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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476742" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Like A River In Its Running, Like Life, Like Time, Like Mind</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like a river in its running, like life, like time, like mind<br>no point of departure that isn't also a moment of arrival.<br>Toxic parasols and meteor showers shot precisely <br>out of the green radiants of the candling umbrellas <br>and half-hearted parachutes of the water hemlock.<br>Starbursts of flowers that scald like welding sparks.<br>Bouquets thrown backwards over the shoulders of mean brides. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alone in the high, wild grass, I just want to lie down in the sun <br>until half of me leaks into my watershed and the other half <br>evaporates into the cerulean bliss of the oblivious sky, <br>just breathe myself out into unfathomable volumes of space, <br>a riff of sacrificial smoke from a guitar on a pyre<br>as unconcerned as fire about where I'm going from here.<br> <br>I like the metaphors that spring up like wild irises <br>along the mindstream, so I guess this is flowing, <br>though I could as easily be walking down a dirt backwoods road<br>feeling many of the same things, as I exalted <br>in the early blossoming of the chicory as a cosmic event<br>with mystic implications for those who can see <br>eternity embodied in the earthly simplicity of flowers<br>and that time, in the long run, has nothing to do with enduring. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm going to trample out a deer bed and lie down here <br>sketching starmaps of this year's flotilla of waterlilies<br>until the light of the isoscelean Summer Triangle breaks <br>like chalk on a blackboard. I want to clear my mind <br>like the Nazca Plateau and let the fireflies build runways <br>like well lit jungle zodiacs for the extraterrestrials.<br>Not expecting the wind to whisper secrets in my ear.<br>The trees can keep their secrets to themselves.<br>I'm not here to read the private life of the moon <br>left open like a diary of telescopic wavelengths<br>too intimate to be revealed to the one-eyed peeping toms.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Just want to settle into my own wake awhile <br>like dust kicked up by a wheel, numb the turmoil <br>on the wonder of things that embrace me as if <br>I were a stranger to myself the same as them<br>and our chief function in life, if there's one at all, <br>were merely the expression of our presence here <br>arrayed in the eyes of all like moon rise in a dropp of water. <br>Things flashing into this openness like constellations <br>of fish and dragonflies in a mirror elaborating their ripples <br>into flying carpets of musical effusion <br>that are never out of hidden harmony with chaos<br>even when seeds are scattered like dice <br>on the ghost of a chance on the wind lamenting its luck. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Don't want to mean, or be, or do. <br>I've been through those doors so many times <br>I'm beginning to think my feet are retrogressive thresholds <br>or stone mill water wheels grinding out my daily bread <br>like a Mayan calendar with a new moon at harvest time. <br>Nothing's resolved except perhaps you perceive <br>how the sublimities of life arise like Arcturus <br>out of its utter insignificance through an opening <br>in the crown of the black walnut tree you're lying under. <br>Whatever I am, whether I bear a message or not, <br>or I'm just a witness that wasn't called upon to testify, <br>comes a time when it seems more fruitive to let <br>the medium adapt its grammar to me to say what it wants<br>than I should try to shape it to the unsayable<br>that always leaves the taste of abandoned books in my mouth. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's possible to flute your emptiness through the top <br>of an empty whiskey bottle making nautical sounds below decks<br>like the s.o.s. of a lifeboat in distress. Or you can percolate <br>like a breakfast clutch of black-capped chickadees in the willows <br>trying to get them to take something seriously for once, <br>or mock the crows like lumps of coal too cynically short-sighted <br>to spot the diamonds in their soul. Or you can <br>stop imitating yourself as if you were the proto-type<br>of someone who hasn't made it to the showroom floor yet.<br>They're all feasibility studies in pragmatic absurdity.<br>Given time, any lifemask you've carved out of your unlikeness<br>will grow to resemble you as space <br>has become a similitude for the dead. <br>Me? I just want to lie here until all I've got left for a voice<br>is a bird homing in the twilight, and when I roll over <br>to look in the water and see what remains of me, is a face <br>as unrecognizable as the universe.</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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no point of departure that isn't also a moment of arrival.
Toxic parasols and meteor showers shot precisely 
out of the green radiants of the candling umbrellas 
and half-hearted parachu..."></div>
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