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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476802" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>O Igneous Rose</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">O igneous rose, are you the furnace or the urn of the butterfly? <br>Or should I ask the vatic wind which pyre is mine? <br>Will I be be food for the stars again, will I mulch <br>the dark matter of the roots with my remains <br>or will my ashes retain some semblance of the light <br>like the ghost feeling in the heart of a spiritual amputee<br>or linger among archetypes like fossils in the Burgess Shale<br>that haven't reached their full potential yet? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not Hell, not Heaven, not Hades, Sheol, Tartarus<br>Dis, Avernus, Jana, Jahannum, Nirvana, Samsara, <br>or the great abyss where nothing is even in the slightest, <br>and presence, and absence, and time aren't even <br>anachronisms of their past lives. I'm not going <br>anywhere when I die, because death is not discontinuous<br>from life in the known universe, though one's a lifeboat <br>and the other's what you need it for to stay afloat. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wherever your mind walks in unison with your heart <br>deep in emotional thought without too much attention <br>to where you're going, you break trail like a river <br>and the stars start flowing into your alluvial fields <br>and the green mountains you left walk with you <br>all the way into the pyramids like the source of the Nile, <br>not tombs of death, but tombs of life pointing like starmaps <br>to the indelibility of your afterlife in Orion<br>as the scion of a great house of mystic hunters. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'll be here. Just behind your eyelids. Like a dream <br>I'm having until things come true again for the sake <br>of distinguishing my extinction from one bone to the next <br>like yarrow sticks throwing away their crutches <br>like the hands of a clock to read the Book of Changes <br>to see what's bubbling up like the multiverse from the bottom <br>and every eye of air, each a complete science unto itself <br>or an occult art, where it's been fully realized <br>chaos is the root of all imagination <br>even when it's writing Horatian odes and haikus. <br>Chaos is as smooth as Hermes writing his own flightplan <br>with his heels, and where he arrives, is as much of a message <br>as the word he holds in his mouth <br>like coin for the ferryman in his moonboat<br>at the end of the long wharves that are the last to see us off<br>to the other side of everywhere. O come now </div><div style="margin:10px 0">surely you didn't think life was going to let you off <br>its prophetic hook that easily before it got <br>its last crescent snagged like a koan in the mouth <br>of the golden fish that thrives in the dead seas of the moon<br>that reels it in for questioning, only to throw it back? <br>Everybody satisfied with the answers for awhile <br>until the questions get bored with hanging around <br>like mere coathangers, and bite off more of you<br>than they can chew again. No more than a windowpane</div><div style="margin:10px 0">can hold the whole of the sky the way any dropp of rain can, <br>can you without washing the dye out of your tears like an iris<br>that encircles the blackholes like rainbows around a wishing well <br>where what you see is what you wished for from the beginning<br>because chaos conforms to any vision of reality and delusion <br>that conceives of it as a feature of the conditioning mind<br>that shapes it like a simulacrum of the inconceivable.<br>So the same well that the stars and fireflies look into <br>holds a mirror up to them like a reflecting telescope. <br>And all it takes is a quarter gram of vaporized aluminum <br>to silver the whole universe with a prism and a dropp of dew <br>trembling in the web of a spider mount like a psychic butterfly. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Chaos and cosmos. Igorance and enlightenment. Reality <br>in contradistinction to delusion. Life and death yoked <br>like two oxen to the oxymorons of the helical star wheels <br>that dance like Sufis at the naves of their retrograde crossroads<br>to weird what direction to go in like witching sticks<br>in the mouths of the dragons that undo the locks <br>on the gates of the rain with skeletal keys of lightning. <br>I shall be here. Where the light and the water <br>illuminate the blossoms and quench the roots of things <br>at the intersection of time and the timeless where <br>there's no more need of religion than there is crosswalks <br>or moonboats and ferrymen to the other side of the river <br>that know what season it is by the colour of your sails. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I've always flown under the skull and crossbones <br>like a sea wolf that didn't evolve back into a whale <br>howling in the mountains on the moon in a savage agony <br>of the longing to live yourself to death as intensely as you can. <br>The sublimity of laughter that makes the clown profoundly sacred. <br>That beatifies the candles like eyes in the unapproachable darkness. <br>That takes one world after another in hand <br>like a party balloon and lets the clowns and magicians <br>twist it into the shapes of worlds within worlds <br>where the ground of being is always and only<br>the liberated exercise of their creative imaginations. <br>And every world we pass through the sum of all<br>we've imagined it to be, and a little bit more <br>just to keep the mystery from being perfectly contained<br>in the three and a half pounds of starmud we call a brain<br>and root our shining in it like flowers gone to seed. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Make a muse of the wind, or a church out of a rock, the same, <br>or pitch a tent or a pyramid on the dunes of the shifting stars, <br>or in a nunnery of desert mermaids who gave up singing to take vows<br>make your obeisance to the unknown with laughter, grace, and style.<br>Best show in town, and the ticket was free, and who <br>so ungrateful they could leave the table that fed them, fouled? <br>Holiness isn't a threshold where you take your body off <br>at the door and separate your mind from the Braille of the flesh <br>you need fingertips to read just as you need eyes in your blood <br>to see a lover's heart from the inside out. True holiness <br>is not holy. It's not fool proof. It's not stake-prone.<br>It doesn't pour honey all over your head in the morning <br>just to feather you with doves and expect you to glow <br>like secret diamonds in the dross of the ore. Listen. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You can hear the light walking across the grass.<br>The snakes are teaching their occult wavelengths <br>to the shadows of the trees leafing in the moonrise like veils. <br>There are mad poets all through these pathless hills <br>waiting for inspiration like a singing coach <br>to raise havoc among the high notes of the bush wolves <br>that leave you guessing what they're really mourning for<br>that's actually missing. Grains of sand, <br>we grow like pearls and stars and expanding universes <br>beyond the limits of what constrained us yesterday.<br>The seed splits its cotyledons like Solomon's baby<br>and scarlet runners burn like heretics at the stake<br>in an auto de fe of enlightened immolation <br>of serpent fire running up the spine to get to the stars <br>as a circumpolar constellation with small flammable flowers<br>before the last watch of the night blows them out at dawn.</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=476802" data-title="O Igneous Rose de Patrick White" data-description="O igneous rose, are you the furnace or the urn of the butterfly? 
Or should I ask the vatic wind which pyre is mine? 
Will I be be food for the stars again, will I mulch 
the dark matter of the roots with my remains 
or will my ashes retain some s..."></div>
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