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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476736" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Let Me Be Worthy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let me be worthy of the river <br>	and the strange ores that glow at night, <br>		buried like teachers in the mountain; <br>let my blood always taste of the moon <br>	and my heart burn like a black rose, <br>		like the poem in the fire <br>that sweetened the sky with a flower of smoke, <br>	for the wisdom of the generously unattainable, <br>		and transcend the hell that shadows the folly <br>of not being foolish. <br>	May the stars, <br>		when they gather in gardens <br>water the roots of my seeing from clear fountains <br>	and the wind bleed like ink from my pen <br>		when I’m wounded by the beauty and the terror <br>of my helplessness. <br>	When I am large, spacious, profound, <br>		let me sit like the universe <br>on the throne of a seed<br>	that lies in the dirt; <br>		and when I am small, brief, <br>a trinket of light in a flash of ephemera, <br>	robe me in the lion skin of the night sky <br>		and ennoble me<br>with delusion and enlightenment <br>	on this road of ghosts. <br>		Whatever befall, <br>let me perish or prosper as a human<br>	who insists upon the divinity of all <br>		and burns and rises <br>for the heresy and truth of it. <br>	Let anyone born be accounted a hero, <br>		a lifeboat that hauled the world aboard<br>when the seas raged in the womb <br>	to give birth to suffering; <br>		and may I always be entrusted <br>with the ancient shales of dark courage it takes <br>	to look into the dragon’s eyes<br>		and not be horrified <br>by the ferocity of the freedom <br>	that thaws space <br>		like an hourglass in the rain. <br>And should love occur <br>	to shape the blade of the moon <br>		on the anvil of my heart, <br>and a cauldron of passionate visions <br>	scald the eyes with intimate glimpses<br>of myriad heavens and hells, <br>all truer than reason, <br>	may my bitterness pass <br>		like the eclipse of an hour, <br>a left-handed blessing, <br>	no vinegar of injured illusion <br>		accept the sad surrender of the wine<br>like the death poppy of a folded flag, <br>no tar of judgment and denial<br>	feather the dream with stone pillows, <br>no abyss under the brief era of an eyelid, <br>	make me too petty or afraid<br>		to dance with my skin off<br>engulfed like the wind<br>	in secret sails of mystic fire.<br>		There’s always a clown, a jester <br>who rides beside the hero like an anti-self, <br>	a thoroughbred and a dray <br>		yoked to the little red wagon of the heart <br>like two thieves either side <br>	of an unwitnessed crucifixion, <br>		two dadaphors, two torches <br>disposed like opposible hinges <br>	on a door that opens like water <br>		at the whisper of a key. <br>Let me be the clown-prince <br>	of my own idiotic profundities then, <br>		let me survive my way into the wisdom <br>of the inspired fools <br>	who know that anything they ask for<br>		from the stolen bounty of the king <br>is just another absurdity in disguise, <br>	that even laughter isn’t a lifeline.<br>		I’ve always had my heart <br>caught in my throat<br>	like a bird in a chimney, <br>		a cork in a wine-bottle, <br>a habitable planet in a black hole. <br>	I have loved and befriended <br>		almost anyone <br>who would let me<br>	and seen their evanescence, <br>		their transience, their vagrancy, their passage <br>through this mansion of space <br>	with the amazing windows and chandeliers, <br>		the sad brevity of the things they cherished. <br>Blind to restorative grails, <br>	I have not sought the meaning of life, <br>		I have not hunted the dragon with nets, <br>knowing reality is meaningless<br>	because it has no fingers, <br>		it doesn’t point to anything beyond itself, <br>nor bear witness in a mirror, <br>	but I have walked in the peacock robes <br>		of the twilight sky, all eyes, <br>in the gardens of the life of meaning, <br>	past the hushed bloodtalk of the roses, <br>		and seen for myself <br>that there are flowers with petals of water <br>	and roots of fire<br>		that drink the stars like rain. <br>Meaning dethrones the flowers like bottle-caps <br>	and there’s no refund on the empties.