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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476780" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Never Alone With A Candle</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Never alone with a candle<br>a firefly in a valley, <br>a star above the hill, <br>is your seeing less beautiful<br>than that stranger in the mirror<br>who takes you by surprise? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Can you hear your eyes<br>your eyes your eyes your eyes<br>falling like rain <br>on the plectra of the flowers? <br>Is that a coffin or a harpsichord? <br>Scarlatti playing the columbine <br>or the midnight requiem <br>of a dolorous pine longing <br>for a nightbird that never comes? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I can sense you count yourself<br>a dandelion among delphiniums, <br>a brown star without solar flare, <br>a moon with a complexion of coral, <br>and even from here I can hear <br>that happy bell you wear <br>like your heart on your sleeve <br>to let people know you’re coming, <br>and either fake it or leave.<br>Fashionable mirages of make-believe.<br>Black roses of mascara<br>with comets for eyebrows, <br>their noses stuck up in the air <br>like the wrong end of a telescope. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Born this crude ore of a man <br>what can I know of a woman’s feelings <br>moving around inside of me at night<br>like underground rivers of gold? <br>But, sweetness, if I were to guess, <br>there are stones much more lustrous, <br>more polished, more shapely<br>than even the linghams and yonis, <br>unenlightened cosmic eggs<br>with nothing inside to reveal, <br>no stars, no jewels, no chandeliers <br>of sad insights into dark mirrors<br>of what’s inconceivably real<br>and what’s merely the fossil<br>of an extinct species of fish <br>trying to swim through brimstone. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Does the sea envy its waves <br>because its ambient eyelashes <br>aren’t long enough to paint <br>a black velvet masterpiece<br>signed by a cosmetic line <br>of flash in the pan movie stars? <br>Isn’t it enough the moonlight<br>adorns your eyelids like a lake? <br>I haven’t touched a woman’s breasts yet <br>when I didn’t feel like a sailor <br>lost at sea without a lifeboat<br>in an ocean of heaving roses.<br>And I’ve slept with enough women<br>to know beauty isn’t only skin deep. <br>Sometimes it’s a shipwreck on the bottom.<br>Sometimes it’s a blood diamond<br>on the black market of a cheap eclipse<br>that bleeds out like haemorrhaging slaves.<br>Sometimes it raves like Medusa <br>at the snakepit of a hairdo in the mirror<br>that turns her reluctant heroes into stone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You weep for this? You curse your body<br>your lips, your nose, your legs, your thighs, <br>the white-out of your smile, your eyes, <br>your hands for not being doves, <br>your hair because it doesn’t flow<br>like long blonde tresses of honey <br>from a hive of killer bees, <br>because you don’t think <br>you can please Adam well enough<br>with the apple you hold out to tempt him? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ask Majnun about Laila, <br>it’s not the goblet, it’s the wine inside, <br>and from what I know of night and desire, <br>I’ve never met a man<br>who wouldn’t drink from his own skull <br>just to taste it like a mirage in an hourglass<br>or a message in a bottle on the moon.<br>Don’t judge the potency of the elixir<br>by the popularity of the flower<br>it’s taken from like a love potion<br>nor the strength of the poison <br>by the dowdiness of the snake.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I don’t say this waxing insincerely <br>like the false dawn of a consolation <br>for something you’re austerely missing. <br>You’re not a nun among flowers <br>about to take vows <br>of silence and celibacy <br>because you don’t know how<br>to attract bees to your cult of one.<br>You’re not a black mass <br>with a rose petal on your tongue<br>instead of the thorn of the moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why do you desecrate <br>the vases and urns of the wildflowers<br>that bloom like New England asters<br>in the starfields of your windowless room <br>like the prophetic heads of the dead<br>because they’re not sunflowers<br>or waterlilies and wild irises<br>in full bloom along the banks<br>of your cresting mindstream? <br>Why do you pass the hours<br>snuffing fireflies out in your tears<br>like a constellation of match heads<br>on the sill of a broken windowpane<br>in a misbegotten house <br>of a wayward zodiac for rogue stars? