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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476853" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Silence and Solitude</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Solitude and silence. The emptiness of the living moment <br>subsumed in the mundane middens of the soul, clam shells <br>and sheep bones, the shucked content of the heart <br>cherished again as the afterlife of the evidence <br>I once lived here along with everyone else.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Before I write, this archaeological seance I hold with myself, <br>this ingathering of everyone I've ever been <br>flowing back into me where the mindstream meets the sea. <br>The continuous stillness of this contiguous awareness<br>where everything is a symbolic event in a dream <br>trying to wake up from itself to set the dream people free. <br>Emotional effusions of the moon bleeding among the coral. <br>Solar flares of conceptual insight returning like ingrown hairs <br>to the source of their deception like unwanted children<br>though I've franchised orphanages all over my mindscape<br>to shelter my rational thought from the persecutions of my intuition.<br>Serpent's tongues that have been struck by black lightning <br>humming like a choir of tuning forks half a note off<br>like a lie they told God, they've been living ever since. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No piety. But a natural kind of reverence for the life of the mind <br>breathing me in and out of my body like a bellows <br>trying to boil spiritual gold out of my default metal of lead<br>as things begin to heat up like the tongue of a sword <br>on the anvil of my voice. And by that I know <br>prophetic heads are going to roll on the growing edge <br>of an imaginative insurgency nothing flammable with life <br>can resist for long. I know anything I say about this, <br>if experience hasn't cooked you in the same cauldron <br>I was born in, will seem unpatently absurd, but then <br>so are thermals in the open fields just before sunset <br>and the hawks that ride them for the sheer joy of airing their wings <br>unpertrubed by what's moving in the grass down below.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Infinite grammars. Myriad alphabets. Space talks in tongues. <br>Everything that is lives and isn't intelligent, but intelligence itself. <br>Chaos the mercurial cornerstone of an order that's lost <br>the rhythm of life trying to syncopate its heartbeat <br>to the unmusical paradigms of stone-eared preconceptions. <br>I see crows with rubies in their beaks as if <br>they'd just isolated the gene for symmetry.<br>In this miasmic swirl of images and wavelengths, <br>third eyes coalescing like starclusters <br>out of clouds of unknowing breaking into light, <br>and the shadows they cast no less prepossessing, <br>how uninhabitable I feel as a planet hoping the night <br>will prove me wrong and make all things <br>communicable and clear as a mother tongue<br>I've been speaking for years without knowing it<br>even when I exile myself like the sacred syllable <br>of a native son wandering the earth like a rootless tree. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there, do you see that constellation rising <br>like a distillation of the starmud I've walked in all my life? <br>Doesn't it make you want to dance under it with the wind <br>like a chandelier you've thrown rocks because it's beautiful, <br>as if someone were standing in it like a window <br>with the elevated perspective of the Pleiades<br>shining down in equanimity upon its desecrants <br>as if by their fruits you shall know the luminous generosity <br>of a windfall of light that falls at your feet<br>as if someone were germinating star sapphires in your bloodstream <br>to give you something higher to aspire to<br>than just teaching fire how to swim through the blues? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Inside the allegory. The logic of metaphor. <br>Hidden harmonies in synchronous pictographic fields <br>that resonate like cave paintings with otherworlds <br>that are not occluded by the imposition of space and time.<br>The younger ore of the outer world smelted down <br>like imagistic strokes of luck into the visionary elders <br>that transform them in the fires of their imaginations<br>into the igneous bloodlines that pour out of them <br>like the mystic metals of swords descended from ancient stars <br>that can give and take life at the same time<br>in these homeless realms of sacred ambivalence<br>before the dark mother tempered the forms she engendered <br>in tears that broke like the waters of a docetist womb.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Things here don't relate like thought-trains on parallel lines <br>that never meet, whatever the destination, they associate<br>like chords and keys you can hear with your eyes <br>and see with your ears in a synteresis of the senses<br>that wash up on the shores of cosmic, island consciousness, <br>all wavelengths of the same inexhaustible oceanic mind<br>that doesn't make things appear so much as emerge <br>like species efflorescing into the medium they're working in.<br> <br>Alloys of light and earth. Hybrids of water and fire. <br>The sky calling its birds. The river its fish. <br>And the longing of time in the mouth of the earth <br>to call us out of the starmud and bathe us in the rain <br>gentled out of her atmospheric acids so as not to burn <br>the tenderness she lavished on us like eyes and skin, <br>a new kind of shining to enhance the radiance of the stars, <br>light upon light in the skulls of the unbegotten ancestors.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This is the morphological matrix of knowledge forms <br>shaped to the organs of perception like neuronic synapses, <br>enjoining efferent axons to the walls of nervous villages <br>waiting for the news of what they're experiencing <br>from the abstract receptors of oracular impulses, <br>construing the world as a dendritic grapevine<br>tendrilled like Celtic silverwork throughout the mind<br>rooted in space as the closest similitude <br>to the emptiness that is the ground of its being<br>and the great commingled watershed of its subconscious commons. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The simpler the window, the cleaner the view<br>so I attend to my seeing like a nightwatchmen <br>attends to his own eyes like the glow of a lantern <br>warns and reveals the shadows of his presence in the darkness. <br>Eye to eye with the sky at either end of the telescope <br>things of the world are things of the mind, <br>cosmology the bubble-brained psychology of the multiverse. <br>And there are some nights, waiting for a poem<br>to bloom like a flower in the flames of my intensities, <br>I swear I can overhear from stars away <br>the exhilarated echoes of alien voices ruminating <br>on how we might have changed the gestural expressionism<br>of our shapeshifting, river-turning, morphotic souls in their absence.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Probable concourses of multiplicitous insights <br>into the jewel I'm turning in the light of my mind <br>like the sun and the moon at midnight and noon<br>when the measure of words is the wingspan <br>of whatever sky I happen to be flying in <br>like comets and birds and maple-keys<br>that have unlocked my heartwood and set me free<br>to blossom like an alphabet on a pilgrimage of trees, <br>to express myself like an inconceivable wind <br>with wings on my heels in the hermetic shrines <br>of this unearthly solitude, this estranged silence.</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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subsumed in the mundane middens of the soul, clam shells 
and sheep bones, the shucked content of the heart 
cherished again as the afterlife of the evidence 
I once lived here along with e..."></div>
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