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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476691" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I'm Flying Under The Light</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm flying under the light to avoid detection. <br>There. That's the first line. A cornerstone.<br>Maybe water, granite or quicksand<br>but the cosmic glain <br>is cracked open like a skull<br>to extract the message from the fortune-cookie.<br>The second line comes easier<br>though it hasn't come yet. <br>I'm waiting like a crematorium at the end of my cigarette.<br>Yes. Hot coffins for cool people. <br>Like it. Where's the rest? <br>A mirror looks into my face <br>and sees the enlightened folly of creation <br>is not the work of a clown. <br>Forgive the little arrogant flag of flame <br>I've been trying to raise <br>out of a nation of ashes <br>like an arsonist with noble aspirations.<br>I've looked up at too many stars over the years <br>not to see beyond my next breath<br>like a cloud of unknowing, <br>a road of ghosts, <br>into the sweeping clarity<br>of the silence and the darkness <br>that have unmarrowed me like a bone <br>to grow new organs of light, new senses, <br>new eyes and hearts and minds<br>that are free of the ferocities of night <br>that consume them death by death <br>in unextinguishable fire. <br>It's a mode of compassion <br>I can't get off my chest, <br>my way of venting with tears in my eyes<br>when I consider what becomes of us <br>who stood here once in the high starfields <br>alone in an opening between the groves<br>and gave our eyes back to the sky like water <br>that tasted of too much suffering<br>to be sweetened like an apple by grief<br>or provide us with a vision of relief<br>that floats better<br>than all these lifeboats of belief <br>we've overturned. <br>Time's refugees, <br>even in the donated tents of these bones, <br>flapping like skin in a desert wind, <br>only our homelessness is our own.<br>Like stars and dirt and leaves<br>we're swept off the stairs<br>across thresholds, out the door <br>and into the dustpans of our own eyes<br>whenever we think about putting down roots <br>and waking up beside our own boots <br>like bodies that walked all the way with us <br>to a known address and a bed<br>we didn't share with the dead.<br>Even when the moon is full and beautiful <br>I can hear the clacking castanets <br>of the crabs and the pebbles <br>rounded like skulls in the tides <br>of the untold myriads <br>that have come and gone like the sea. <br>To be so much and then nothing, <br>to be washed clean of everything you cherish <br>to watch the dyes run like blood and paint<br>or arsonists from autumn leaves<br>when your mind has lucked out <br>like a watercolour in the rain<br>and your brain unspools like mud.<br>Sometimes I think my awareness <br>is no more than the smear<br>of an incidental rainbow <br>on a distended bubble <br>whose inflation always <br>snaps back on itself in tears.<br>I prick myself on the thorn of a star<br>and let my eyes pop into vaster skies <br>and almost convince myself <br>that our bodies are crushed like grapes <br>to deepen the abyss of the wines<br>that bleed us into oblivion. <br>Or life is a dream without a dreamer, <br>fireflies in a well without an echo, <br>a magician so overcome by his own spell <br>there are doves flying out of his nostrils <br>and fish building nests in his brain like a tree<br>and yet he still can't conceive <br>of what he pulled out of his hat.<br>And fulfilment may well be the enlightened flower <br>of the ignorant roots of desire<br>like the truth in the mouth of a liar <br>but I'm not assuming I'm a vegetable <br>and who knows, <br>when you put it all together <br>from the earth and the light and the rain <br>into one brain <br>I might be nothing more <br>than just another kind of weather<br>trying to take shelter <br>in this makeshift eye of the storm. <br>But do you see what I mean? <br>There's no more continuity in being blind <br>than there is in looking into the face of God<br>and seeing the worlds within worlds <br>that seep like feelings into her thoughts<br>as if one world without a witness weren't enough.<br>Words stumble here like physics <br>before its singularity<br>and are left like bodies and shoes <br>on the myriad thresholds of hyperspace<br>where the worlds pour into each other <br>like a waterclock of salmon <br>returning to the source of it all<br>like the pulse of the sea to the call <br>of the voiceless bell that gives birth <br>to all the unimaginable generations of time <br>that have wounded the faceless mirrors of eternity<br>by breaking the silence and serenity <br>of the well that would not answer <br>by dropping in like eyes<br>that disappear in waves <br>washing out their own reflections.<br>Sometimes it seems as if <br>there are only two kinds of people in the world: <br>those that are going and those that have gone.<br>Where did they go? <br>Where are they coming from? <br>Are we the only strangers on the road <br>and our inhospitable purpose, this passing? <br>When she leaned on the windowsill <br>and cradled her head in her hands <br>to watch the summer clouds <br>her arms were cormorants of light <br>and she wore the window awry like a crown. <br>And the old Japanese man <br>with hair whiter than moonlight <br>who used to apologize to the weeds <br>he uprooted all morning long <br>in the whisper of a language <br>only he could understand<br>for making a distinction.<br>Where have they gone<br>where eyes can go and see and come back <br>across the threshold of their extinction, <br>mile zero of a road that leads <br>everywhere all at once<br>like any point in the infinite space<br>of the expanding universe? <br>Why must we leave <br>the mystic particulars of our lives<br>like shoes and bodies and names <br>at the opening door of our bootless generalities? <br>These fingertips were kissed by a mother <br>who strung them tenderly <br>like ten little birds<br>ten little arrows <br>to the lips of her bow.<br>Now that they've flown<br>can anyone follow <br>the light into the unknown<br>or lift their reflections from the waters, <br>their shadows from the gound <br>like breadcrumbs and fingertips <br>to say where they've gone<br>or even more impossibly <br>find out where we are now <br>so they can find their way back to us? <br>Or is all that we ever were and will be <br>irrevocably lost <br>like the root in the flower<br>that passes it by <br>on its way into the open <br>where its eyelids fall away? <br>When I fall away from myself <br>like a dropp of water <br>from the tongue of a leaf, <br>an unspoken word, a tear, <br>like rain on an autumn headstone <br>will the stone ripple <br>like the rings of a tree <br>to let you know <br>that the great sea of life <br>still jumps like a fish within me <br>to break through the immaculate <br>silence of the pond, <br>its undulant membrane of light, <br>like spring in the morning, <br>like a pulse of light beyond <br>the dark side of the mirror<br>that has never seen the moon, <br>that absorbs everything <br>like a cloak, or an oilslick, <br>an eclipse, a black hole <br>where things never appear, <br>to let you know I'm here. I'm here<br>where I have always been <br>where the joy of life transcends <br>its own thresholds of meaning <br>by parting its own waters<br>like the wake of a night passage <br>or the curtains of an open window<br>or a woman who opens her legs like a compass, <br>suffering her own felicity <br>to give birth to the shoreless sea, <br>dropp by drop, <br>you and me<br>each moment we live<br>where death hasn't laid down its threshold <br>and birth can't get through its own gate<br>because the concepts have left no living ancestry <br>in this empty world of now<br>where we live, where we <br>have always lived, <br>our elbows on the horizon<br>like two moons on a windowsill, <br>wondering, longing, dreaming, <br>a breath, a veil, a mist <br>as we evaporate <br>like visions off the lakes of our eyes<br>into the great abyss of our unknowing <br>like a nightstream that lives<br>blindly belonging <br>to what's going on, inexhaustibly.</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=476691" data-title="I'm Flying Under The Light de Patrick White" data-description="I'm flying under the light to avoid detection. 
There. That's the first line. A cornerstone.
Maybe water, granite or quicksand
but the cosmic glain 
is cracked open like a skull
to extract the message from the fortune-cookie.
The second line comes..."></div>
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