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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476809" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Obvious Crowns</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alone with my obvious crowns <br>	dishevelled as blackberries, each of their black tines<br>		a thorn trying to write a love-letter in tiny eyes of blood, <br>I despise the masks that whisper in the ashes<br>	like bus tickets to other stations of being, <br>		passage to other lives I might have been, <br>and the lies I would have told <br>	to seal them in a fraudulent imprimatur of red wax, <br>		living just beyond the range of the fire<br>where I tip the lean phoenix of my arrows in flames<br>	to let the rain know what a fan I am of her ripples<br> 		and to keep from pooling all over myself in tears.<br>The vicarious distances that blue the swarming hills<br>	and the frenzied circumstances <br>		rattling their pagodas like a snake or a shaman<br>over the equanimity of my bones, the future <br>	that grows slowly with the elegant swallows <br>		in the clear-cut shadow of a ruined temple, <br>enthrone my hopes in quicksand, the King of Fools <br>	for a day that lays its whip of dawn <br>across the landscape of my back<br>until curtains of blood run down the windows like rain, <br>	and I am purified by the serpent fire of my ancient agony, <br>		dismembered like the jester I kept to amuse my pain.<br>And the stars are expanding like random moles <br>	on the cheek of a balloon the wind is huffing up, <br>		and the bridges are drawn out like molten toffee, <br>and the miles are longer eyelashes today <br>	than they were yesterday, applying black comets<br>		thick with midnight, Hitler's mustache <br>to the stalled invasion fleets of morphological astrologers. <br>	I remember being a wizard in downtown Detroit, <br>		and all my life I've tried to alert the turtles <br>scrambling for the next lucky wave to survive, <br>	to the beauty of their predators, to poetry, <br>		to a wolf-path around the avalanche of their habitable stones. <br>What meaning could you give a life like this <br>	where you wait from day to day for the refugees <br>		that were spilled from your heart like bridal rice <br>to return to their shorelines like immortal butterflies <br>and the dead-bearing boats of the Canada geese; <br>	would it not be simpler to replace my heart with a bell<br>that only the drowning can hear, <br>	and end this interminable prelude<br>		of sad trains wired to discontinued migrations? <br>I play solitaire with mirrors that haven't much to say<br>	to the skull-faced dealer who shuffles my blood like a lie<br>		he knows is going to come true, whether<br>I want to hear it or not, <br> even though there are stitches in my lips<br>	I've sworn for years were crosswalks <br>to let the amputee in the wheelchair of the silence pass.<br>	Even if he's right, let him tell it to himself <br>		in his own irrelevant shadows<br>on the bumper-car ouija board of the well-traveled walls, <br>	my assent, withheld or given like a sword, <br> has never been an element of my destiny<br>and neither the surrenders or the victories concern me anymore, <br>	the dead bulls not much different from the gored matadors<br>		and the victories more like celebrity defeats <br>that dictate the doves of peace to the baffled winners, <br>	the horseshoe roses yoked to the necks of the winners, <br>		than the water-keys to anything enduring.<br>But I have one light that I keep moving blindly toward <br>	that I will not be distracted from, kept from, <br>		even by the downed trestles of my own skeleton, <br>or the collapsed tunnels and mudslides<br>	that keep trying to bury me prematurely in my best efforts <br>		to escape the brutal sunflower of the prison watchtower.<br>She's the lantern up ahead on the tracks<br>	flagging me down like a star in a silver apple, <br>		pendulous fruit on the bough of a spacious tree<br>that fills the silo of my furnace heart again with harvest birds, <br>	and boards me with a rush of lightbound passengers, <br>		all the leaves and blossoms of her orchard <br>stamped like tickets to ride the wind in any direction<br>	she can trade the metal sundials of my polished wheels for wings.<br>		In the flesh, she is the last eyelid of a seeing<br>that opens above me like the clarified wine<br>	of a sky that's been ripening for years <br>		to array the delicate filaments of its water-walking stars<br>in all the drunken radiance of their auroral wardrobes, <br>	the synteretic sparks that gap the clefts of washed-out neurons<br>		like messianic fireflies advancing over <br>the empty storm-spoons of my fish-riddled seas. In the spirit <br>	that hovers over her blood like the moon <br>		over the scattered feathers that chronicle her rising, <br>white peonies shedding over an asphalt driveway, <br>	she is the final stairwell in the rose <br>of the fire within the fire I will ever bathe in like gold<br>to cleanse the lampblack of the eclipse <br>stuck in the throat of my chimney<br>	like the exhausted voice of the world, <br>and give it a clear goblet of space to receive <br>	the flame of the fire-leaf that dances on the tip of my tongue<br>		as if every plinth and syllable of her nimble language were yes, <br>as if the mirrors were suddenly filled <br>	with a night they were pleased to reflect, as if<br>		the hovels of the heart were the sacred islands <br>of a vast house in the west <br>where the vines of the moist stars<br>	were not the weeping tars of a blind almagest, <br>but the black honey of the wounded roads of the blessed, <br>	and only the wind, only the nightwind off the sea<br>		that arrays its thresholds wave by wave in front of me<br>only the nightwind were the last known address<br>	of the homeless waterstar that found felicity<br>		as the boundless guest of her ubiquitous yes.</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=476809" data-title="Obvious Crowns de Patrick White" data-description="Alone with my obvious crowns 
	dishevelled as blackberries, each of their black tines
		a thorn trying to write a love-letter in tiny eyes of blood, 
I despise the masks that whisper in the ashes
	like bus tickets to other stations of being, 
		pa..."></div>
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