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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476715" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>It's Not Like The Face In The Flower Of The Star</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's not like the face in the flower of the star<br>grows more beautiful the more times it's looked at, <br>it's just that it's humanizing <br>the vast, cold spaces within you <br>with your own awareness of it so that <br>when you spot Arcturus shining through the trees <br>as you have since childhood and call out its name <br>it's you that shines brighter <br>a magnitude more for the moment. <br>Affable familiars in a big, lonely space <br>acknowledging each other in passing <br>as if, animate and inanimate, the same, <br>what we all hold in common <br>since we started kicking in the womb <br>is this life of perpetual exile. Shape-shifters, <br>driven out of the bliss of oblivion, to bury the bell <br>of our agony in the stillness of an alien place <br>and try to love everyone who'll let us <br>as if they weren't a stranger at the gate. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O the appellations the mind applies to its formlessness <br>in a world of forms to befriend its cosmic isolation. <br>That fills space up with stars and birds <br>suggested by its senses and then casts a spell <br>like a grammar of things to turn them into words<br>to start a conversation with chaos as if we weren't all<br>talking to ourselves. We put lifemasks on everything <br>like an old Greek play and act out our tragedy <br>like a dilemma gored on the horns of the goat gods <br>as if they had a clear grasp of what we were talking about. <br>Asking a question doesn't change <br>the ambiguous nature of the issue <br>and when no one answers isn't proof <br>the silence is divine. Bright vacancy, dark abundance, <br>nothing includes everything in it <br>like a table of contents for the mind <br>that plays host to its own imaginary guests. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The door bell rings and the world's <br>standing in the doorway bearing gifts <br>that have no other meaning other than <br>they're addressed to you the way life <br>nourishes itself on its own emptiness <br>as if every moment were a cause of celebration <br>engendered by your own inspiration. <br>Every song in the distance is the ancestral echo <br>of your own voice in an abyss <br>you're trying to relate to by listening<br>as if you were sounding the depths <br>of the mystery you must be to yourself <br>to live among your own creations as if <br>someone signed you too. Your name <br>scrawled in cadmium red blood across <br>a white canvas of albino eyes in the dark. <br>Imagination obedient to the freedom <br>of its own lawlessness to create as it is urged to <br>on a caprice, a gust of stars, the nudge of an atom, <br>whole new paradigms of space and time<br>it will answer to as if someone called its name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If the same eye by which I see the star <br>is the eye by which the star sees me, <br>then who's the creator, who's the creation? <br>So if someone were to ask me the colour of my eyes, <br>I'd show them a painting I did <br>of blue weed towering beside a dirt road <br>or a moonscape I dashed off one starless night <br>between the clouds. Or even further afield, <br>if I felt they'd been siderealized sufficiently, <br>the blue auras of trace elements grinding galaxies <br>into mirrors they can see themselves in <br>like leggy gazelles come down to the shore <br>to drink from their own reflection of themselves <br>like telescopes alert to the eyes that lie in wait for them. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Everywhere I wander down these pathless ways <br>through my homelessness, I meet myself <br>like a mirage at the end of a cul de sac, <br>and I walk through it like a wall <br>or two galaxies passing through each other <br>without disturbing a star, I embody such distances, <br>and I encounter hypnotists from all quarters <br>that call themselves seekers of the truth <br>trying to wake up from their own magic<br>as if they hadn't caught on to their own minds yet<br>and were still underestimating the power of their illusions. <br>Why wash the stars off the windows, or sweep <br>the scars of the autumn leaves off the stairs <br>expecting the enlightened arrival <br>of the lord and lady of the manor any day now<br>as if you could get a grasp on the nature <br>of your own emptiness like a servant <br>looking for a master in your own image? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Everything nasty and blind, <br>everything beautiful and sublime<br>are the facets of a clear jewel <br>turning in the light of the void. <br>All that is separated, all that is enjoined, <br>all that are searching and finding <br>and losing themselves again like solar flares<br>on a return journey back to the sun <br>or rivers flowing into themselves <br>as if every wave crossed the threshold of itself<br>into an openness exhilarated by <br>the expansive gesture of its presence, <br>are just the hidden secret of you <br>wanting to be known by a world <br>you whisper into your own ear <br>as if you'd never heard the sound <br>of your own voice before the wind <br>began to throw the sea into turmoil <br>and you were swept ashore out of <br>the inconceivability of your own emptiness <br>like a myth of awareness sadly in need of an origin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So you end up creating a world <br>out of your own inner resources and calling it <br>mother or father in the hopes it might be able <br>to explain what you're doing here by yourself. <br>And that's how you get lost in the labyrinths <br>of your own being, that's how your wires get crossed <br>in the short circuits of your lifelines <br>tangled up in kites like morning glory <br>that wouldn't fly. You keep asking simulacrums <br>of your own creativity about things <br>that only you on your own, lonelier than God, <br>projected imaginatively like a lifemask<br>you created in your own image <br>onto the formlessness of an invisible space within you, <br>can be the answer to. The moment <br>you say I am to yourself and realize <br>that you're not even there to recognize it<br>the little thumb puppet in three pounds of starmud <br>dematerializes like something solid <br>into the presence of the real. You revel like a child <br>in the creative liberty of not keeping your own distance <br>from anything in existence, knowing <br>in the crazy wisdom of your second innocence <br>the only thing that binds you to it<br>or separates you from it, is a sense of play. <br>That everytime you say I am without <br>including the whole universe in it as well<br>it becomes the wayward paradigm <br>of another brilliant mistake with feet of clay. <br>Or as Archibald Lampman said <br>dead of a heart attack at thirty-six, <br>poor shining angels whom the hoofs betray.</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=476715" data-title="It's Not Like The Face In The Flower Of The Star de Patrick White" data-description="It's not like the face in the flower of the star
grows more beautiful the more times it's looked at, 
it's just that it's humanizing 
the vast, cold spaces within you 
with your own awareness of it so that 
when you spot Arcturus shining through t..."></div>
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