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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476741" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Lightning Hits The Horns Of The Morning Snail</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lightning hits the horns of the morning snail <br>like the tines of a tuning fork<br>and the larkspur sees in the ashes of the holy one, <br>a tiny urn, no bigger than a cigar butt, <br>a deep connection to the stars<br>at the root of its ultramarine towers, <br>the ugly and despised become luminously beautiful<br>by what they've been touched by. Same <br>with candles, night, the human spirit, a poem <br>and the stars and planets <br>that ride the film of our eyes across the sky<br>or slide across the poppies of blood that bloom <br>on the other side of our eyelids in the sunshine <br>like blue sunspots and serpentine rainbows <br>on the deft wings of the houseflies aspiring<br>to penetrate the heights and mysteries of being <br>as if they approached God like an ineffable windowpane, <br>and the black mirrors of the oil slicks <br>that eclipse our faith in our transformative power <br>to change things. Two petals of violet cosmos, <br>two eyelids of a new way of looking at things, <br>swaying ethereally in the wind <br>as if they were keeping time<br>to a faint music they can hear <br>way back somewhere in their mind's eye, fall<br>and stick themselves to the back of a snail<br>inching its way along a garden path in metric<br>through a crosswalk of rococo shadows, <br>and who would have believed <br>something so low and slow could fly<br>if they hadn't seen it with their own eyes? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Show me anything your eyes have ever been deprived of, <br>however ugly, however visually tantalizing, <br>inside our out, even if you can count more than the usual three, <br>and I'll show you someone who hasn't learned <br>how to be grateful for the generosity <br>of the black hole they're living in <br>like one of the darlings of light.<br>Clarity isn't just a matter <br>of straightening out the wavelengths in your line of sight<br>and then looking upon everything you see <br>as if it were flatlining in parallel event horizons <br>everywhere you looked for signs of life<br>and came upon death, and mistook it for peace.<br>It isn't just a matter of contemplating sundials <br>in erratically disciplined Zen gardens<br>until you come to understand how to use the shadows <br>on behalf of your own spiritual insight<br>as readily as you've mastered your weapons of light.<br>No one's ever been purified by a holy war.<br>Not even the warrior minstrel of the forlorn hope.<br>You can exhaust a whole new generation of third eyes <br>trying to make it all one out of a lot of little separate pieces<br>that reflect the whole in every part <br>of your shattered chandeliers and mirrors, <br>that long pilgrimage, that fire walk of shining splinters <br>that dazzle you into believing it's skip to my lou my darling <br>all the way down a Milky Way of stars<br>from here like a fingerling of light <br>to there like a wild salmon of oceanic enlightenment. <br>Beauty isn't an essence you can extract from the ore<br>of who you are as a human like an existential alchemist <br>trying to distill the stars from the medium they're shining in <br>as if you were pulling a sword from a philosopher's stone.<br>All the shining spiritual metals, copper, silver, mercury, gold, <br>unless they're alloyed with the darker elements of earth, <br>are too soft for combat. Merlin relies <br>on the iron forge in his own blood to work his magic.<br>He knows a holy war is just an exorcism <br>on crusade against a seance. A calling <br>of the dead to the dead. Not the work <br>of the living spirit that resides <br>in the human divinity of everyone of us<br>like a birthright of shining<br>that's as indefensible and unassailable <br>as time and space. Clarity doesn't try to part the heavens<br>like a mansion into single rooms for every afterlife <br>that goes into exile looking for an excellence within itself <br>that knows how to keep a promise to the earth.<br>Knowing how to fall is half the art of rising.<br>Learning how to get up off <br>your knees, your prayer rugs, tatami mats<br>and all those flying carpets<br>that don't fly straight in any direction <br>with compassion for the human being you are<br>as you see yourself looking at you <br>through everyone else's eyes, <br>and hear creation being said within you<br>like the fleeting meanings of life<br>that shadow the life of meaning<br>as fast as it's being spoken <br>in the mother-tongue of everyone<br>who can look upon a morning snail <br>and hear how a grubby little buddha <br>of a sticky sacred syllable<br>that crosses your path in the morning <br>is saying you into existence twenty four seven<br>the way everything else is each other<br>in the wholly imaginable beauty <br>of a creative language that isn't <br>a tongue-tied stranger to anyone. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Look at any grain of dirt on whatever path you're on <br>and light it up with the shining <br>from the oil lamps of your own eyes<br>and you'll see how easy it is to enlighten <br>what's under your feet like the billions of stars<br>that spontaneously followed suit like wildflowers <br>once you got the first one lit and realized <br>in whatever direction you search and seek<br>the spirit isn't looking for the right road of thorns <br>to cut its feet on, or lacerate its knees on a holy stairwell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Put a pair of cosmic wings on a morning snail <br>and the whole earth turns into a landing strip <br>of green boughs in blossom, even<br>when the fireflies take over the nightshift<br>like microcosmic demonic nightwatchmen. <br>Go ask the bees if you don't believe me. <br>They can read the petals of the secret starmaps <br>that bloom like love notes and shared recipes<br>for honey that tastes like a solar flare <br>transformed by the transactions of a spiritual atmosphere<br>that pearls this grain of nacreous earth <br>as surely as the air that breathes us does, <br>into auroral arrays of beauty and compassion.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you can't love the veils, how are you ever <br>going to learn to love the face behind them <br>that smiles back at you in a likeness of yourself, <br>all eyes, and stars, flowers and nocturnal metaphors <br>for what you're looking at? <br>A morning snail with two petals of cosmos for wings, <br>with flashy grains of dirt on its back, each<br>a world within a world in its own right, <br>rising chromatically over their event horizons<br>as a sign of a significance of their own<br>as poignant as the silicates and stars they're reborn from, <br>delivering the mail at its own pace <br>as if its wings were two loveletters <br>addressed to itself by the wind personally<br>each sealed with a kiss<br>like two complementary eyes <br>you must look into deeply if you want to see <br>how the hourglass flowers in your gazing <br>like larkspur and shapeshifting desert stars. <br>If you don't want to live your whole life <br>like a scar looking for a wound you can believe in. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even a morning snail, if you've got the eyes for it, <br>can make a trail of the silver veil it leaves in its wake <br>like a smeared mirror on the path to enlightenment.<br>If you only love the light at moonrise, <br>and despise what's fallen into the dirt<br>like so many windfalls of <br>demons, stars, snails, angels, apples and humans before it, <br>your life is not adjusted to the time-zone you're living in <br>and your heart keeps missing a beat<br>you go endlessly wandering over the earth to look for <br>through the gardens on the moon <br>and the starfields above <br>when everywhere and always <br>it's been right under your feet all the time<br>like a snail path shining like the Milky Way<br>on the garden walkway through <br>the blue and white stars of the larkspur <br>like lightning in the morning<br>that flashes from your own eyes.</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=476741" data-title="Lightning Hits The Horns Of The Morning Snail de Patrick White" data-description="Lightning hits the horns of the morning snail 
like the tines of a tuning fork
and the larkspur sees in the ashes of the holy one, 
a tiny urn, no bigger than a cigar butt, 
a deep connection to the stars
at the root of its ultramarine towers, 
th..."></div>
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