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You’re not a calendar of scars<br>marking time with razorblades<br>on the bone of your wrist<br>like some Neanderthal <br>who’s just discovered time<br>because there’s no view of you <br>scenic enough to cut out and save<br>that isn’t nicked by crescent moons.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Have you not seen the envy<br>in the eyes of those first magnitude<br>fixed stars showcased <br>on a starmap, jewels under glass, <br>butterflies pierced through the thorax<br>for the garishness of their wings? <br>Take a look for yourself.<br>Do you not see <br>how deeply they envy<br>the beauty and freedom of fireflies<br>who’ve gotten off the grid? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It’s not just the light that’s beautiful, <br>it’s what it shines upon as well.<br>That’s how the flowers talk to the stars<br>in the same universal language.<br>Not as lesser avatars of shining <br>but as one beauty to another <br>in an alphabet of loveletters <br>they leave unsigned, unaddressed, <br>for anyone who wants<br>to walk in the moonlight awhile<br>neither in nor out of style, <br>as beautiful in their own skin<br>as the auroral silks of the northern lights<br>or the moon a vaudeville stripper peeping <br>through the boas of the clouds <br>when that’s all she’s wearing <br>like a changeable wind, a radiant sky<br>revealing and veiling simultaneously<br>the bright vacancy of one side <br>and the dark abundance of the other <br>more intriguing face<br>she’s turned away from.<br>The one you can easily see<br>on the other side of your own eyes <br>when you turn the light around<br>and let the mirrors labour to perfect<br>the artless beauty of their reflections <br>by imitating you like a ballet<br>in the feathered death mask of a swan<br>learning to move with the beauty and grace <br>of someone flowing <br>like a river on the moon, <br>a white Taj Mahal reflecting<br>the pale towers of a torch <br>that burns like stars and lilies<br>in the black waters of its dark opposite.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ask any Luna moth at the window.<br>it’s not the shape, colour, scent <br>of the votive candles or fragrant lamps<br>you’ve devoted to your solitude<br>that draws them in out of the night.<br>It’s the intensity of the light<br>that summons them to you like seance.<br>Ghosts, poets, lovers, artists all alike.<br>The way things are here, not <br>as they seem to appear and disappear<br>like fireflies in a mirror<br>but as they are and will ever be<br>the translucency of stars by night <br>the clarity of flowers by day, <br>the sun shining at midnight, <br>the moon keeping its shadows a secret<br>from the occult powers of noon, <br>all the beautiful shapeshifters, <br>all the moody chameleons, <br>each with a face of their own <br>as unique and revealing as the universe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In every dropp of water<br>the depth of the sky <br>as in every tear an eye<br>that can see straight through you <br>to the beauty within<br>when you’re as easy on yourself <br>as a starfish on the moon<br>a dolphin with stage fright<br>on the catwalk of the stars<br>changing wardrobes like weather, <br>night seas of habitable planets<br>wholly at home in the mindscapes<br>of their luminous atmospheres, <br>their immaculate waterskins, <br>as they are in the rags of those mirages<br>you keep drowning your radiance in.<br> <br>A constellation in the desert <br>that’s underwhelming itself<br>by forgetting that fire knows<br>how to swim in the deep end<br>of shadows on the moon <br>like the flame of a candle or a goldfish<br>even you for all your tears, <br>your weeping willow chandeliers, <br>your wishing wells, your watersheds, <br>your shaded windows, your broken mirrors, <br>the torn nets of those dreamcatchers<br>you gouged the eyes out of <br>like semi-precious jewels <br>that didn’t measure up to diamonds.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even you, for all you relinquish<br>of your native beauty to comparisons<br>with the costume jewellery of other eyes<br>than your own, try as you might<br>to unfeather the plumage of the moon<br>you could never extinguish, <br>you could never eclipse or blow out, <br>no more than you can hold a mirror <br>up to the dead like a portrait of smoke<br>and convince them beyond <br>the shadow of an unreasonable doubt <br>it’s a simulacrum of your solitude, <br>though it looks nothing like you <br>sitting alone by a candle in the nude.</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=476780" data-title="Never Alone With A Candle de Patrick White" data-description="Never alone with a candle
a firefly in a valley, 
a star above the hill, 
is your seeing less beautiful
than that stranger in the mirror
who takes you by surprise? 

Can you hear your eyes
your eyes your eyes your eyes
falling like rain 
on the pl..."></div>
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