<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476807" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>O This Morning More Than Ever</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">O this morning more than ever <br>I want to disappear into my life <br>like a bird into the blue oblivion <br>of a migration of one <br>that's never coming back. <br>Things aren't solid. <br>They're real. <br>And tonight I will appeal again <br>to the subtle intelligence of the dark matter <br>that resonates throughout space <br>like energy musing upon itself at rest <br>after long labour <br>to let me evaporate with the stars <br>like a breath somebody took <br>deeply into themselves <br>and then breathed out. <br>Did my eyes sweeten the windows <br>they looked through like women? <br>Did my looking help ripen the stars? <br>Strange wounds. <br>Stranger scars. <br>There's no end <br>to the myriad afterlives of water <br>that a human lives through <br>like the weather<br>of an undiscovered sea<br>and time just keeps <br>carrying things forth into the carrying forth <br>like a clepshydra of severed heads<br>bleeding like buckets <br>one into another.<br>An alphabet of prophetic skulls <br>that never finish a sentence<br>because the things we say <br>already have more in common <br>with the dead <br>than they do with the living <br>from the very first word<br>that falls from our mouths like an apple.<br>If I have spoken in tongues and symbols <br>and mixed occult elixirs<br>like secret constellations <br>to heal the injured night<br>my voice never forgot <br>that it was a mere gesture of moonlight, <br>a mystic adagio of picture-music<br>dancing alone in its own shadows. <br>And if I went crazy in the pursuit <br>of an earthly excellence <br>it was just to pass the time.<br>Anyone with a spirit needs a cosmic hobby. <br>Anyone with a mind <br>needs to let go now and then <br>like a universe that expresses itself completely <br>and then stands a human up <br>like a finger to the lips of a prolonged silence. <br>And what can you say <br>to those with a heart <br>that wait for blood to return <br>like the wind to their sails <br>with good news<br>like oxygen from Atlantis <br>that things are beginning to look up<br>except drink up <br>until you're sober as dry land again. <br>The ecliptic intersects the celestial equator <br>at the equinoctial colure<br>and it's spring again <br>in the northern hemisphere<br>where the crocuses <br>are poking their noses <br>through holes in the snow<br>like bruises beginning to bloom. <br>If there is no wonder in your love <br>you will never know <br>the profound delight <br>of being grateful for your life<br>and the stars won't humble you<br>when you ask the night who you are<br>into knowing what they do.<br>Stop listening to everything with your mouth <br>and sit down beside the fountain <br>like a road or a sundial<br>that's found its way back <br>and hear what your ears <br>have been saying for years<br>about the coin you lost in the mindstream <br>like your passage across the river of death <br>coming up like the moon<br>over your left shoulder<br>to take your breath away. <br>Wisdom renounces the wise <br>and therein lies enlightenment. <br>Ignorance embraces the fools of the spirit <br>and there are no words for it. <br>The best is clarity. <br>Clarity is all. <br>This is a doorway.<br>This is a wall. <br>And this is all the gold of India<br>I would give if I could <br>to sit down with Hafiz<br>by the banks of the Ruknabad <br>among all those Persian roses <br>and steal musical riffs from the stream <br>to say what we impossibly mean <br>to the young slave girl <br>with the mole on her cheek <br>who's learning to speak our language like a muse. <br>If I have longed for things all my life <br>as if they were out of reach <br>it was one of the dark jewels of my childhood <br>the died like an eye for a lack of light <br>that taught me <br>longing is more creative <br>than fulfillment <br>and the nightbird <br>on its broken branch alone<br>sings like a wine closer to home <br>than all the daylight choirs<br>of happier wings in the vineyard<br>that inspires the liars into blossoming<br>like loveletters on the wind <br>they don't know where to send. <br>So I tell them without believing <br>they know what I'm talking about <br>to take a page out of the orchard's book like I do <br>and when spring's in the air<br>send them everywhere.</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> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=476807" data-title="O This Morning More Than Ever de Patrick White" data-description="O this morning more than ever I want to disappear into my life like a bird into the blue oblivion of a migration of one that's never coming back. Things aren't solid. They're real. And tonight I will appeal again to the subtle intelligence..."></div> </div> </div>

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