Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476775" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>My Secret Place</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My secret place down by the Tay River.<br>I deer-bed down among the autumn grasses <br>and last of the New England asters <br>half-lotus in cowboy boots<br>with a clear view of the stars <br>dancing on the water.<br>The waterlilies have perished. <br>Jupiter. <br>And the moon at last crescent. <br>No one knows I'm here but me. <br>I've never come here with another. <br>A place where I talk to the universe alone <br>as if it existed<br>more personally <br>than the mere immensity <br>of a cosmic intelligence <br>super-saturating time and space.<br>Belief's a bad habit of mine <br>and sometimes I want to be deceived <br>into believing someone's listening <br>even when I know they aren't<br>and that the worst always happens for the best<br>even though I know it doesn't. <br>The sky's a windowpane I can fly through<br>without breaking my neck on delusions <br>and the moon feels like <br>a cool poultice on a hot wound. <br>I watch a spider repair its dreamcatcher<br>and say good luck.<br>And the stars don't really give a damn <br>how they shine deep in my dark inner spaces. <br>Everything is so perfectly entranced with being itself <br>I wonder what it is about a human <br>that has to take time out like me <br>to reconsider what I'm doing here <br>wandering around on the earth <br>without any certain purpose <br>other than the ones I make up like poems<br>to spin bedtime stories out of my nightmares.<br>A birch leans out over the water <br>like a woman washing her hair in the river <br>and I sense there's an inevitability about a tree <br>that isn't like me. <br>I can't find a fixed reality <br>to be in harmony with. <br>I have no doubt the rocks along the shore <br>are getting it right<br>but with me consciousness is a light <br>that contradicts its own clarity <br>the moment it reveals itself.<br>There is no path to follow <br>no way to flow <br>no aspiration to fulfill <br>that isn't pure folly. <br>Or just another way of running out of myself <br>like sand in an hourglass <br>piling up pyramids<br>until I've exhausted myself like Sisyphus<br>rolling stones uphill. <br>And then I'm overturned like an empty shotglass <br>to begin again <br>or just sit here by the river like an amphibian <br>and let the universe do what it wants to my brain<br>without assuming it wants to do anything <br>or that the damage hasn't already been done. <br>A new way to be partially whole! <br>Flesh and blood with a mineral soul! <br>Prophetic tents full of snakeoil salesmen. <br>But I've never been tempted <br>by things I couldn't give my heart to <br>and the curse of spiritual valium <br>is the same as it is on earth. <br>The withdrawal is as dangerous <br>as following the addiction <br>all the way through<br>to the emergency ward in heaven<br>that handed out the prescription in the first place. <br>It isn't the soul of a butterfly I see <br>when I look the money-maggots in the mouth.<br>I'm not praying for an afterlife that's worthy of me<br>as if anyone knew what that amounts to.<br>What would you suggest <br>for an agony of snakes in a bag of skin <br>that's got nine holes in it? <br>The tears I've wept for the world <br>have all turned into serpents.<br>The tears I've wept for myself<br>watered the roots of a mirage<br>in a desert where the stars <br>burn your eyes like sand<br>and turn your blood to glass. <br>I wonder if the birch knows <br>what's passing it by.<br>If the river is its mindstream.<br>And then it comes to me <br>like a message in a bottle. <br>Maybe my sole purpose on earth is passage. <br>Maybe I'm just time looking for a reason for itself<br>to go on like a season that's known by the way it changes<br>by always being estranged from itself. <br>Maybe I'm the more-than-me I can't conceive of. <br>Maybe all these things seem <br>self-possessed in their tranquility <br>because I'm a mess.<br>Maybe my being as screwed-up as I am <br>helps get them through it<br>and all my pain and turbulence <br>all my preposterous longings <br>to be well-meaning and beautiful <br>all the black elixirs of the ruthless mystery <br>I've drunk from my own skull <br>held up to the gods <br>like the begging bowl of the moon <br>when it's full <br>just to see if the darkness tastes of light<br>the way a lump of coal <br>foreshadows diamonds to come<br>after aeons of excruciating transformations<br>and if there's more room for chaos on a calendar <br>than there is space in the scheme of things for thought. <br>But there I go again. <br>You see what I mean? <br>Fish jumping out of the stream at the stars <br>that lure them up out of their depths<br>like low-flying insects <br>to take one great leap into a new medium<br>out of themselves <br>like an arrow through the back of a bulls-eye of ripples <br>it didn't know it was aiming at.