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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476677" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>If Only There Were One Word I Could Say</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">If only there were one word I could say <br>that could reach out and touch your sorrow, <br>a cool kiss of moonlight on the eyelid of a widowed rose. <br>If there were a way to make it better, <br>to wake you up from the pain you are living, <br>a dream of rain on a kinder windowpane in the morning.<br>If I could mend what was broken <br>beyond feeling and thought and goodness <br>how could I not feel the piercings of the wounded voodoo doll<br>victimized by her own mortality<br>as I am by my own <br>and pull the pins out of her butterflies <br>as readily as I would pull the quills out of a dog's nose? <br>Accustomed to grief, accustomed to hearing <br>someone crying in the backyard of the house next door, <br>at three in the morning, accustomed to observing <br>the angry solitude of the skate-boarder <br>always out alone on the abandoned street<br>as if that were his lonely girlfriend, <br>trying to figure out why the embittered old woman <br>never smiles back, or a child will sometimes look at you <br>as if it were a vicious heart attack<br>that wanted you to feel as paralysed as it does. <br>Accustomed to the skin that grows over our eyes <br>like mother-of-pearl cataracts <br>so we can fake something beautiful of our indifference <br>because how much helplessness in the face of pain <br>and complicit suffering can one person take <br>before they go mad walking in a world of nettles <br>with no skin on, no atmosphere to burn <br>the meteoritic slag of incoming <br>astronomical catastrophes off before they hit ground zero? <br>Accustomed to the agony of enduring innocence <br>inspiring the genius of the malignant <br>to greater atrocities than anyone's even aware of, <br>accustomed to the shock of depravity <br>leaving a more indelible impression upon my blood<br>than the acts of the heroes who show up <br>in desolate dangerous places with tents and oxygen<br>to stay longer than the news, whose life <br>isn't half a sin of omission, and the other half <br>constrained by a straitjacket for their own good? <br>If there were a way to imagine pain away <br>as easily as we imagine it into being, <br>and have the work of one be the healing of the other, <br>before sitting here in silence as my only bedside manner <br>before the dying and the dead <br>painting death masks for the living<br>that might make them feel like children in disguise again, <br>I'd greet them at the happy gates of hell <br>like some spiritual good guess of an earthly intuition <br>that a liberated imagination isn't just <br>the placebo of another culpable superstition, <br>but a way to reverse the curse we've laid upon ourselves <br>like a sacred syllable of innocence <br>said backwards in the mirror<br>without slandering our own human divinity <br>by denouncing our delusion at the expense of the real. <br>It's been well said that the mind is an artist, <br>able to paint the worlds, and I would add, <br>for the slow and thorough like me, <br>it's also a carpenter, able to build them <br>and that's how you understand the world <br>from the ground up as if everything had to be on the level, <br>or the healing herb of a nurse, the first <br>to arrive like spring with a white flower on her head.<br>Or a lumbering bell of wisdom and seasoned sorrow <br>sees the world as a tortoise that's been asked to dance <br>at its own funeral as if there were no more weddings to celebrate. <br>The same eye by which you see it<br>is not the floodgate between imagination and reality<br>as if one were the shipwreck of the other, <br>as if the mountain were separate from the avalanche, <br>but the way you'll live to be it after awhile. <br>A tear can no more be distinguished from the rain <br>than the light can be from flowers, <br>than eternity can be from time <br>or you from the mysterious powers of mind <br>that are living through you <br>in a creative turmoil of absolute freedom <br>that isn't second-guessing what kind of universe <br>you want to live in, if you were to live in it alone. <br>If the stones to you are merely dead languages <br>that have had their say, having said nothing <br>for millions of years, if you can't see <br>your home constellations <br>gleaming in the starmud all over your feet, <br>whose skull, other than yours, rolled the bones <br>and came up snake-eyes in your vision of life<br>as ritually unluckier than death, if not yours, you, who else? <br>If there were one mondo, shibboleth, mantra, or blessing <br>I could say that would show you <br>just as a mirage is a near relative of water, <br>the dream of what the desert's longing for, <br>the memory of what it used to know, <br>so delusion is just as much a friend of reality <br>as the left hand is to the right hand of the wheelwright. <br>Nor pain the enemy of joy, nor winter, spring. <br>No more than the silence of the dead is hostile <br>to those who would sing, nor the helplessness of who you were<br>a hurtle in the way of the sufficiency you've become.<br>Out of its dark abundance the inconceivable illuminates the flower <br>as well as the star, the mind, the heart, the tree, the rock, the river, <br>and the candles cry along with the abandoned lover <br>as once they lit up like fireflies in an ecstasy of insight<br>that made them wholly, solely, hopelessly the other<br>in a union of one revealed by the bonds of separation.<br>If only I could speak one improbable word of truth<br>that might absolve you of seeking irresolute resolutions<br>for the empty grails and fables of pain <br>you left like the skulls of milestones<br>and wounded roadsigns along the way.<br>It wouldn't matter at all to me <br>whether your chains were iron or gold, <br>or you were snared by the crescent thorns <br>of the birdnets and dreamcatchers<br>that slipped like fireflies between the lines <br>like insights into time and space <br>that couldn't be grasped until <br>it was well understood and forgotten <br>the life isn't solid, it's real. <br>If only there were one word I could say<br>one sound, sign, star, dropp of water<br>I could offer you in the goblet of a flower<br>that only blooms an hour in the morning <br>like the tear of a distant ocean of time, <br>that would lay a kiss upon your heavy eyelids, <br>or that stone of a forehead you've dreamed upon <br>so long now like the pillow of a sleeping mountain <br>that circles it like a cloud that refuses<br>to believe it hasn't already risen from the dead<br>and leaves an unsigned loveletter from a shy star<br>just like you who are learning to shine underwater<br>as if there were no end of the message or the messenger.</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=476677" data-title="If Only There Were One Word I Could Say de Patrick White" data-description="If only there were one word I could say 
that could reach out and touch your sorrow, 
a cool kiss of moonlight on the eyelid of a widowed rose. 
If there were a way to make it better, 
to wake you up from the pain you are living, 
a dream of rain ..."></div>
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