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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476839" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Quarter Moon In Sagittarius At the Autumn Equinox</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Quarter moon in Sagittarius at the autumn equinox.<br>The ecliptic intersects the celestial equator <br>at the equinoctial colure. Sagitta. Arrow in Latin. <br>Toxos. In classical Greek. Attic dialect. As in <br>toxin. Or toxologist. Archaic word for archer. <br>I'm a little teapot short and stout. Here <br>is my handle. Here is my spout. Tip me over <br>and pour me out. Zen is the taste of tea. <br>And maybe those aren't stars, but flower arrangements<br>at a Chanoyu ceremony with raku tea bowls, <br>where even the cracks where the stars leaked out <br>are cherished like scars on the moon. The porous face <br>of someone pitted by smallpox. One stone <br>in a sand garden of stars raked into wavelengths. <br>If Zen is the taste of tea, then Islam must be <br>the flavour of coffee. The Christians have <br>their blood and wine. And the Jews drink deep <br>of the fountainmouths of their tears by the rivers of Babylon. <br>Suspiciously symmetrical thought for a heretic like me, <br>More that of an engineer than a seer watching stars. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A dog barks at sly shadows farms and forms away. <br>The leaves are brittle and tense. They scratch cold runes <br>like glacial striations on the wind in passing.<br>All the waterlilies have candled like parachutes. <br>The willows are using a lot more hairspray than they used to <br>and their supple tresses now sway like arthritic rivers <br>that stiffen up in the damp weather. But soon <br>you'll see the stars shining through the veils<br>of their branches, and the pathos of their ruined beauty <br>will be renewed by the mystery of a high priestess<br>that taught Medusa how to dance gracefully <br>like Algol in the hand of Perseus, in a radiant ballet <br>of whips and wavelengths. The river seems <br>more hermetically aloof, withdrawn, removed <br>from itself as if some deep insight preoccupied it <br>and even the longing of the nightbird's lyrics <br>seem coarsened by hunger in the predatory air. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">As for me and my house, I come here alone <br>where I can turn a hovel of solitude into a palace <br>of water and wonder and sit until the silence <br>grows inhuman, and nothing of me remains <br>but the impersonality of the universe <br>that's traded its feathers in for sequins and scales again.<br>Warm ostrich boas of pampas grass <br>for sleeker gowns of snakeskin. <br>Revelation of the burlesque for something<br>more alluring and dangerous. And the darkness <br>a northern siren calling me to the rocks like a muse <br>to the occult grammar of her body language. <br>I am Hermes Trismegistus the Thrice-Blessed. <br>I am Thoth who brought the alphabet.<br>Who only a moment ago as old as the universe <br>was wholly unmanifest. A fountain asleep in its watershed. <br>A bird with its head under its wing. Not anything. <br>Not one. Not two. A wide-eyed, gaping, open-mouthed<br>zero of an awareness that had burned my identity away <br>by reaching out to the stars like a thief <br>torching his fingerprints off like like tiny labyrinths<br>with search warrants effaced like moths and maple leaves in a candle.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I was out of here like the constellation of the swan <br>going down over the eyelashes of the western treeline.<br>After defaulting to the sensuality of the dark all night <br>who wants to wake up beside the dawn, wincing in the light? <br>I was out of here like Auriga, the Charioteer.<br>I always reveled more in the role of guide to the dead <br>and messenger of the mystery and its eloquence, <br>master of the occult visionary sciences expressing themselves<br>as a physics of metaphors, not numbers, the intuitive logic <br>of synchronized happenings in a charged particle field, <br>not syntactically linear paradigms that strive fruitlessly <br>to make things perfectly clear, as if they'd rinsed <br>all the nectar of life out of them and the light that was left<br>were the direct result and residue of spiritual erosion. <br>The sun can boast of the number of sunflowers <br>it's got for followers all it wants.<br>When she appears, a thousand mirrors open <br>like the third eyes of observatories capstoned <br>on cold, lonely mountain tops with only one road down or up <br>and all the reflecting telescopes on clock drives turn their heads her way, <br>affixed to the mysterious trajectory of a new moon rising in the north<br>in the thirteenth house of a zodiac that baffles the starmaps<br>with a darkness that's brighter than any of their high hopes.</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=476839" data-title="Quarter Moon In Sagittarius At the Autumn Equinox de Patrick White" data-description="Quarter moon in Sagittarius at the autumn equinox.
The ecliptic intersects the celestial equator 
at the equinoctial colure. Sagitta. Arrow in Latin. 
Toxos. In classical Greek. Attic dialect. As in 
toxin. Or toxologist. Archaic word for archer. ..."></div>
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