Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476719" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>It's Writing Me</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It’s writing me. <br>I’m not writing it. <br>It’s got nothing to do with obedience <br>and there’s no chance of betraying it <br>even now that I’m three thousand miles <br>and forty light years away<br>and all the fireflies and lightning bolts<br>in my mystic cloud of unknowing <br>have turned into a frenzy of fanatical killer bees.<br>I’m swarmed by anxieties like mental space junk <br>and snakey wavelengths of yesterday <br>still trying to shed the sky like sunburnt skin.<br>Like the mythic names of old lovers <br>tattooed on our foreheads and firearms forever <br>and the obsolete starmaps in braille <br>that we followed like the magi <br>across this friendless desert of stars <br>as the signage of something divine.<br>And it isn’t the ironic sublimity <br>of the implacable circumstances of fate<br>that dictate whether the gate to the garden <br>is shut to me or not<br>that I fear the most<br>but the caprice of cornerstones <br>that turn into quicksand just to preserve the past.<br>I’ve grown more ruthless with my memories <br>over the past four decades. <br>I splash acid in the eyes <br>of those who are learning to read me like a book. <br>Others I send into exile <br>for trying to desecrate the image I have of me. <br>They write long sad poems <br>on the shores of the Black Sea in winter<br>and they’re never coming home again.<br>There’s more Tristes than Amores in the depth of my pain.<br>The rest I keep like lighthouses and lightning rods<br>to remind me what it was once like<br>when schools of silver fish swam <br>like poplar leaves when the wind <br>turns them all in the same direction at once <br>through warm water on the moon <br>and I had an atmosphere I could rely on.<br>Now some days I open my third eye <br>to the lucidity of the morning <br>as if it were a security camera <br>that took the picture of the thief <br>that stole the moon from my window last night.<br>But here you come again this morning <br>despite my priestly efforts <br>to exorcise your ghost<br>like an oxymoronic fragrance <br>of Parisian perfume and whale vomit<br>or as you would say expurgated ambergris<br>wearing that violet orchid of a blouse <br>and those tight black leather pants <br>that used to drive me so crazy<br>to see what could bloom <br>in the shadow of an outhouse<br>like waterlilies in a reeking swamp. <br>You’re leaning over a cedar rail fence <br>rotten with moss and lunar lichen <br>up to your hourglass waist line<br>in the sidereal surf of New England asters <br>and you’re feeding three black horses <br>gleaming like anthracite with sweat <br>and one with a star <br>in the middle of its forehead<br>that made me think <br>of the Great Square of Pegasus at the time, <br>a stranger’s apples from the palm of your hand.<br>And the wild gypsy mane of your own black hair <br>in the full glare of the sunlight<br>that bloodies the flyaway strands <br>like a hairdo of oracular serpents <br>wounded by the Bronze Age.<br>I saw the innocent face of Eve <br>under the mask of the Medusa<br>and I don’t believe even now <br>that I try every other day not to <br>I could have ever loved you more <br>than I did in that moment.<br>The delusions and the deceptions <br>have long ago been swept off the stairs<br>of the whirling castle of Arianrhod <br>in Corona Borealis <br>like stars that gave up their fixed places <br>to blossom awhile and fall <br>by the janitors who came after us.<br>And the gnostic gospels of the autumn leaves<br>we used to read together<br>when the weather got cold<br>have been buried in urns <br>deep in desert caves <br>like the holy books of persecuted outcasts<br>that had an epiphanous way of looking at things <br>that are hard to explain.<br>Very few things are things of beauty <br>and even fewer joys forever <br>but it’s ungracious to mourn <br>that it happens to be the way it is <br>but even so even so <br>as Basho would say.<br>Attachment too is a Buddha activity <br>and we mourn the flowers passing away.<br>And the rivers and the stars carry forth into themselves<br>like light and water and passion. <br>How little of what we said and did <br>means much now? <br>Two actors that have gone on to other plays. <br>A carnival of hearts on a road tour<br>with a big finale on closing night in the grave.<br>I remember you with much more discretion now <br>than I used to. <br>Things grow dark and clear in the winter.<br>The cold night air prunes your lungs with lunar scalpels<br>and though there’s less heat in them <br>than there is in the summer when<br>the stars burn through the thinner veils of the willows<br>with greater insight<br>than they did when they shone above us.<br>It would have been facile and insincere <br>to have been embittered by the biased juries <br>that prosecute a broken heart <br>trying to apply the law to love.<br>And for the most part I didn’t let<br>what was tender and enduring about us then <br>turn into hard evidence <br>and throw live rabbits into a snake pit <br>hoping to appeal the sentence.<br>I’ve done my time standing up <br>with my mouth shut <br>and left the snakes and the rabbits<br>to fend for themselves <br>as you and I did <br>when the final judgement came down. <br>And the truth will out <br>I still remember you as a window <br>I once looked through<br>into the creative genius of God<br>when she comes down to earth<br>in all her radiance <br>to see what charms the sons of men<br>what lights them up <br>like new stars in the Pleiades<br>and blows them out like black dwarfs<br>that collapse under their own gravity<br>after the last ray of light<br>finishes shredding the secret documents <br>that would have incriminated us <br>for once having been in love <br>and escapes its abandoned embassy <br>in the Great Nebula of Orion.