<br>But things are getting too elaborate <br>and at this rate I'll soon be speaking in voices <br>like some right-brained polyglot in a rapture of saying<br>going on like the Rosetta Stone <br>as if I weren't sitting here alone<br>like the misbegotten seventh son of zero <br>trying to come to terms <br>with a formless reality <br>I keep stubbing my heart on. <br>Mahaprajnaparamita. <br>Great wisdom for the further shore. <br>Gone! Gone! Gone! <br>Altogether gone beyond.<br>Isn't that what the Buddha said <br>in his secret place <br>when he went out of his head <br>trying to stare the world in the face<br>and all he could see was Venus in the dawn? <br>Desire and its afterbirth<br>at the beginning of nothing at all? <br>An insight into what's unearthly about the eternal <br>or just the way the light's bent by an atmosphere? <br>To those who can't let go of things <br>and to those who cling to letting go<br>impermanence is suffering<br>and the only way to cure that <br>is to pour yourself out upon the earth <br>like the bitter cup of the moon <br>when she's had enough of herself<br>and find peace <br>in the sweet potential of your emptiness <br>to be filled up again. <br>To sit here in a secret place <br>like I do<br>tangled in my human roots <br>with waterlilies on my brain<br>strung out all the way from earth to Venus<br>like a chain of thought<br>severed in the distant past <br>we had resolved would never come between us. <br>Where is the peace? <br>Where does that flower bloom <br>that's rooted in blood and starmud<br>if not in the solitude of a human heart <br>that's wandered this far from home<br>along the shores of its longing to return? <br>Why does my heart argue <br>against the will of the world<br>like a salmon swimming upstream <br>on the down slope of a cosmic mountain? <br>I'm not trying to scheme my way out of <br>my dream of this <br>like someone who turns his back on his eyes.<br>I'm sick of lies. <br>I'm sick of universal truths. <br>I'm sick of how blithely everything obliges death <br>with every second breath. <br>I'm sick of the grailquest.<br>I'm sick of the hypocritical crusades. <br>I'm sick of Aztecs and Christians <br>with the blood of gods and children on their lips.<br>I'm sick of atheists who claim it's lipstick. <br>The lightbulb in the well on the moon <br>to keep the water from freezing up <br>has gone out<br>and I'm sick of the way things don't flow anymore<br>like a tide in a sea of shadows <br>like the road of ghosts<br>through the cold dark vacant interstellar spaces<br>of an enlightened lunatic with a creative abyss for a heart. <br>I'm sick of the bitter black ghost bread of my art <br>that tastes like the futility of burnt paper.<br>I'm sick of trying to understand <br>what isn't understandable <br>about my own and human nature. <br>I'm sick of all these long incommensurable interminable questions<br>I've walked all the way to the end of time and again <br>only to return with an ambiguous answer<br>that's rarely communicable through form.<br>In all humility <br>take the low place like the sea <br>and the sewage of the world runs down into me. <br>Take the high like the open sky <br>and the mountain turns into a mudslide.<br>The best is to be here right now as I am<br>with all my dilemmas answers contradictions <br>insights questions and aspirations, <br>all the paradoxical sorrows that have come<br>of my physical assurance that life is joy <br>and ultimate unity is bliss <br>without the oxymorons <br>and love's a deeper insight into life than death <br>if only by a breath <br>and though why we're here in the first place <br>is anyone's good guess<br>intelligence is not the anti-Christ of chaos<br>but the genius of dark matter becoming aware of itself<br>like a hidden secret that wished to be known.<br>What is dark will appear light <br>if you surround it with something darker<br>like a star shining in daylight <br>no one notices <br>until the night reveals it<br>like a wolf that lies down with the lamb.<br>And the best is to be wholly here right now as I am.</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>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<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=476775" data-title="My Secret Place de Patrick White" data-description="My secret place down by the Tay River.
I deer-bed down among the autumn grasses 
and last of the New England asters 
half-lotus in cowboy boots
with a clear view of the stars 
dancing on the water.
The waterlilies have perished. 
Jupiter. 
And the..."></div>
</div>
</div>