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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476729" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Kisses Instead Of Scars If You Can Manage It</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Kisses instead of scars if you can manage it. <br>Love, not a science. Still an art. Though a dying one. <br>The discipline of staying a constant beginner. <br>As if the morning glory had never felt the light before. <br>You want to love or be loved? Make up your heart. <br>But you want to sword dance with queen cobras in heat <br>like a lapwing in a snake pit, two egg-layers <br>at opposite ends of the same extreme, you better not <br>step on anyone's toes, and if you do, hope <br>the wing you favoured with a false wound <br>like a collapsed bridge you lay down like a joker <br>to trump your Tarot pack, is as long as the other <br>royal flush you neglected to play like a winning hand.<br>Human, you might be the measure of all things, <br>but believe me when I tell you, love's got a bigger wingspan <br>than Cygnus and Aquila in the Summer Triangle have light-years <br>to get a fix on the wing tips of their feathers by parallax.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Love with class if you want to make something elegant <br>of your absurdity, diamonds of your dirt, if you want to<br>water flowers with your tears without salting the seed bed.<br>If you want to steal a little fire from the mystery <br>to enlighten your nightmare, if you want to be the star <br>that everyone points to in your lover's eye, <br>don't enter it like a dirty needle of light washed up on a beach, <br>you keep overdosing on like a starmap with a bad addiction. <br>Love is a retroactive prediction from the past come true at last. <br>Even after dismemberment, love is Orphic, a prophetic skull <br>bobbing like an apple all the way to Mytilene from Thrace, <br>that can still sing the dead back up out of hell<br>until they realize the light of love's too strong <br>for the eyes of gibbering shades and turn around<br>as if they'd come too far down the wrong road. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">As a working stiff, love is kind, generous, trustworthy, loyal, <br>like the smell of heartwood after a carpenter has built <br>his own sturdy cross. Not acrid oak, but terebinth. <br>As a thaumaturge, love works miracles with silver herbs <br>cool as moonlight laying its feathers on the sacred pools <br>you return to like a battered salmon or a sword in tribute<br>to give back in gratitude what was given to you. <br>O, yes, you can be a nice guy or an agreeable woman<br>for a moment, and bask in the whole wheat sunshine <br>of a promising harvest, but love is the blue, <br>the second full moon in October and it looks down <br>on what's been threshed to see what you've left for the birds<br>and if you ever get so drunk in your delirium <br>you went dancing with the scarecrows as if you <br>were all martyred by the same cause like a prelude <br>of watchdogs to the white nights of the living dead.<br>Love's a celebrant high on the bliss of poppy wine <br>but it doesn't turn the dancing floors of the starfields <br>into a bride catalogue for impoverished wallflowers. <br>Love's got the eyes of a snake, the voice of a bird<br>and the wings of a vampiric bat in an unpredictable eclipse. <br>And when love mystically sublimates its appetites <br>like black ice into more beatific ionospheres of solar flaring, <br>the poetry goes aurorally absurd, but nobody cares <br>because everybody's more awed by the picture-music <br>of the rippling veils than they are by the face behind them.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You make love safe. You take the danger out of it, <br>you defang the lightning storm, you brainwash <br>the theta waves of the turbulent night sea <br>where the soul journeys alone, into saying aum<br>every time there's a breathless squall of stars in the southwest, <br>though you might think in your lustreless way <br>you're throwing sacred holy oil on troubled waters <br>you're just another oil slick running a nunnery of pearls. <br>You want your honey without a stinger. You want <br>your rose without a thorn. A one-eyed oxymoron.<br> <br>I've made it a counter-intuitive point of survival<br>most of my occult romantic afterlife <br>to never fall in love with a woman until I'm absolutely certain <br>it's well within her power to kill me outright <br>without a word of warning. But she abstains <br>and in that moment of hesitation you can live <br>three full lifespans on the cutting edge of a black hole <br>without a fear of lights or vertiginous heights. <br>You can ride the helical stairwells of your mutual d.n.a.<br>like the parallel bannisters of two hawks wheeling<br>synchronously on the twisted ladder <br>of their thermophilic passions for the highs and lows of love.<br>When did Icarus ever fly too close to the sun <br>with a parachute or a safety net? What fool <br>shot out of a cannon like a fly into a spider web <br>doesn't expect to get entangled in the details<br>of hedging his bets instead of taking the fall on his chin. <br>If you fall in love, and you're not a clown, <br>or someone who bumbled over the cliff by accident, <br>be prepared to fall deeper than any place <br>your death has ever descended into before, and darker, <br>and more intense than the petty sentiments<br>of people dropping stones in wishing wells <br>to fathom the abyss by staring into the eyes of a telescope.</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=476729" data-title="Kisses Instead Of Scars If You Can Manage It de Patrick White" data-description="Kisses instead of scars if you can manage it. 
Love, not a science. Still an art. Though a dying one. 
The discipline of staying a constant beginner. 
As if the morning glory had never felt the light before. 
You want to love or be loved? Make up ..."></div>
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