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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476711" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>It Isn't That I'm Looking</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It isn't that I'm looking for eagles in a barnyard<br>	or a phoenix in a match-head<br>		when I observe <br>by the number of wrecks on the rocks<br>	how few lighthouses there are these days <br>		among so many flashlights.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What can the hair say about the horn <br>	or the feather teach the wind <br>		or quicksand preach <br>for the edification of the cornerstone? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">	And must I put a healthy leg <br>		at the service of a broken crutch <br>to limp along with the mob<br>	at the end of a dying culture <br>		that insists that all roads end <br>in a cult of cripples? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">	If I'm walking alone to the stars <br>		on a pilgrimage of one <br>finding my way in the going, <br>	my heart aligned like the needle of a compass <br>		to a darkness brighter than the light, <br>and the only map the clarity of my eyes, <br>	why should those <br>		who weep in their ashes like rain, <br>trying to put glasses on a fly, <br>	who have never dipped <br>		the thorn of the moon <br>in the night of their blood <br>	and written a love poem <br>		to a skull in a desert, <br>care if I want to roam <br>	in the hills and valleys of myself <br>		like some homeless shepherd of the wind<br>taking the stone of the earth for a pillow to dream on <br>	in the high grasslands<br>		where the stars walk <br>whispering eternal intimacies like black swans<br>	barging the ores of a vacant throne <br>		through my bloodstream, <br>as all along the shores of my flowing <br>	ancient flowers wake mysteriously<br>		like candles in an eclipse? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">If I take the sky for the walls of my house <br>	and leave the rest<br>		like an autumn of junkmail <br>looking for a door and a last known address, <br>	if I choose not to contrive a world <br>		to accommodate my absence <br>in the available dimension of the future, <br>	wiping my shadows and ghosts <br>		like mirrors off at the threshold, <br>even letting go of the door <br>	to enter empty-handed <br>		as the applause <br>for an understudy of the dawn <br>	that never got over its stage-fright<br>		in the abyss of an abandoned theater, <br>happy to let the river pan itself for gold, <br>	not laying a claim to anything, <br>		making sure the gate-latch <br>clamps down like a dog on a bone <br>	when I close it up <br>		like a straitjacket in its own thoughts, <br>not stringing my spinal court to a wishbone <br>	or the warped neck <br>		of an obvious guitar, <br>but taking my voice with me <br>	like a wounded bird in my hands, <br>		a star struck from a stone, <br>moonlight in an empty boat, <br>	the taste of silence <br>		in the mouth of a mask, <br>my name a rainmark <br>	on the eyelid of a dusty bell <br>		I've left to the dream it keeps returning to; <br>why should it matter to anyone <br>	who lies to the bleeding door <br>		that is wounded by their entrance<br> everytime they say it's just me<br>	as if a pillar answered? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">		I can't find anything<br>less than everything to call a self<br>	and there are no mirrors <br>		in an abyss more naked than the sky <br>to consult like the oracular flights of words<br>	that litter the windowsill of this seeing <br>		like flies that spent themselves, <br>flints on an empty lighter, <br>	wicks on a glass candle, <br>		consuming the ferocity <br>of their lives against the illusion of the world outside <br>	they brain themselves against again and again <br>		like small meteors <br>doused like torches in the eye <br>	of the upper atmosphere<br>		just above the open window.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When everything is absurd as this, <br>	and even the tuning forks of the rain <br>		are an era off in their pitch, <br>and music is merely <br>	the coming and going of ants <br>		in an abandoned syrinx, <br>and the drum of the heart alone <br>	isn't enough to start a band, <br>		and the only melody <br>is a road the wind blew away <br>	like a hair off the shoulder of the night, <br>		and everyone's trying <br>to unmarrow the moon like a fortune-cookie, <br>	and every snowflake in the furnace <br>		of this dark fire <br>thinks it dies like a galaxy<br>	when it's only an inflection of tears, <br>		am I not free to walk in harmony <br>with the savage senselessness of it all, <br>	without hanging a bell of advice over my head <br>		like the only corpse <br>on an island full of gravediggers <br>	who can't get out of the holes they've dug <br>		to bury me in? </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I don't want to live waiting for yesterday <br>	like the light of a star<br>		that's already gone, <br>or dream like a seed of constellations to come<br>	like a roll of the dice, <br>		or watch the surplus of your smile <br>rotting on the docks of a famine. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">	And don't think these harvests I leave you <br>		like a trail of breadcrumbs and dead flies <br>out of this wilderness of thought <br>	are any more than stars <br>		caught in the throat of the labyrinth <br>that follows itself like a snake with its tail in its mouth, <br>	trying to find a way out of itself <br>		by eating its own head.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And by some chance<br>	if you ever make it out this far, <br>		I've mailed back<br>the same map of fireflies <br>	with its legend of smoke, <br>		three lifetimes a lightyear, <br>you once handed me to find you<br>and marked every place I'm not <br>		with a black hole.</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=476711" data-title="It Isn't That I'm Looking de Patrick White" data-description="It isn't that I'm looking for eagles in a barnyard
	or a phoenix in a match-head
		when I observe 
by the number of wrecks on the rocks
	how few lighthouses there are these days 
		among so many flashlights.

What can the hair say about the horn 
..."></div>
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