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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476732" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Late Spring Snow</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Late spring snow on its way. <br>Dead ochres and colourless greys<br>that have never heard of the impressionists.<br>It's a landscape <br>it's a mindscape <br>but it behaves like a still life.<br>I've been staying up late<br>trying to paint my way <br>out of my life <br>until dawn every morning. <br>The windowpane a ripening phthalo blue.<br>It's compositionally deranged <br>to hear the birds singing <br>when you're totally exhausted.<br>Mentally physically spiritually emotionally financially<br>gone gone gone altogether gone beyond.<br>All my happy endings orphaned. <br>A sum of depletions. <br>I'm living this creative life <br>scribbling down the notes of the picture-music <br>that doesn't just run through my mind <br>but is my mind <br>colours and words <br>down on canvas and paper. <br>When I'm writing<br>when I'm painting<br>when I've wholly disappeared into what I'm doing<br>for a few holy hours of life <br>immensities open up like the multiverse <br>and I've got a window a wormhole <br>I can fly through<br>and out out out among the starfields<br>with the evanescence of smoke <br>or a bird <br>putting itself in the picture <br>as a finishing touch to the sky.<br>And I am free to explore the intensities <br>of my own creative peace <br>as I keep saying to myself <br>one eureka moment after another <br>turning into a mantra <br>no no I can't leave that.<br>I've got to bring that back and show them. <br>They'll be delighted with that.<br>They won't believe it. <br>You've got to write and paint with an open hand. <br>Let the brush hold you. <br>Let the pen. <br>Then you're the meaning <br>of what the words are trying to say <br>and it's o.k. <br>you don't have to look any further than that. <br>Sublimity slips into the mundanities of the world <br>by creative accident <br>and you stand down from bliss <br>and spend a reverential moment <br>in its presence<br>just looking at it <br>not knowing where it came from <br>or whose work it is. <br>And it's the wonder of that depth of ageless being <br>expressing itself as a gesture of time <br>that's kept me at it <br>for forty-eight excruciating years.<br>I get off this chain gang <br>where I've broken down more rocks than a junkie <br>or saxifrage in the rain <br>and the pain the labour<br>the enervating futilities<br>and terminal successes<br>of all those ambitions <br>that run counter to the flow of life like salmon <br>disappear from my bloodstream <br>like apparitions in the morning. <br>And I am more me <br>the less I grow aware of it. <br>When I consider the chronic agony of life <br>I sometimes think that God created the world <br>not because she was a hidden secret<br>that wanted to be known <br>but because she wanted to forget she was God<br>and lose every cosmos and atom of herself wholly in it. <br>Paint till dawn and you'll know what that means.<br>As the great Zen master sort of said <br>you can swallow the whole of the river you're painting<br>with a single gulp. <br>You can chug the well of the muses <br>with every drop. <br>And just when you think <br>you're working in a medium of illusions <br>that are playing you like a gravedigger<br>that likes to get to the bottom of things<br>they all begin to taste of life. <br>The mirages water the flowers<br>in this desert of stars <br>and everything blooms.<br>You're back in the garden again <br>before anybody knew anything but the names of things<br>to distinguish them from the angels<br>and life was too vital to need an explanation. <br>As you go to write <br>you can take all your dark energy<br>and intensifying it <br>by letting it empower you<br>bend space into a gravitational eye<br>that gives you a deep insight into <br>how even a blackhole can be creative.<br>How what's been left out of the shadows and lights<br>says as much as that which was included. <br>Who you are not <br>is just as much of an artist <br>as the one who signs the painting. <br>And don't think you can do things by half measures <br>one foot in the boat <br>and one foot on the shore. <br>Talent knows the tear <br>but genius knows what hurt <br>the feelings of the watershed that let it fall.<br>It's the same in art poetry love enlightenment life.<br>You've got to let a mask every now and again <br>wear your face just to play fair<br>and see how things look from the inside out. <br>You've got to let the fireflies <br>make up stories about the stars <br>that haven't got anything to do with shepherds. <br>You got to be free enough <br>to let the world be all kinds of things it isn't. <br>You can only hex yourself <br>by taking a voodoo doll out of the arms <br>of a sleeping child <br>like the new moon out of the arms of the old <br>because you deny the darkness within you <br>its return to innocence<br>and try to separate the roses from the thorns. <br>Living your life <br>as if you were always <br>applying yourself to the world <br>like the task of the business at hand <br>is as destructive<br>as trying to pry the petals of a flower open <br>with a crowbar<br>because you haven't got the time to wait.<br>Paradise is effortless. <br>It doesn't have a gate. <br>It doesn't have a custodian. <br>It doesn't maintain a teacher.<br>Adam was born knowing the names of things. <br>Not how to keep books<br>on the comings and goings <br>of the saints and the miscreants. <br>The first lie out of a tempter's mouth <br>is to ask Eve if she believes <br>she's worthy of the truth<br>as if it were something that could be acquired <br>without her.<br>There's more innocence <br>in running the risk of being left out<br>than there usually is among the deluded<br>who play it safe by dissing their doubt <br>to be included. <br>You've got to take your church your mosque <br>your zendo your synagogue off at the door <br>as if they were hats and shoes <br>when you enter a holy place<br>or you'll track the world in<br>like starmud at your heels <br>and desecrate it with religion. <br>And this is as true of Druidic birchgroves <br>in an abandoned Westport field <br>with the wild geese flying overhead<br>just as the stars are coming out <br>as it is of a poet climbing burning ladders <br>up to his beloved <br>as if every rung were the vertical threshold<br>of a mutable transformation<br>that estranges and illuminates her face like water <br>as it changes his eyes. <br>Don't add your feather of flame to the fire <br>like the flightplan of a faint-hearted phoenix<br>with ambulances standing by <br>in case things get out of hand<br>but light yourself up like a Buddhist monk in Vietnam<br>or a filial vegetable seller in the souks of Tunisia<br>who set the Middle East on fire<br>and consume yourself wholly<br>until there's nothing left of the geni but the lamp. <br>When you let the way come to the end of you <br>how can you say you're lost? <br>That's where your freedom begins.<br>When the object of your quest<br>can't find anyone to look for it<br>and there's no one there to know, <br>King Lear writes Shakespeare. <br>David sculpts Michelangelo.</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=476732" data-title="Late Spring Snow de Patrick White" data-description="Late spring snow on its way. 
Dead ochres and colourless greys
that have never heard of the impressionists.
It's a landscape 
it's a mindscape 
but it behaves like a still life.
I've been staying up late
trying to paint my way 
out of my life 
unt..."></div>
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