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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476714" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>It's Not Enough</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's not enough to hinge a new door to your heart <br>when the house is built on flowerless quicksand<br>and the chimneys have acquired a taste for books; <br>poems are the birthmarks of stairwells climbing themselves, <br>of hawks and serpents boring into the corks of wine<br>to get at the heart, the passions, the dreams, the rage <br>of the vine that set out like a road that got carried away<br>and fell in love with the intimate strangers who took it home<br>and danced all night among the swords as if they were thresholds.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Born in the shadows of unbearable bells, early I found<br>they were bound to the cord of my spine, like the moon <br>among the kelp that oils its tides with the black sperms of creation, <br>and I learned to pull on their iron parachutes to ease <br>my harsh, hot descents into wingless, mute oblivions; <br>I discovered there was a voice beyond mine <br>that could gather and disperse, celebrate and divine<br>the secret weddings and deaths of the bridal ghosts that came<br>like castaway bouquets to the refugee altars of their torn veils.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there's an indelible secret as old as the eyes of the wind<br>that can whisper sand into pyramids, that won't receive <br>the vows of the petty and clever who traffic in the shadows<br>of the great, wild dead who wore their battered crowns like fire.<br>Let them crib their poems on the back of another man's eyelids, <br>real constellations don't shine like this and the wells are mute<br>whose waters taste of fireflies; and there isn't a river on the moon <br>that knows how to plead with the sea for a widow that mourns, <br>that knows whose prodigy of blood unravels on autumn's horns, <br>or how the waterlily in the mouth of the dragon <br>is more dangerous than a shrine full of blind snakes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Behind every name, behind every door with a brass threshold<br>is a man who was forgotten by his own violated treaties <br>with the indentured mirrors he consulted to cheat the lakes, <br>who comes up over his horizons like the solemnities of the moon, <br>looking for the pillar of his lost reflection in chunks of coal, <br>in the underfed crematoria of his sacrificial backyard fire-pits<br>in the lifelines of the empty hands he misread like maps of smoke.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Poetry isn't an orphanage or asylum for the disenchanted, <br>though there is a deranged abyss under its relentless solitude; <br>not a showcase Colosseum for famished lions at a petting zoo, <br>though mauled minds and bodies litter the unwitnessed field; <br>there are no paths through its unanswerable distances <br>strewn with petals or thorns, no bridges or waystations, <br>no branches of hospitable trees to perch in for the night, <br>no dawns that can erase what's been written on your forehead, <br>nothing that can blind you to what you were born to see, <br>no rain that can douse the squandered fire of the poppy, <br>though the messenger is smashed like a bottle between<br>the tide and the rock; the star, the candle, the nightflower <br>snuffed by the morning, the last breath of the deathless moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And you must die enough to not be there <br>when the world picks up a pen like an axis<br>to spin in the direction of its wounded inclinations, <br>you must not walk into the house wearing a face, <br>your breath on the glacial windows of the furious stars<br>full of secret fingerprints, love-notes, names, <br>you must be more conversant than a ghost on a bridge<br>or a rose, or an empty mailbox, or a road that followed you <br>to where the river turns, with shapeshifting, <br>with pearling a body around a syllable of sand, <br>with showing a galaxy its shadow in eyelids and eclipses, <br>with standing like a scarecrow in the cornfield <br>that shucked the cob of a smile to batter you with birds, <br>with lying beside the dead like a lantern in a morgue<br>as if your blood crossed the threshold for them, <br>with waiting in the earth a long time, a root <br>that conceals orchards in the furrows of its dirty hands, <br>a buried boat that unfurls the blossoms of its sails, <br>the starcharts of the blind moles that shine underground, <br>like a voyage in search of the rudder of your tongue<br>to pilot it safely out of the ports of the moon, <br>a flame, a breath, a feather you've cradled for years, <br>the small measures of belief in an oceanic grave<br>that enrobes the flowing in the wake of severed waves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Be stone, or be space; the emptiness is the same, <br>silver ore, or the motherlode of a black hole, <br>let your heart pan the long rivers of the night <br>for what the stars value, jewels of life in the light<br>that can be grown like a menagerie of blood and tears, <br>the eyes of the blackberries, eyes of the radiant bee<br>on the flutes of the wind that plays for a handful of seeds.</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=476714" data-title="It's Not Enough de Patrick White" data-description="It's not enough to hinge a new door to your heart 
when the house is built on flowerless quicksand
and the chimneys have acquired a taste for books; 
poems are the birthmarks of stairwells climbing themselves, 
of hawks and serpents boring into th..."></div>
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