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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476698" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In Certain Moods I Think Like An Ice Age</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In certain moods I think like an ice age, <br>relentless, every insight, the glacier<br>of a window on the move that cuts like a diamond. <br>I'm not sentimental about baby mammoths <br>falling into cryonic crevasses for twelve thousand years. <br>I could gouge out the eyes of lakes, bully the mountains <br>like a mile high waterclock with its pedal frozen to the metal of time. <br>Something brittle and cold as broken glass in my seeing.<br>A clarity that burns like dry ice born without a personality. <br>I can still stand in the bottom of a snakepit <br>and see the stars like the fang marks of so many strikes <br>at the scared rabbit of my heart beating like a strawberry, <br>palpitating like the sump pump of a toxin<br>trying to drain the sweetest of watersheds <br>like quicksilver from the mirrors of my brain. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes I feel I've been harbouring <br>the skull and crossbones in the piratical bay <br>of a subliminal childhood that washed me up<br>out of a fire storm onto a more ferocious shore <br>of civilized savages that take their time eating each other. <br>I can see as supraobjectively as a reptile from the late Triassic<br>the asteroid that's heading this way <br>to shatter the window of opportunity<br>like an atmosphere that doesn't encourage <br>growth in a greenhouse, but doesn't mind <br>genetically tampering with cell tissue <br>as if agriculture had given birth, not only to war, <br>but to a mutated child that would redesign her. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Too many nuances are left out of lizards and lenses <br>for me to look at the world through their eyes <br>too long. My third eye begins to crystallize like a jewel <br>instead of a black pearl of a new moon <br>on the tongues of the waterlilies walking on the water <br>like the pale flames of the constellations burning their starmaps <br>like passports to anywhere they're not as homelessly here <br>as they are now. And there are strange viruses <br>that can be transmitted from telescopes in port <br>like heresy through the gullible angel fleets. <br>People begin to see that the crystal slipper <br>fits the darkness better than the light <br>the way a star fits the winged heels of the night <br>like the Great Square of Pegasus, or Albireo in the Swan, <br>Al Tair in the Eagle, or Vega in the Lyre, <br>as if one size for a shapeshifting universe fits all.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Time eventually sands the hardest edges down<br>like a dentist drill trying to put new crown on the pyramids, <br>triangular sun dials get rounded out into circular clocks, <br>and the conceptual sabres of exactitude, learn <br>to hesitate like humans as their mainsprings go slack<br>and the tension wears off at trying to insulate themselves<br>like referees from the vicissitudes and uncertainties of the game <br>by being more severely disciplined than perfection.<br>A saving grace I received from my mother <br>who would send me down to the Fountain Lunch <br>to buy her a True Detective magazine late at night, <br>I remember the elaborate ferns of frost on the window, <br>and spend the rest on candy, though she was down <br>to her last buck, like a tree with one leaf left, <br>she taught me how to protest impoverishment<br>with a flare and generosity that flew counterintuitively <br>into the brutal impersonality of its defeated face.<br>And the air full of gleeful butterflies torn up <br>like an eviction notice issued with a mythically deflated smile <br>on the deathmask of one of the nabobs among slumlords<br>sipping empire with their tea like the East India Company<br>that had a manifest destiny for themselves, <br>and the obscurity of obscene circumstances for everyone else.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not a comet falling out of its black halo into the sun, <br>but a post-demonic clarity beyond symbols<br>like a fledging learning to fly <br>by transcending its own wingspan <br>into an abyss a universe shy of shining, <br>absurdly sublime and intensely insignificant<br>as a childhood is, when it's bruised <br>by one too many atrocities early in the game<br>to really care whether it's disappointing its despair <br>with a little hope, or putting a nightmare to shame <br>by pointing out even the clearest windows <br>have been known to paint themselves<br>the world they want to see when they look outside<br>instead of trying to see it as it is without turning to stone<br>when it isn't interpreted like sign language, <br>unless, by some malicious stroke of luck <br>some delinquent eluding the neighbourhood watch<br>puts his fist through it <br>to enlighten his tantrum as the stars <br>come pouring into the vacuum <br>like a sea of tears in reverse<br>where the tide of affairs is always <br>worse for the wear of coming in <br>than it is in the ease of going out. <br>Providence makes a grand entrance <br>then heads for the exit refused and humbled<br>by this sinking feeling the stars get <br>even when they're rising, though fire <br>doesn't burn its fingers on itself <br>that doesn't mean it isn't being consumed.<br>Or if even so little as a single firefly <br>of inspired rage is glowing somewhere <br>across the hard-hearted tundra, that's the end <br>of your eyes being scalded by an ice age <br>that's been freezing and thawing them out since childhood<br>until your heart aches like a raw strawberry <br>as feeling begins to circulate in it again.</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=476698" data-title="In Certain Moods I Think Like An Ice Age de Patrick White" data-description="In certain moods I think like an ice age, 
relentless, every insight, the glacier
of a window on the move that cuts like a diamond. 
I'm not sentimental about baby mammoths 
falling into cryonic crevasses for twelve thousand years. 
I could gouge ..."></div>
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