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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476768" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>My Back Aching Like The Sky Goddess Nut Doing Yoga</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My back aching like the sky goddess Nut doing yoga<br>over a sidereal painting that's burning like a bridge.<br>I've been many kinds of fool before, some just silly, some profound <br>but this is the work of a sacred clown hemorrhaging in the heavens <br>like the supernova of a pot of gold at the end of a ragged rainbow<br>still shining through the remnants of a colourful wardrobe. <br>I've been accelerating into space driven by a muse <br>of dark energy with an expansive heart. Time stops <br>as I exceed the speed of light across a threshold of starclusters <br>flowering in my wake like New England asters <br>with cadmium yellow suns with auras of orange coronas <br>glowing in their eyes. The apartment is silent <br>except for the trickling of the water pump in the aquarium<br>and a dance arrangement of goldfish that are swimming <br>in synchronicity with my thoughts and feelings <br>as if the heart of a human can speak through many voices <br>like the wind through the harps of the trees, <br>like the angels that descend among the daughters of men<br>when they're feathered in their beds at night like black swans, <br>or stars rooted in their own decay like waterlilies <br>that just don't know when to quit making beauty <br>out of the muddy deltas of their creative bloodlines.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She's firewalking in her sleep by now I hope, watching <br>a documentary of how the universe works in another city. <br>I'm flipping through the pages of the rooftops of Perth <br>outside my window like a weirdly bound heritage history book, <br>trying not to get any paint from my fingers on the view of the stars overhead. <br>Arcturus in Bootes still flying its kite in the west. <br>I need some rest. I've been bleeding like a cut rose <br>on the blades of the moon all day, and I feel threshed, <br>a cylinder of hay left out in the open starfields<br>for the black horse she told me to put in my last painting<br>to show something grazing under the full moon<br>like an eclipse that just discovered it had life on it<br>lyrically at peace with the siloes of light in the distance. <br>Even when love is cosmically oriented, God <br>how it loves to focus on the mystic details of everything <br>right down to the eyelashes of the ruby throated hummingbirds <br>hovering in a Pleiades of first magnitude larkspur.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes I feel like the fossil of a dreamcatcher <br>in the Burgess Shale, but right now, my third eye's wholly open<br>and I'm casting silver nets I've woven out of <br>my axons, blood vessels, nerve ganglia, <br>lunar fuses of serpent fire coiled around my spinal cord <br>like a helical riff of a bass run on a burning guitar <br>I'm holding like a metaphor for the body of a woman in my arms.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When I told you I was a sacred clown. I didn't invent it. <br>I meant it. I feel it. I can dance for ghosts at a seance. <br>I can dance for rain and war. I can paint my face blue <br>with moonlight and wode, and dance for peace, dance for fire, <br>dance for someone like you to step out of the darkness <br>as if someone had shaped a jewel out of the northern lights <br>and I was looking at it from the inside out through your eyes <br>on a a night of the new moon that isn't on any calendars <br>that are going to hang doom over my my voodoo heart<br>because there's never been a curse from the mouth of a Druid or Mayan<br>that could stand up to the courage that it takes <br>to receive a blessing without worrying what mistakes<br>inspiration might make when your muse is as flawless <br>as imagination obedient to the laws of her own myth of origin <br>and your art elucidates the crazy wisdom of your folly <br>like a discipline that isn't for the petty or sane at heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The stargates just don't open for those who are still in their right mind. <br>Just as the maple key to your entry, isn't about <br>what you leave out like a sin of omission that's culpably blind, <br>but what you leave innocently behind you <br>like mountain streams, and morning snails, <br>and the long uncombed comatose trails of sleepwalking comets<br>plunging from their dark haloes like Icarus <br>into a sun that only shines at midnight <br>like a candle on a windowsill calling out<br>like a poet for a new medium that's lightyears beyond words <br>to the first of the autumn stars purring like a cat in her dreams<br>when she hears the holy nightbird just before the dawn <br>knowing Regulus and Spica and all the stars of my art <br>won't pale in the lotus of the heart like real jewels in the eyes <br>of a sacred clown whenever he looks for her <br>shining in the ascendent of Leo long after<br>the Lyre, and the Swan, and the Eagle have all gone down<br>and all these poems I write on the wings of Luna moths, <br>enraptured by the sphinx of her radiance, are irrevocably skybound.</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=476768" data-title="My Back Aching Like The Sky Goddess Nut Doing Yoga de Patrick White" data-description="My back aching like the sky goddess Nut doing yoga
over a sidereal painting that's burning like a bridge.
I've been many kinds of fool before, some just silly, some profound 
but this is the work of a sacred clown hemorrhaging in the heavens 
like..."></div>
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