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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476858" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sitting Here Becoming Whatever Drifts My Way</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sitting here becoming whatever drifts my way. <br>Cedar boughs smouldering in an attic to smoke the bats out. <br>Thought-watching without looking for the answer to anything. <br>Spiders like badges walking on the waters of my mind. <br>The autumn's new, but it's the same old passage of things. <br>Apples like bells in the trees of the steeples, shepherd moons<br>of sloppy solar systems strewn on the ground <br>with seeds that are going to take them down <br>a notch or two yet before they make a comeback. <br>Seven times down. Eight times up. Such is life. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I watch the picture-music flowing through my mind <br>like a home movie that's happening as fast as I am<br>playing the role of everybody else in the universe<br>all at once as if every ray of light incarnated <br>in the emanation of an essential existential insight<br>into the nature of every mystically specific human being<br>could all be traced back to the root of the same star. <br>And what does the star do when the many return to it <br>if not apocalyptically go supernova into transcendence.<br>Just because the ashes sleep sweetly in their firepits and urns, <br>doesn't mean they're not dreaming and scheming<br>to wake up from themselves </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm firewalking in the ether like a sad volcano. <br>I'm alone in life and it's not as bad as I thought. <br>Prolonged solitude blurs the distinctions between <br>the trivial and the sublime. Beauty seems <br>the most engaging waste of time I know of. <br>I think about love more as an event than a thing, <br>and I've made enough attempts in my life <br>to convince me it wasn't for lack of trying <br>that I'm walking alone with the Alone like Plotinus <br>trying to keep my telescope in focus and stay open-minded.<br>But as John Keats said. If it come not as naturally <br>as leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Space, too, has its sirens. And time, its lamias. <br>A gust of stars and the desert's full of fantasies.<br>A star blooms and a comet falls from its dark halo <br>like a queen bee looking to start a new hive<br>and I've seen enough oases with hourglass figures <br>turn into bag ladies in paradise to stay shy of gardens <br>that don't have any weeds in them that might <br>uproot me as so many have like a botanical mistake<br>as if I were some kind of hallucinogenic angel of death. <br>Amanita ocreata. A mushroom in the death cap <br>of a nuclear winter when all I am is interspecially creative<br>in the way I adapt to my extinctions. Attentive and tender<br>toward the flora and fauna that inhabit my solitude.<br>Though the peduncle is always lost in the ensuing phylum <br>as I am like the star in the eyes of the women <br>who've drowned me like a firefly in their tears, <br>I still send bouquets of constellations to the asylum <br>like the last of the New England asters this time of year. <br>Sanity might smudge the tomb with a noose of sweetgrass <br>but the madness stays clear as the waters of life <br>in the womb of enlightenment giving birth <br>to bubbles in hyperspace that can spontaneously pop <br>as easily as they cohere like skin to the shape shifting multiverse<br>for better and worse, and all the permutative modalities in between.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">God bless them all. Each, a rite of passage <br>I stumbled through like the blessing <br>of an excruciating ordeal that seasons you <br>for what's to come, or who. I must have loved them <br>better than I thought to miss them as much as I do <br>now that I do not. Incubus, muse, sphinx, witch, <br>oracle and water sylph, I gave to each my crystal skull <br>they could wear around their neck like a prophetic locket <br>to remember what we were to each other once <br>before the moon in the corals fossilized the shipwreck<br>to set sail on this sea of shadows without a star to go by. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Amor vincit omnia. Maybe. But I'm more a pirate<br>with the eclipse of my third eye for an eyepatch<br>and a parrot that's teaching me to keep my mouth shut<br>than I am a navy even if there isn't a rudder on this lifeboat <br>or a bay to sail into of my own. And I'm not looking <br>for a northwest passage to Cathay through a periscope<br>that's stayed under too long to know where it's going<br>without a starmap. I'm not interested in exploring decay <br>from the inside out like some submersible in a lunar ocean.<br> <br>I've sailed under the skull and crossbones all my life. <br>And I'm not about to strike my colours like the maples, <br>lay them down like the burning blades of the angels <br>at the gates of dying garden. I'm going to hold out <br>long after the irises have surrendered their rainbows<br>to a retinal circus without any sacred clowns or animal acts <br>where the judas goats train the tigers to jump <br>through the brindled hoops of their own screening myths of fire.<br>It's wise to tread cautiously among the duff and detritus of death<br>like a protocol of your own instinct, good spiritual manners<br>among the extinct so the dead don't sink into oblivion<br>like a garbage barge. I revere the autumnal exorcism <br>as much as the vernal summoning to a seance.<br>I'm as sincere about my farewells as I am my hellos<br>as I watch the wavelengths shift from blue to red, <br>lowering the frequencies of fountains into watersheds<br>as if a musician were putting his guitar back into the coffin <br>he carries it around in. Green bough. Dead branch. Same song<br>as far as I've learned to sing to myself in the dark coming on.<br>The snakes can tie themselves into knots and hibernate <br>as long as they want, and all my summer visions <br>can turn into hard cold facts. I've still got a dragon of serpent fire <br>walking my spinal cord like a high wire act <br>without safety nets because I've always made it <br>a point of balanced awareness along this dangerous coast<br>to sail with the wind behind me like the light of a star<br>a wingspan ahead of my fall. The ghost of a battle scar <br>that's made it this far into a wounded future <br>without a pyre or a lighthouse to chart the course <br>of my desire not to live like yesterday's flowers <br>strewn on the corpse of tomorrow's hearse.</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=476858" data-title="Sitting Here Becoming Whatever Drifts My Way de Patrick White" data-description="Sitting here becoming whatever drifts my way. 
Cedar boughs smouldering in an attic to smoke the bats out. 
Thought-watching without looking for the answer to anything. 
Spiders like badges walking on the waters of my mind. 
The autumn's new, but ..."></div>
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