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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476774" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>My Lonely Island Music</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My lonely island music, <br>	already I see in your eyes, devastation in the dead zone, <br>		skulls littering the field, autumns wandering away <br>weeping like windows that mistook themselves for the sky <br>	and murdered a bird. Mystic September, vamp of this vision, <br>		how could the moon not leap from my tongue <br>in praise of the world that shines through you<br>	bathing alone in the dawn of every moment, utterly<br>		alive, your beauty the page of a unwritten scripture <br>poised in the ink at the nib of every blade of grass to say <br>	beyond the saying <br>		what can’t be said. How unbearably sad <br>in this defeated hour that so few know the truth<br>	that walks ahead of them like their own footprints<br>		returning to the door they left by, already lost, <br>their houses, foundation stones of quicksand. Get it right in the seed, <br>	get it right in the root of the eye, let the wind <br>		take the ashes, sweep the shadows from the stairs, <br>and all the moons of yesterday are caravans of blossoms on the water.<br>	Get it wrong and you’re a widow plundering corpses<br>		for wedding rings and pocket-watches, black rain <br>on the open eyes of the dead. Devoid of transcendence <br>	in the mirroring awareness, on a diet of fire, <br>		you’ll end up combing your hair with a ladder. <br>Can you hear this bell of green before it rings, can you see <br>	the painting in your blood before the brush is lifted<br>		like a maggot of consciousness to the rose? <br>If you can, then check your shadow at the threshold <br>	and walk naked into the far fields of your seeing, your feet<br>		on the ground, your head in the stars; if you can’t, <br>you’re deepening your ignorance by ignoring your depths, <br>	your light passes over itself like an eclipse or the hand<br>		of a black magician, conjuring. Peril in the seeing. <br>A mask of frost over the surgical face of the heart. Understand<br>	deeply and with authority that this dream cannot be understood, <br>		taste this dream for yourself and look once<br> into the brilliant darkness that lies beyond wisdom and forsaking<br>	and acknowledge in a crown of water <br>		you are queen of that, your own teacherless realms. <br>Can’t you feel the roots of the black orchid of this space <br>	wounding the soil with the stars of another night-sky<br>		already opening above and below you? Rightly and brightly, <br>you are that opening, the sum of all the awareness of the whole of your life<br>	expressed in the unborn no-point of a star of perception in space, <br>		blue knowledge beyond the scope of the death-sighted.<br>Why study your own legends like snapped twigs on the trail<br>	and send yourself in a straitjacket to school <br>		when you already know by heart <br>the book of the breath you must live? Open your fist. Where <br>	did it go? What’s in your hand? Do you understand? Our lives <br>		are the shadows of birds sown like seed across the skies, <br>fish-maps printed on water, compasses looking for directions<br>	that don’t exist. We are brief and we are vital, pilgrims<br>		on a bridge of ancient zeroes, angels under every stone, <br>gypsies at home. Hold your life up like a match to a mirror in a dark room <br>	to see whose face it is<br>		then blow yourself out like an orchard<br>before blazing becomes a kind of blindness.<br>	Put the world to your lips like a finger<br>		in the black clarity of the silence. Do you see, do you see<br>the white songbird of the moon enter the throat of the well<br>	to flaunt its plumage privately in an empty theater, <br>		the roar of the ghosts of the infinite aeons for applause, <br>the sound of one hand clapping? Anciently, you were so <br>	and now you are so <br>		and tomorrow after tomorrow you shall be so, hidden <br>right under your own nose, calling yourself like a girl to her friend <br>	when the game is over to come out of hiding. Most people <br>		never understand more than a keyhole and a whisper of themselves, <br>trembling behind the dangerous doors of their own names <br>	when they’re called to come out and play<br>		with a universe that begins in every moment, <br>a fire-fly in a canning jar. They graze on the fodder of illusions, <br>	domesticated by their own cupboards and cowardice, <br>		peopling the wilderness beyond their artificial paradise<br>with demons that threaten to behead them in a palace coup<br>	for the genuine liberation of an empty throne.<br>		The blossom doesn’t know its own beginning, <br>nor the snowflake, its end. Can you find your true face <br>	in this mirror of echoes, <br>		the one you wore before the birth of silence? <br>I shall come looking for you like the wind<br>	and I shall find you among trees and flowers<br>		and among the grasses of the fields<br>and in the living light that breathes over the harvest<br>	and in the water-mind of the stream that flexes the reeds<br>		and playfully graces the ripe honey of the sun<br>with a sweetness unknown to the business of bees. No inside, no outside, <br>	everywhere I step is the arrival and the walking of my blood <br>		the whole of the way to you from whom I cannot be separated, <br>slipped like a letter under a door that opens, a mouth in space, <br>	to paint the moon on an eye of scarlet water. One leaf falling, <br>		the whole history of the world<br>in the way I love you by letting go; in the way <br>	when you are closest, your heart, the thunder <br>		of subtle intimacies in a lost well, <br>I drown in the vastness like a bird in the reflection of the sky, <br>	happy refugees all along the side-roads of my nerves, <br>		my mind, a fool of the moon, all parade and passage.<br>Do you understand? Not different, not the same, <br>	we are rain on a window, faces beyond <br>		the blindness of mirrors that use our eyes to see.<br>In every feather, in every leaf, in every flight of the word<br>	ten thousand dawns, all of the earth, <br>		 this emptiness within emptiness singing to itself in the void.</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=476774" data-title="My Lonely Island Music de Patrick White" data-description="My lonely island music, 
	already I see in your eyes, devastation in the dead zone, 
		skulls littering the field, autumns wandering away 
weeping like windows that mistook themselves for the sky 
	and murdered a bird. Mystic September, vamp of th..."></div>
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