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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476787" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>No Matter How Far</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">No matter how far into the past the star travels, <br>	plunging its white fingers into the expanding womb of the past<br>		to pull its own damp head out of convulsive space, <br>it will never find a beginning, the widening cleft between two thoughts <br>	opening like a mouth full of silence, a sluice gate of thick water, <br>		a dark prelude, the first letter alpha breaking like an eye <br>out of the eclipsed envelope into a splendour of light<br>	to hang its jewel, its dropp of flammable water <br>		from the incredible webs of the night, <br>to shine alone in the dark with millions, <br>	the elemental heart of an abandoned lover. The void <br>		became a tuning fork and struck itself, became <br>a nugget of gold and dropped itself into the world pond <br>	sinking like a throne through a center of infinite haloes, <br>		disappearing into the origin of its own undulant pulse, <br>a fish leaping out of the stillness of the mirror<br>	into the encircling waves of its own event<br>		or an arrow into the target of its own ripples, <br>or God lost in his own universe without a return address. <br>	<br>	Where now is the desolate monkey <br>		forced down out of the trees <br>to stand up in the high conquering grass to look for leopards<br>	who first shrieked into consciousness<br>		or sat down quietly on his heels <br>to ponder the odd blue stone of a thought he couldn’t grasp? <br>	Where is he who has gone on expending himself <br>		like the first violin of a tribal symphony <br>through the blind abyss of the blood all the way to me? <br>	Is there a skull that lies cracked and quarried somewhere, <br>		 a fallen idol in a temple of shattered bones, <br>a small, moldy moon clotted with earth <br>	who was the first to become aware of himself <br>		as a paling star who would be washed out <br>in the brightening flood of the following dawn? Did he glimpse it all in a flash, <br>	as the seed contains the whole of the tree, the blossoms <br>		the singing branches, the closed eyelids of the apples, <br>did he see in the lightning gap between matter and mind, <br>	in the first atom of self-brained sentience<br>		all the murderous troupes of civilization<br>that would walk out of that first step, that progenitive initial<br>	that goes on unspooling the maple samara<br>		of the helical generations down even<br>into the bloodstreams and wellsprings of the lines of this poem? <br>	Did he see the continuum of his own beginning <br>		moving outwardly in time like a viper<br>through the oceanic fire-wombs of a nubile cosmos, <br>	the world serpent that would marry the world <br>		with a rib of light? Did he see me as I am this morning, <br>elaborated in all directions like rain from his watershed, <br>	trying to make lifeboats out of the leaves to survive <br>		this oblique sliding into the depths<br>of my own gashed being, the vagrant omega <br>	of a maritime disaster morsed between two sibilants, <br>		like an egg between the forked tongue <br>of a torn chromosome, this feeble S.O.S. I’ve sent back <br>	through the anguish of the years to find me, to find him, <br>		to shut the eye of the circle, a tail <br>in search of a mouth that could create what it consumes <br>	in a single breath, a single word wholly sufficient<br>		for all eternity, unborn, unperishing? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And it is not enough to say that the peduncle <br>	is lost in the ensuing phylum, the root in the tree, the tree<br>		in the seed and the seed again in the leaves and branches; <br>am I given eyes and nothing to see, wonder<br>	and nothing to be amazed by, the blue wheel<br>		of a flowering heart and nothing to feel? Homage <br>to the fallen bell of my unsung ancestor, male or female, <br>	and the way he picked himself up off the ground, 	 <br>		homage to his pendulous walking across the plain; <br>and the tracks he followed through the luminous mud of his brain, <br>	saying his name with his feet; homage and compassion <br>		for the brute in lunar shock <br>before the rising of the moon through the startled dark, <br>	homage to the lightning and the firefly <br>		that jarred him out of his uterine revery <br>like metal from the ore of a stone. Homage<br>	to the horror and grief and genius of the huge hope<br>		he buried in himself with red ochre and bird-bone flutes <br>like the bodies of his children under the fire and ashes of his cave; <br>	I bring black cherries, wheat, and scarlet poppies, <br>		I bring the immaculate weave of the starfields, <br>sapphires and silk, and the wisdom of the wind, <br>	the passion of fire, the will of water, the beauty of light, <br>		and the freedom of infinite space, <br>and I scatter the worlds like opal grains of sacred rice<br>	over the wedding carbons of your baffled remains<br>		and I fill the clay moulds of the footprints you left behind<br>with the fleets and caravans and flights of mind <br>	that were born of your bruised heel, <br>		your circuitous pilgrimage toward bison and berries, you<br>the brutal mile zero of the highways through the mountains, you<br>	the first dropp of rain in the headwaters of the river, you<br>		the first feather of empathy that danced to fly, you<br>the first prayer to divine the green valleys of an afterlife<br>	where the silver gazelles came down every night <br>		to the water’s edge, gifts of the great mother’s thighs.<br>Like a prodigal son returning to the boneyard of his cannibal parents, <br>	without judgment, I bring you the sugars of a ripened mind<br>		and the fat of my sedentary flesh<br>to gorge on as you wish. And though we shudder with progress <br>	over the excavated skulls in the hovels of the homophagoi, <br>		we unmarrow each other no less. So praise <br>to your broken, battered, disease-ridden body, <br>	your muscled weapon and your withered breasts<br>		that hung like oriole’s nests from a rack of bone; praise<br>to the beast master and savage cauldron of your mind<br>	from which you drew the elegant visions of a predator<br>		you charred at the end of your tunnels on lime.<br>This morning I practice the same art for the same mysteries <br>	on the same dank womb-walls of efflorescent time, <br>		following the spoor of these migrant histories <br>back to you. Faster than light I must outrun myself to regress, <br>	and I come with poems and paintings and problems <br>		and a forwarding address.</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=476787" data-title="No Matter How Far de Patrick White" data-description="No matter how far into the past the star travels, 
	plunging its white fingers into the expanding womb of the past
		to pull its own damp head out of convulsive space, 
it will never find a beginning, the widening cleft between two thoughts 
	open..."></div>
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