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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476852" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Seeking The Shadows Of What You Are</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Seeking the shadows of what you are <br>you miss who's standing in the light.<br>Eternity with its tail in its mouth <br>can't taste much else in life but itself. <br>Where did these words come from <br>just a moment ago out of nowhere, <br>and if it were to rain, would that be <br>shallow or deep? And maybe a labyrinth <br>is just a snake that's swallowed its own head<br>and is wandering aimlessly in despair <br>through its own digestive track <br>like a salmon leaping upstream <br>through a waterclock with self-similarity <br>on its mind, oviparous replication, <br>the material immortality of genetic time.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nothing's irrelevant or inelegant <br>if there's nothing to choose from<br>so everything shines in every mystic detail <br>as if it had never come unglued in its solitude<br>and bifurcated its unity into the subject <br>and the object of its awareness just to have <br>someone to talk to, an intimate familiar <br>it could rave at or serenade in a manic love affair <br>it was having with its own creation<br>like an artist talking to his masterpiece <br>with the caress of every sable-haired brush stroke.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Insignificant for the long haul, or famous <br>for fifteen minutes, either way, <br>you wouldn't know it by looking <br>at the fossils we didn't bring back from the moon<br>or sifting the grain from the chaff <br>from the ashes of the wheat <br>the wind scorched like a dragon <br>on its way to bring rain. Why <br>drive a nail through your third eye <br>and delude yourself into believing <br>you've been crucified, the king <br>of the waxing year sacrificing <br>your body parts to ensure a good harvest? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You want the virtues of your noble enemy? <br>Slay yourself and eat your own heart. <br>This is your nagual, your tulpa, your mirage, <br>your nightmare, your doppelganger, <br>your reflective familiar, your shadow <br>holographically projected in 3D by the pineal gland <br>of your third eye tattooed on the skin of a black hole<br>that is neither an ignominious exit through the grave <br>or the celebrated entrance into a secret garden, <br>and it can't be any more empowered than you are, <br>and there are no walls to walk through <br>if it wasn't you that built them to keep the poor <br>from vaulting them to steal your apricots<br>like the hungry ghosts that haunt <br>the orchards of your abandoned thoughts. <br> <br>Savage homeopathy, perhaps, a holy war <br>of starmaps torn out like pages of sacred text <br>against the leaves who think they're responsible <br>for keeping the whole tree they both spring from intact. <br>The autumn burns like an heretical apostate<br>that's fallen away like faith in itself. <br>What nonsense, when they'll both end up <br>doing a ghost dance on each other's graves<br>where neither the dead nor the living<br>can be reunited in peace at the same seance <br>because the flame of life is duelling with its own candle <br>like the branch of a spear with the flint-knapped blossom <br>of the point it's trying to drive home through its own heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A lethal waste of energies for echoes <br>to seek the destruction of their original voice. <br>When the waves of the light, the sea, the mind<br>bare their necks and swan <br>for the double-bladed axe of the moon<br>that separates things like conceptual consciousness<br>as if it were cleaving water, and heads come off <br>like the leading rose-buds of multi-cephalic hydras <br>that bloom the more they're pruned like zinnias, <br>even death considers the slaughter an abuse of time. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you want to live in the house of life as a martyr, <br>a bodhisattva, a spiritual mujahedin who <br>blows himself up in the temple of the money-lenders<br>and discount dove merchants, or even a poet <br>who enlisted in the ghettos of the Chilean art brigades <br>like Victor Jara, or Archibald Lampman's<br>warrior minstrel of the forlorn hope <br>dying of a heart attack in Ottawa at thirty-six, <br>or Emily Dickinson listening to a fly buzz when she expired, <br>the only blood on the blade you fall upon<br>you should ever taste is your own if you<br>want to speak to a big-hearted bell of enlightenment <br>without the forked tongue of a perjured witching wand<br>or the self-defeating absurdity <br>of seeking clean water with dirty hands<br>or trying to reach out to touch the stars <br>when they're pouring through your fingers <br>like the sands of an hourglass remembering <br>all its past lives gathered around the village wells <br>like telescopes looking through the wrong end of themselves.</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=476852" data-title="Seeking The Shadows Of What You Are de Patrick White" data-description="Seeking the shadows of what you are 
you miss who's standing in the light.
Eternity with its tail in its mouth 
can't taste much else in life but itself. 
Where did these words come from 
just a moment ago out of nowhere, 
and if it were to rain, ..."></div>
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