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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476832" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Poetry</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Poetry isn’t a talking fly <br>on a one way street in a lightning storm; isn’t the orchid <br>that issued from the sword in the snakepit<br>that penned whatever it saw in stone. What does this mean? <br>	Forty-one years of trying to push <br>the singularity of the universe <br>through the eye of a needle as large as the reasons why <br>	without twisting the thread of the original theme, <br>		without shrinking the sky to an umbrella <br>in a glass skull freaked with insistent translucencies. <br>	Poetry isn’t breast-fed by a doting Medusa <br>		who will excuse your wailing with a pat on the back<br>as you try to configure your verbal relations; it’s not until <br>	the lantern’s overturned and all the stars and fireflies go out<br>		and your mouth is stitched shut like a wound <br>that will never heal, and the flowers latch their honey-gates <br>	in a surprise eclipse, and even the worm is a lonely comet <br>		in the eye of the rose that called for your annihilation, <br>that the wonder of having nothing to say for no reason <br>	begins to gather like light in the wishbone of a harp<br>		and sings to amuse the silence <br>with the posthumous profundities of its own retraction<br>	like a dropp of water crying down a mirror<br>		that didn’t know it cared. Free yourself <br>of what you think you have to say about anything <br>	to hear the urgent fountain-mouths of eyeless dawns<br>		that write with the beaks of frenzied birds<br>that have absorbed the night like ink. Live <br>	on the underside of the leaves that never fall <br>		from the unpruned tree on the moon <br>if you want to know the nightmare of the spider <br>	webbed to the morning like a poem <br>		between two blades of stargrass. <br>There’s a storm with a candle in it <br>	that isn’t a leftover star, more powerful <br>		than the black-outs of the lightning<br>that seizes the heart like a hawk	<br>	and slashs it open, <br>a love-letter to the world with a knife, <br>to see what’s truly phrases your blood to the moon.<br>	Do you understand, do you truly understand; <br>		there’s a firefly in the grave, <br>a soft, shy light like the glow of a distant city<br>	pearled on a blind horizon, a black mirror <br>		that absorbs the faces it reflects like death, <br>so much brighter than the white hole <br>	of all that you’ve been saying<br>		that even the stars are maggots of light, <br>commas in the wake of summer swans, <br>	compared to the oceanic radiance of that shining.<br>		Drown your paper lifeboats in that, <br>add your grief like a river to the nightsea <br>	you’ve been walking on like a messiah with a map, <br>		and let go of yourself like an apple from a bough.<br>Do you see the blossoms of the orchard<br>	swept up in the gutters of the busy world<br>		working hard at its own extinction; those <br>are the withered eyelids of poems, <br>	the useless sails of spineless foolscap<br>		lined with blue horizons<br>that asked you where you were going <br>	and because you answered like a compass<br>		left you breathless at the equator, junk-mail <br>on the doorstep. The world has been discovered, <br>	the metal capitals starred like jewels; <br>		the real estate offices crammed with valleys and lakes.<br>Sink like a continent that can’t be colonized <br>	and show me the thresholds you’ve sloughed like skin, <br>		the footprints of your transformations <br>where you jumped from the tree<br>	that swung you like a bell<br>		and walked away deranged <br>by the solitude of your dangerous humanity. <br>	Look for a door with a broken hinge and enter.<br>		Stop carving your name on your bones <br>like the prows of old shipwrecks, dismiss that harem <br>	of painted figurines you’ve bound <br>to the mast of your bow like a pen<br>and learn what it really means <br>	to be destroyed by a living muse, <br>		to hear the sirens singing you to death.<br>There’s a ram and an altar on the world mountain <br>	waiting for you to drag yourself up there <br>		like an avalanche of dead meteors<br>and plunge the last crescent of the blood-crazed moon <br>	through your heart like a sacrifice <br>		in the name of nothing at all<br>if you want to true the wind <br>to the womb of your ghostly poems<br>	with embryonic whispers of “I am. I am. I am.”</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=476832" data-title="Poetry de Patrick White" data-description="Poetry isn’t a talking fly 
on a one way street in a lightning storm; isn’t the orchid 
that issued from the sword in the snakepit
that penned whatever it saw in stone. What does this mean? 
	Forty-one years of trying to push 
the singularity ..."></div>
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