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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476794" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Not Even The Light</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not even the light of the stars <br>	shining like the keys to the ancient love-letters <br>		bound among the secret jewels <br>of the queen of heaven <br>penetrates me as deeply as you do.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	The planet wheels into the night<br>bearing its burden of humans <br>	murdering each other <br>		to enforce one state of ignorance <br>upon another<br>	as the rabid bees <br>		strafe the demented flowers <br>on the far side of the world <br>	for enriching their radioactive pollen, <br>		convinced in their madness <br>more honey than blood will flow from the wound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	I walk by myself <br>		along the brittle banks of a frozen stream<br>among the detonations of the cattails <br>	waiting like Napoleonic cannoneers <br>		to stoke the charge of the next volley.<br> <br>The snow in the sunset <br>	is stained a spectral apricot <br>		that disappears like breath on a cold window<br>and the sky is vast with my insignificance.<br>	Two or three decades of life left, <br>		if I'm lucky, <br>and though I have tried to use my time <br>	to leave a gift for someone I will never meet, <br>		long ago I realized <br>there is no way of assessing <br>	what they will find <br>		after the coffin closes like an eyelid <br>on this long, dark, radiant brevity<br>	that once shone like the moon <br>		in the ores of my blood.<br> <br>Like the wandering of this rivulet <br>	my heart has always been <br>		a pilgrim without a shrine <br>and the direction of prayer has encompassed all <br>	like a man getting up off his knees <br>		and walking through an open door <br>to drink from the cup of his lover <br>	in the shadows of the autumn willow <br>		that sways like kite-tails <br>from the flights of fire <br>	she ignites among the stars<br>		that gather in the dark like strangers <br>before their own ghosts.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	What the wind <br>		has torn away from me like apple-bloom, <br>like poems, like smoke and leaf, like skies, <br>	like tears and blood and faith<br>		it has replaced<br>with these deeper revelations of you<br>	that hang like a windfall of scarlet bells<br>		from the branch of a dead tree in winter. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The wine of your life and light <br>	has matured in the ferocious crucibles of the sun<br>		and you have been poured out <br>like the passion of a sword<br>to cleave the stone of my heart <br>		with these truant rivers of wounded silver<br>that flow through me like blood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	A young breeze<br>		tries to hone the edge of its blade <br>on the rising moon<br>	as a black ribbon of water <br>		runs like a snake of oil <br>between the enclosing jaws <br>	and cataracts of ice, <br>		tiny wavelets scaling its skin<br>scintillant with the small commotions of stars overhead. <br>	The bush wolves <br>		have been nosing for muskrat <br>and you can almost taste the steam <br>	rising from hot meat on the air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">		I squeak like a pulley through the virgin snow, <br>following the banks of my own meandering, <br>	owing nothing of myself to anyone, <br>		wholly my own solitude, <br>as I pass through the gates <br>	of the enclosing darkness<br>		trying to enter the abyss and the mystery <br>of what I have lived so precariously <br>	over the last sixty-three years, <br>		what it means, if anything, <br>to be a human among these paper birches <br>	on an island in the stream, <br>		looking up at the intimate unattainability <br>of the stars, <br>	knowing you are growing old, <br>		that death is more populous with friends <br>than life, that love <br>	has sloughed you so many times <br>		like a viper's skin, <br>like the phases of the moon, <br>	like a shrine of smoke and ashes, <br>		that the phoenix hesitates <br>to robe itself in the full glory <br>of its former plumes of fire.<br> <br>	My mother will die soon. <br>I must say it, <br>	voice it in my blood <br>		to be able to bear it<br>and my children are clouds in the world<br>	that no longer look for their reflections <br>		in the eyes of the lake they arose from<br>as if they were merely breathed out.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And how in any god's name <br>		can a man define the absence<br>he has grown to be, <br>	except he standardize his own spinal cord <br>		as the only measure of loss <br>he has to go by? <br>	And even after <br>		all the millennia of my walking, <br>standing up, <br>	I'm still only six feet closer to the stars<br>		though my mind can embody all of space <br>in a solitary thought.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	And the deep, inner silence<br>		in the empty throne-room of my heart<br>where even the most profound events of my life <br>	are seen to be ultimately no more <br>		than the antics of a jester<br>playing with shadows, <br>	turns out after all to be <br>		just another mode of weeping.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It takes a lifetime <br>	for a dropp of water <br>		to gather the courage to fall <br>from the tip of a blade of stargrass, <br>	and the tongue has tears <br>		the eyes know nothing of.<br>I admire the cool crimson <br>	on the brushes of the ground willow <br>		as they try to catch my likeness <br>on the ice-primed canvas of the snow, <br>	but suggest <br>		to portray me as I lived <br>they need to be loaded with blood not paint.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	Like the moon<br>		I have worn the same blossom <br>as a face <br>for years now <br>		and I still don't know the fruit <br>that ripens beneath it; <br>	whether my life has sweetened <br>		in orchards of light, <br>or black dwarf of the forbidden apple <br>	on a dead tree, <br>		I taste like a full eclipse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And what could it change even if I did know? <br>	When the diaspora of my starseed <br>		breaks bread <br>at a harvest of thorns; <br>	who is the host <br>		and who is the guest <br>and who asks for a menu? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">	And no matter how far from home <br>		the journey takes him, <br>whether down a dead-end alley<br>	or further than the stars <br>was there ever a man <br>	who didn't walk to his own funeral <br>		like a bell<br>looking for any beginning<br>	that might not be lost in the end? <br>		 Or does the snake <br>that takes its tail in its mouth<br>	as a gesture of eternity <br>		eventually end up swallowing <br>its own head<br>	like this stream before me <br>		making its way to the sea? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I stepped across a star sill <br>	through a vertical door into life <br>		and in the leaving of it<br>I shall knock from the inside <br>	on a door that's horizontal<br>		to continue my descent toward earth <br>down a ladder of thresholds; <br>	and what began so earnestly <br>		among family and friends and lovers <br>will be concluded by a stranger <br>	who will wear my name like a gravestone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">		But here among the tangle <br>of these fallen trees, their roots <br>	fleshed out <br>		and washed like a corpse <br>by the water and the snow, <br>	Venus peers through the fingers <br>		of the branches above<br>where two crows have paired<br>	like quotation marks <br>		around the hearsay of the night<br>though I am left speechless <br>	by the random beauty of the scene, <br>		as if my voice had been released like a bird <br>into its own most intimate, inward vision<br>	and that vision were everywhere you like the sky<br>		it disappears into like I do <br>everytime my heart is opened <br>	like one of the lockets of time <br>		and I stare into your eyes<br>and the universe stares back <br>	as you breathe out the night with all of its stars<br>		and then I breathe you in <br>just as a golden feather of the moon <br>	lands without a ripple <br>		or unravelling wake <br>on the mirror of these lonely, black waters <br>	I have followed deep into the darkness <br>		 like the urgent secret of my own lifestream, <br>and I know it's you. I know it's you.</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=476794" data-title="Not Even The Light de Patrick White" data-description="Not even the light of the stars 
	shining like the keys to the ancient love-letters 
		bound among the secret jewels 
of the queen of heaven 
penetrates me as deeply as you do.

	The planet wheels into the night
bearing its burden of humans 
	murd..."></div>
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