<br>And even as a muse <br>as this poem attests <br>you arise occasionally<br>into my field of vision<br>from era to era <br>like the ghost of a constellation<br>or a bird in transit across the moon<br>or the smoking root fires <br>of stars that haven’t quite gone out.<br>And I see in you now <br>as I did way back then <br>all aspects of lunar women <br>reflected in these briefly beautiful moments <br>that seem like notes of frozen music <br>at a nexus of the temporal and eternal <br>like jewels in the eye of a diamond cutter<br>who’s always grateful <br>for the long red wavelengths of inspiration<br>that come to him like retroactive love letters <br>as expansive with farewell <br>as the widening wakes of the past <br>but who knows a lot more about shining<br>than he did way back then<br>when the light was more obvious <br>than it is now.<br>I will always see the mystery of woman<br>like an ancient wine <br>brewed from a blood red eclipse of grapes <br>that ripened in the sun at midnight<br>on the dark side of the moon<br>and as every man is bound to drink <br>from the cup the moon offers him<br>I drink. <br>I drink down to the very last dropp of night<br>in my crystal skull. <br>And I can still taste the delirium <br>of lightning and fireflies<br>all the stars and jewels and chandeliers <br>all the eerie flavours of your translucency <br>that once shuddered through me like spears of light. <br>I drink the wine <br>as I would have taken the apple years ago<br>from the open palm of your hand <br>like any one of those three black horses <br>and one with a star in the middle of its forehead <br>you were coaxing to approach you <br>over a cedar rail fence in the Garden of Eden. <br>And though it’s sad and beautiful and dangerous <br>to remember why we were exiled from the ode<br>I’ve come to see that broken taboos <br>are just the eggshells of hidden blessings<br>that take to their wings <br>like the silhouettes <br>of waterbirds in the moonlight.<br>And I’m a better poet now that I live on my own<br>with all these afterlives for company<br>who whisper in my ear <br>like the rustling of autumn calendars <br>let things go <br>let things go <br>like a windfall of storm-shaken apples.<br>And I have. <br>I’ve learned to let things go <br>like blossoms and leaves and starmaps<br>that used to glow in the dark <br>inside my head as I slept<br>dreaming up schemes for my enlightenment.<br>I take a deep delight <br>in the winds of transformation<br>that feather my dinosaurs into dragons.<br>I can still feel the rapture and the ecstasy<br>laced like silver threads of lightning <br>in the disappointment and despair <br>of watching the changes<br>without knowing where I’m going <br>this far from home <br>and all my starmaps obsolete.<br>But I’ve still got a great eye <br>for the mood swings of colour and light<br>and the subtle spiritual tones <br>in the emotional life of the night.<br>And the beauty I saw incarnated in you that day<br>like an epiphany that wouldn’t be denied a body <br>has only rooted more deeply <br>in my memory over the years <br>and grown like wild grape vines <br>with musically inclined tendrils <br>like the wine of an old theme song <br>so inevitably ripe with joy and sorrow <br>it refuses to be watered down <br>from the original miracle <br>no matter how many tears have been shed<br>since we left the wedding.<br>And it’s strange how memories <br>can arise more like revelations<br>and prophecies of yesterday <br>like time-delayed inspirations <br>when you’re living on your own. <br>In art and life and love<br>they’ve taught me <br>time and time again<br>how emotions frozen with pain<br>that calved icebergs like glaciers <br>into the shipping lanes<br>of the mindstream <br>can thaw ice-age mirrors into tears<br>when they lose a grip on themselves like snow.<br>That the reasons to stay<br>are no less relevant than the reasons <br>to go off into the unknown. <br>That it doesn’t matter <br>whether you wash your hands at home<br>of the things you’ve touched <br>and in turn have touched you <br>or take a bath in the stars <br>to wash off the ghosts that cling<br>to your skin and hair <br>like the dust of the road.<br>We’re all swimming <br>in the same water clock<br>against the flow of the stream <br>like spawning salmon<br>summoned out of the great sea <br>of urgent awareness<br>back to where we were born. <br>We’re called to love and death<br>sex and extinction <br>at the same time.<br>And one is not to be revered <br>any less than the other.<br>Summer’s flawless. <br>And so’s the winter. <br>But more than anything else <br>looking back over <br>the event horizons<br>of the people and things I’ve known <br>reflecting on the timing <br>of my content<br>like seasons of my own <br>nine times out of ten<br>I know when<br>to leave perfection <br>well enough alone.</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>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<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=476719" data-title="It's Writing Me de Patrick White" data-description="It’s writing me. 
I’m not writing it. 
It’s got nothing to do with obedience 
and there’s no chance of betraying it 
even now that I’m three thousand miles 
and forty light years away
and all the fireflies and lightning bolts
in my mysti..."></div>
</div>
</div>