounded sunsets from so many faces and rivers, <br>	from so many brushes and knives and tongues<br>		leeched off the rotten rainbows, the flags, <br>the bad water in the dark well, I would <br>	take this skin of dirty flowers, <br>		this Joseph’s coat of colours, <br>this blighted, blotted pelt of soiled skies <br>	and corrupted trees, eyes that have dried <br>		into blisters and scabs, lips <br>that crack like dry peonies, I would take it <br>	and give it a decent burial, already <br>		the poor, leather shirt <br>of some archaic Indian from the book of changes<br>	lying in the yarrow of his scattered bones.<br>		Or maybe I could acquire the thunder <br>of a large, rusty oil drum and burn it at night <br>	in the backyard, cremate it and smudge <br>		the evil spirits out of the house <br>of my prevailing stars, smoke <br>	the adulterous virgin’s disease away, <br>		like clothes after someone’s died of the plague.<br>There are days, and this is one of them, <br>	when life seems kinder than I thought<br>		to everyone else but me; <br>mornings and afternoons, but seldom the nights, <br>	that seem like dead dogs <br>		lying at the side of the highway, <br>ants in their eyes dissolving like soap <br>	and turkey vultures unravelling <br>		their organs and tendons<br>like the yellow and scarlet yarn of old sweaters <br>	that will be reknitted into something else<br>		that doesn’t fit, days <br>when I realize I was born middle-aged, <br>	how homeless my heart is, <br>		and how my voice, <br>though it’s been hurled into the dawn for years, <br>	is such a lonely bird, not even an echo <br>		disappearing into the silence <br>of the vast, unanswering spaces that overwhelm it.<br>	I write in the air with the wind for a pen <br>		like a madman who gestures at things <br>no one else can see, believing against belief, <br>	he’s doing his part to better the world<br>		though it comes with asylums <br>and bills to his door, demanding<br>	mechanical birds on iron boughs, <br>		and revisions not his to give.<br>I feel like a cinder in someone else’s eye, <br>	a crumb of sleep shaken out of a dream, <br>		a thread of smoke that stings people<br>into rinsing me out with anger and tears, <br>	the stone of the new foundation cast away <br>		though all I wanted to do <br>was astound the blind with stars, <br>	make the dark flower with the wild orchids <br>		of a more luminous fragrance, <br>arrive with islands of wheat and roses and wine<br>	and lay the cool sage of the moon down <br>		like a silver herb on a scalded heart. <br>I’m a brilliant hoodlum from the late sixties<br>	as one of ex-wives called me, leaving, <br>		and we thought we could heal the world <br>with love and music and art.<br>	Hearts change, times change, and maybe <br>		I’m the casualty of a slow accident<br>and this is my coma, these days I spend <br>	witching for water in hell, <br>		for signs of life among the corpses <br> that fell en mass from a terrible height, <br>	going from one to another, <br>		lifting up their pale arms, <br>the limp necks of broken swans, looking<br>	at my watch to time the indifferent heartbeat <br>		of the pulsing cursor on the computer screen.<br>I’m a habit of buoyancy<br>	 drifting through dense fog, <br>		an empty lifeboat crying out <br>to a ship that may have gone down years ago: <br>	“Is anyone out there, is anyone alive? ”<br>		And no one answers<br>but the gargantuan vacuities <br>	of the atomic distances between us.</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=476663" data-title="I Want To Take The Moon Out of the Sky de Patrick White" data-description="I want to take the moon out of the sky 
	like a cup, like a rose of black wine 
		and drink it down to the last shadow of a mountain, 
the last, lost eyelash of the light
	 that floats on the surface, the final crescent. 
		If I could inhale fire,..."></div>
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