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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476831" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Playing Chess With Mundanity To Survive To Write</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Playing chess with mundanity to survive to write. <br>Evading destroyers disguised as Everyman<br>who hates what I do because he thinks he can't <br>and ignores it, forgetting I've been trained for oblivion<br>and writing poetry is the only way you can breathe <br>when you're swimming in it and the moon is in the corals <br>trying to grow gills. All the useful functions I serve <br>I had to make up for myself. I express things <br>with no regard to having a useful function <br>though things shape themselves around me as a result.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let them. I'm as supple as space on a balance beam. <br>Younger, I sought a name in the fountain mouths of humans <br>to actualize the pretension of what I hoped I was, <br>real carrot, real stick, real donkey, by consensus, <br>like reality, until I began to smell the methane, <br>and the swarms of squabbly seagulls, and uncover corpses, <br>and realized the pursuit of fame was just trying <br>to be something shiny in the garbage dumps <br>of other peoples' mouths and minds, and any thought <br>of a literary career came candling down after me <br>like a collapsed parachute that felt like a punctured lung. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I don't really care how many books you've got published now. <br>I'd rather howl like a wolf on my own above the timberline lamenting<br>the loss of the wild spirits that used to animate this wilderness<br>where my instincts are not blunted like swords of moonlight<br>on the skulls of first edition gravestones. All those books, <br>songbirds in an aviary of caged words that have turned you<br>into a voice coach. I'd rather howl with the wolves <br>than chirp with the birds, or teach the pigeons to sing <br>under the eaves of the safehouse built on quicksand <br>that's taken up residence in you. Moonlight feathers the tarpit <br>and the rat snake's scales gleam like sequins in the dark<br>as it slips like a wavelength back into the lake of the abyss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Try writing four lines that are remembered for nine hundred years <br>because they intrigue the human heart with the sincerity <br>of our mortality caught in a rainstorm of bleak sorrows <br>far from anywhere, and the struggle of blood <br>to keep a small fire burning in the encroaching solitude.<br>Humans will keep your memory alive only so long <br>as they need you to hold out your lantern into the emptiness <br>like a lighthouse teetering on the brink of a vertiginous precipice <br>to see if you grow wings on the way down when you jump.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Experiment and experience. Though the former's <br>old science by now. Objectivity is as obsolete<br>as a steady state universe with a planetesimal theory<br>that sank like a cue ball in the pocket of a decaying orbit. <br>Mystical science. All phenomena are numinous things of the mind. <br>Two of an infinite number of windows in a palace of water looking out on <br>the leafless autumn trees like coathangers stripped of their wardrobes.<br>All seeing is creative. And the dark, a beginning <br>that isn't trying to upstage the stars it engenders <br>out of its own inconceivability with waterless mirages<br>that reflect nothing but what they depend upon for a living.<br> <br>Focus like a telescope on any star of your choosing, <br>steady your tripod like a body in meditation and just sit<br>like a clay owl on the roof of a barn to scare the chickens away <br>until you're flooded with an inundation of clear light <br>from the inside out of your usual direction of prayer<br>and you realize the crazy wisdom of what you're doing here <br>is neither random nor absurd, nor particularly instructive<br>given you can't step into the same mindstream twice, <br>but an occult chance to revel in the light of secret meanings <br>all of which are your own hidden paradigms of a shapeshifting universe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'd rather drown in an outrageous northern river, <br>slash my wetsuit and puncture my raft <br>than sail around the rest of my life in a system of locks<br>in a game of snakes and ladders. Money talks <br>and the silence walks like the darkness away from the stars. <br>Don't devote your immensities to the sparkling of tinfoil. <br>But if that's enough. It's enough. Just as long as you know <br>that the shamans aren't going to waste good magic on you<br>if an obvious fraud is enough to satisfy you<br>and the water sylphs won't reveal their picture-music <br>like muses with something to sing about if you're afraid <br>to plunge in and get wet pearl diving for the new moon <br>that's been growing like a sacred syllable under your tongue <br>for more light years than you've had occasion to regret <br>you couldn't hold your breath in your own depths for that long.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The mystery of the wellsprings of life and inspiration <br>is that it only receives swords that have been broken in tribute <br>to the fact that everything must be returned in time <br>not words or lives that can be retrieved from the river <br>to be used again in a recycled holy war that never leaves a scar <br>worthy of the blood you had to spill to lose it <br>as if the singularity of your devotion didn't mean it<br>or the gatekeeper hadn't informed you on your way in <br>that poetry, like the heart it takes to live it, is all entrance. No exit.</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=476831" data-title="Playing Chess With Mundanity To Survive To Write de Patrick White" data-description="Playing chess with mundanity to survive to write. 
Evading destroyers disguised as Everyman
who hates what I do because he thinks he can't 
and ignores it, forgetting I've been trained for oblivion
and writing poetry is the only way you can breath..."></div>
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