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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476706" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Is Silence The Negative Space Of Words</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is silence the negative space of words, <br>darkness, the stars? A fact is just a fact, <br>static and inanimate, until it moves and breathes, <br>a dynamic of the mind, sinks into the heart<br>and mingles in a confluence of the nuances <br>of chaos that characterize each one of us <br>in solitude, is it alive, one eye plucked out <br>of a voodoo doll, a sunflower at a black mass, <br>a fable of truth in time that time, too, will pass. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Venus and Jupiter near Spica in Virgo<br>and Arcturus in Bootes, still stand offish<br>as it was through the canopy of branches <br>of the black walnut trees this summer. <br>The worst place to discover your loneliness <br>is when you're dancing like the new moon <br>in the old moon's arms, and it's the old moon <br>that's having all the fun. Everyone wants to <br>fly with the waterbirds. The third eye of the river <br>turns itself into a simulacrum of the sky, but still, <br>it only runs. As the star that would efoliate <br>like the starclusters of the New England asters, <br>merely burns like a chip off the focus <br>of a magnifying glass in the hands <br>of inquisitorial children cooking butterflies. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here is a bend in the Tay River about ten miles <br>outside the town of Perth. When is another <br>cold night on earth I had to get out of the house <br>to bathe my nuclear cabin fever in the heavy water <br>of the moon washing over me as if a lunatic<br>were immune to the craziness of going sane. <br>Why is the content of life that counter balances <br>death's bad sense of timing. How is a matter <br>of doubting the cure and trusting the pain<br>to turn you into someone you could never imagine. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fish don't jump. It's Lent for the blackflies. <br>The leaves have torn up their book. The retina <br>of the river is partially detached. There's <br>more resentment in the woods than there was <br>even a month ago. As if the only way <br>you could live here were by trespassing.<br>As I do, furtive as a fox, wary as a wolf <br>listening to the distant barking of farmyard dogs.<br>The air's taken a vow of chastity that burns my face <br>in the warped clarity of the hottest part of the flame. <br>The atmosphere's renewed its virginity <br>like a windowpane in an infertile November rain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The grass brittle and the starmud hardened <br>into shards of pottery in a midden of ostrakons. <br>I'm exhilarated by the way I'm threatened <br>by my own vulnerability at the possibility <br>of being eaten alive by the elements, rather<br>than expiring slowly en masse like the hungry ghosts<br>of the homogeneous consumers back in town.<br>No place for an old man, maybe, but the young <br>don't fare much better here either. Birth <br>is on the clock. No one's born on the nightshift.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Only the salt lick left out for the deer <br>isn't frosted like a cake in a famine <br>of mean-hearted snowflakes that don't adhere <br>like toupees and wigs to the judicious skulls of the rocks<br>but blow off in any slight gust of the wind <br>like tears of dry ice that don't know what there is <br>to cry about, and keep holding themselves back<br>like the locks out at Murphy's Point or the boats, <br>their sails furled like daylilies and withered poems<br>at Rideau Ferry. Even the dragons that used to <br>feather the staghorn sumac in their flames<br>are barely a skeletal candelabra of wicks <br>that have gone out. Just the dendritic deltas <br>and bloodlines of dynastic lightning whose roots <br>go all the way back to the sky, but don't <br>flash their sabres as much in the legendary storms <br>that once made them famous among <br>the usurped crowns of the sacred oak trees.<br> <br>Laureled in poison ivy, their blood slows down <br>like the xylem and phloem of imperial Rome<br>wintering north of the Danube or Ovid in exile<br>on the Sarmatian shores of the Black Sea, <br>waiting for the Ister to freeze like a meat locker<br>while a tryst of sorrows pleads to be forgiven <br>for the joys they once took in living life erotically<br>as if frost-bitten toes were as close as he <br>were going to get to Augustan purple in his afterlife. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I wonder what my eyes have contributed to the stars, <br>what might have been added to their shining over the years<br>I've looked up at them, if anything at all, <br>in this inter-reflecting hall of incommensurable mirrors<br>warped by the mirages of my frozen tears<br>in this desert of snow grinding them into lenses.<br>Clear. Cold. Far things brought near out of the darkness<br>like moths and stars into the more intimate fires <br>of my heart. Per ardua ad astra, I reach for the stars, <br>the lamps and the urns, the eagles and swans, <br>and they scatter my ashes like a snow squall <br>along the Milky Way disappearing into a black hole<br>in a mindstream of its own like images of this occult art<br>of reviving my life by returning it to deeper, darker waters.</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=476706" data-title="Is Silence The Negative Space Of Words de Patrick White" data-description="Is silence the negative space of words, 
darkness, the stars? A fact is just a fact, 
static and inanimate, until it moves and breathes, 
a dynamic of the mind, sinks into the heart
and mingles in a confluence of the nuances 
of chaos that charact..."></div>
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