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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476781" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Never Wanted To Work That Hard To Be Beautiful</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Never wanted to work that hard to be beautiful <br>inside or out, be the rare fossil of a mirror <br>in the red velvet drawer of a jewellery tower <br>that slides out like a tiny coffin in a morgue. <br>Not out to prove that waterlilies have the bones<br>of astral hummingbirds. Love flowers, <br>but not in cults. Love the moon enough <br>not to make a religion of it, life enough <br>not to resist what it's trying to put me through<br>whether I'm howling in pain, set afire, <br>or mystically exalted by vital bliss<br>or about to scatter my ashes from any of the bridges <br>that arc like grey rainbows of partially kept truces<br>with the lies of the lines in between. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes I'm mining mini black holes <br>inside the solar system looking for <br>new motherlodes of metaphor inside <br>the eye sockets of a skull crawling with Aztecs <br>like red army ants attending to their gods, <br>or go panning for stars well beyond the heliosphere <br>the way I used to catch fireflies as a boy <br>just to watch them glow a moment and let them go<br>like an intimate insight into what I still don't know <br>but never failed to be enlightened by upon their release. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">People outside my open window, laughing, talking, <br>setting up giddy long shots like sexual moves <br>on a hot summer night with a beer in its hand, <br>and the drunk demotic of a little English on the cue, <br>and alarmed car horns throbbing like ear aches in park, <br>and it's all so intriguingly silly it's got to be human <br>and I wonder if a thousand years from now will think <br>this is what we had to be like. And as soon as I <br>glimpse that, the whole scene is deepened by time <br>in the eyes behind a veil of eternity I lifted <br>while I was alive to see that everything here is indelible. <br>There's a perpetuity in our apparent randomness <br>in the passing of the moment, that spontaneously <br>preserves us for greater things than we can imagine <br>like the Conservation of Data Principle <br>that holds good even in the singular depths <br>of a black hole listening like a poet through an open window.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A smudge of life on my poem, but I don't mind <br>the fingerprints at all. What's a star without planets? <br>What's a shepherd ushering moons toward <br>the high blue grasslands without a black sheep <br>that wanders off by itself once and awhile<br>to check out other things along the way? <br>My poems pick things up in their flowing <br>like rivers pick up leaves and tributaries <br>and small flotillas of blossoms in the spring, <br>the occult alphabets of calligraphic oil snakes, <br>and mingles them all into the picture-music <br>of the mindstream, the motifs of a symphony, <br>or the themes of a play, that picks things up <br>and puts them down again like the moonrise <br>of a rock on a beach. Few of life's harmonies <br>are symmetrically balanced crystallographers. <br>Nights when I look into the eyes of the stars <br>and even the lenses of my telescope break into tears. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You can take life out of it like a fly in the toilet bowl, <br>a bumble bee in a jar, a star out of your eye<br>a spider on a long-handled broom, or the crumb<br>of a leftover dream from the night before, <br>or you can leave it in if it wants to come along for the ride.<br>I've heard for so long from people who say they know <br>that everything is one, I don't worry about disconnections. <br>It's the fallible continuity of life that sings <br>like a nightbird from the dead branch and green alike<br>most beautifully to me, the way the light and the rain<br>and love when it's real, make unions of disparate things <br>that depend upon each other for life like metaphors. <br>I revel in the crazy wisdom of the oxymoronic contradictions <br>that bond me to the universe like the small volcanoes <br>of the ground wasps that erupt between the fault lines<br>along the continental plates of the sidewalks <br>and apprentice me to landscaping with lava on the moon. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The circle's wounded deeper into its roundness <br>once it's broken by a branch, the stillness more profound <br>for the stone that's dropped into it. Love, when it's new, <br>trued by separation. The earth itself, an alloy <br>of the elemental table. To be truly original creatively <br>is to seek the low place like the sea and let <br>everything run down into you like myriad streams <br>that are neither many nor one, pure nor polluted, <br>and out of that mingling which is the whole of you, <br>raise them like weather from the bells of the flowers <br>to the robes of snow on the mountain tops<br>and know that with every cloud, every raindrop, storm, <br>every bolt of lightning, and all the life thereby engendered<br>is you returning like a shape shifter to your own depths<br>and everything comes along for the ride as if<br>they were always on your side, like your eyes are.</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=476781" data-title="Never Wanted To Work That Hard To Be Beautiful de Patrick White" data-description="Never wanted to work that hard to be beautiful 
inside or out, be the rare fossil of a mirror 
in the red velvet drawer of a jewellery tower 
that slides out like a tiny coffin in a morgue. 
Not out to prove that waterlilies have the bones
of astr..."></div>
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