<br>		Night puts its hands over your eyes <br>and asks you to guess; <br>	and there’s no end of the mystery, <br>		no end of the blessing <br>of sitting under a tree <br>	looking up at a star <br>		wondering what human beings, <br>what you are doing on earth; <br>	what a thought is, an emotion, <br>		the blade of grass beside you, <br>everything alone together <br>	in the silent boat of the rising moon <br>		docking at its own reflection <br>as if the port were always in the voyage, <br>	understanding <br>		merely an expression of the intensity <br>of our not knowing. <br>	The answers come and go, <br>		 governments, religions, arts, sciences, fortune-cookies, <br>like parking meters, like waterbirds, <br>	like oceans on the moon.<br>		Life is the lock that opens the key, <br>the skymouth of the dream that woke itself up<br>	talking in its sleep, <br>		trying to remember the dreamer.<br>Like the fleets and caravans <br>	of the seeds on the autumn wind <br>		we are the purest expression<br>of a universe <br>	that answers us with ourselves <br>		when we ask for a sign.<br>Like cherries that ripen in the silence <br>	of the deepening night, <br>		turning our tears to wine, <br>our darkness into eyes, <br>	may my shadows always be worthy <br>		of the light that casts them.<br>Fifty-seven years a human being, <br>	fifty-seven years of suffering and doubt, <br>		of boredom and magmatic intensities, <br>of mystic elation and mythic insignificance, <br>	of anger, danger, risk, defeat and victory, <br>		of saying and seeing, <br>of trying to kiss the shadow of my pain away <br>	by deepening my ignorance <br>		and progressing backwards <br>through the re-runs of old eclipses <br>	that once gorged on the moon like dragons. <br>		Tonight the wind howls bitterly outside <br>and the stars seem eras away in the cold<br>	as if the intimacy I have felt with their shining <br>		since I was a boy <br>were just another leaf torn from the tree.<br>	It’s rare to catch a glimpse of your agony, <br>		to see that even the brightest fountains <br>of your efflorescence <br>	are rooted in a wounded watershed <br>		that has never known the colour of your eyes. <br>I don’t need to be forgiven <br>	for being born; <br>		and I won’t be poured <br>like a tidal wine<br>	into a life that isn’t mine <br>		however many cracks appear in the cup, <br>however I recede and leak out of myself, <br>	my blood isn’t anyone else’s signature, <br>		and this walking to nowhere I call a poem, <br>no one’s footprints following me but my own. <br>	How should it be otherwise <br>		that I fall like rain <br>to appease this rumour of life <br>	like a fire in my roots <br>		and flash through the creekbeds <br>of my own flowing <br>	like time returning to its hidden source <br>		with news of nothing? <br>An echo of light <br>	looking for its lost voice like a star, <br>		I don’t need to prove myself to the night<br>like a theory in the heart of a passing stranger<br>	and space is the only death mask <br>		that is the true likeness of my face.<br>No more than the light and the rain <br>	that open the seeds like love-letters, <br>		I don’t need to know<br>what I will become<br>	or what was revealed behind me in the dark, <br>		but let me be worthy <br>of this wounded boat of the moment <br>	with its cargo of eyes <br>		enduring the burden and inspiration <br>of the voyage<br>	like illegal refugees <br>		with forged passports to Atlantis; <br>and if I must be accounted <br>	one of the martyrs of absurdity, <br>		then let me be as generous as wings <br>to the worms in my name<br>	that blindly tilled the soil <br>		of a rootless country.</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=476736" data-title="Let Me Be Worthy de Patrick White" data-description="Let me be worthy of the river 
	and the strange ores that glow at night, 
		buried like teachers in the mountain; 
let my blood always taste of the moon 
	and my heart burn like a black rose, 
		like the poem in the fire 
that sweetened the sky wi..."></div>
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