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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476837" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Pure Intensity</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pure intensity. The point of a star. Blue acetylene<br>to burn out the slag of the soul and burnish the gold <br>that pours from the ore like the full moon out of the new <br>without any fear of ever growing old. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Give up it all up like nothing less<br>than everything all the time<br>until there's nothing left for death <br>to get its hands on. Nothing to curse. Nothing to bless.<br> <br>But you can't always tell which is which<br>as the witchdoctor minimalist <br>at the back of the wax museum<br>steps out of the shadows of his spider-web<br>and says less is more and more is less, more or less<br>as the crow flys. But there's deceit in his eyes<br>and you haven't got time to consider all that <br>when your hair is on fire like a tie-dyed comet <br>and everyone's mistaking you as a sign <br>of their second coming, when all you want to do <br>is plunge your coma in the sun that shines at midnight<br>in every third eye of dew on the enlightened stargrass. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Everything passes, it's true. But if you pass <br>fast enough, time stops, and that grave in the closet<br>you've been hauling around with you for light years <br>becomes as huge as a sky burial <br>at Gobekli Tepe in Turkey, or the pyre <br>of your own skeleton stoking the fire<br>that's boiling the marrow out your bones.<br>Stay inflammable like orchids and carnations, <br>waterlilies imported from your <br>igneous passion for the moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Don't ever let the gods chain you to a rock <br>in the Caucasus for a theft of fire<br>they didn't even bother to prove <br>before they put your liver on the daily menu<br>and sent vultures to peck your eyes out <br>like hors d'oeuvres. It's ok to be a wildflower <br>and bloom in fire once every seven thousand years<br>like the return of a Buddha in an urn of ashes.<br>But never lend your third eye out to an arsonist <br>who says he's having trouble focusing <br>and uses it as a lens to burn a black hole<br>in the middle of a poem that's been taken<br>out of context like a table of contents.<br>We've got the stars for that, and who needs <br>another epilogue to keep the fire going<br>long enough to be the third man on the match<br>for a bullet you didn't see coming like a space craft<br>because you were blinded by your own blazing? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Climbing the stairs to Joan of Arc's place, <br>she was conditioning her hair with a fire extinguisher<br>and getting ready to pull up stakes<br>and move back to the country where you can see<br>six thousand stars with the naked eye<br>or you can jump through the fire<br>like a witch without being burned<br>by the Burgundians for reigniting France<br>without a permit in a month of unbearable heat. <br>Even though hagiographers prefer<br>the fragrance of their saints in urns.</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=476837" data-title="Pure Intensity de Patrick White" data-description="Pure intensity. The point of a star. Blue acetylene
to burn out the slag of the soul and burnish the gold 
that pours from the ore like the full moon out of the new 
without any fear of ever growing old. 

Give up it all up like nothing less
than ..."></div>
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