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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476868" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Softly, Softly, Now</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Softly, softly, now; here there is no beneath or above, no hell<br>	for miscreant flowers opening for the moon, no ghosts<br>		who can’t find their way back to the grave. No one<br>is unacceptable in this place where even the dead dig <br>	for the blue bones of heaven, cracking<br>		them open like fortune-cookies<br>to taste the light gold of the marrow. This is the kingdom<br>	of empty cups waiting to be filled<br>		by the black wine of union that ripened<br>in the skull-shrines<br>	of a thousand drunken buddhas<br>		begging outside a brothel door<br>for the same holy candle to show them the way home. People<br>	are seldom grateful for what they don’t know<br>		and thought is only the dog of reality<br>if you can catch my drift in this back-alley<br>	where I’m dancing with a gust of wind. How lightly<br>		you step off my tongue into your veils and shadows<br>dropping your masks like petals all over the asphalt<br>	until you can’t be seen. Is that freedom or death; do you<br>		bathe in your grave or your heart<br>when you remember the sorrows you’ve buried like daggers<br>	in the wounds that widowed you? Do you tremble<br>		like a kite at the end of your own life-line<br>waiting to be found by the witching-wands of the lightning; <br>	or have you forgotten your madness, the dark jewels<br>		in which you took sanctuary for the night<br>like an orphan in her longing, the crazy wisdom <br>	that put on the costume of a dead clown<br>		and offered herself to the blind and humourless<br>like a chessboard? Do you still swim naked in sapphires, raise<br>	gardens of fish on the moon, perform<br>		open-heart surgery on paralyzed serpents<br>that wake up from the anaesthetic between your legs<br>	like a spring thaw, believing they can walk and then<br>		come crawling back, veteran amputees<br>demanding crutches? Wild moon on a lonely river, night-lotus, <br>	flesh and stars, every moment of you is origin; why doubt<br>		your own reflection in the mirror of my voice? I’m <br>not selling snake-oil on the midways of eternity, filling the sails<br>	of a slave-ship and calling it the love-boat; this is not<br>		a wardrobe of auroras I buy up cheap in Montreal<br>and hawk from the back of a truck in Sunday parking lots. If the words<br>	dance, if the wind plays lightly in the leaves, if the fire sings<br>		and the diamonds flow and the rain falls musically<br>like phantom fingers on the spotted touch-me-nots, should I impugn<br>	the graces of perception that sing, unseen, in the deep woods<br>		because they fly without a limp, praise without a stutter? <br>I see in whispers; I hear in glimpses. Nameless affinities rooted in silence<br>	bloom in the saying and fall back into themselves, <br>		fountains within fountains, pursing their waters<br>to kiss the light as it breaks like glee against them. Fountains, <br>	not pedestals. Deep sky-dwellers ride the helix of their own thermals, <br>		their wings spread from dawn to dawn, and if they build, <br>they build from the sky down, not footstools, scaffoldings, and temples, <br>	not ladders of bone at the bottom of dry wells, but tents of light<br>		in the secret grottoes of space, supple as life.<br>Up is not up nor down, down, when you dream in the seed, neither<br>	born nor unborn, yet nothing missing; creation within the Uncreate, <br>		the intimately impersonal holy mother that is born and perishes<br>with us. I walk this vastness alone; who, then, to impress or pedestal<br>	in this empty, pathless, mouthless, dark bliss of a world<br>		where even the silence is speechless before it? If<br>the ignorant see the world as an open hat on a lonely streetcorner<br>	begging for change and prizes; let them. That is their hour, <br>		their seeing, their word. All seeing is a kind of love.<br>Orchids and dandelions alike. All that is loved is seen to be beautiful<br>	but not all that is beautiful is seen to be loved. I see<br>		a blue rose, shedding lives like petals and skies, <br>night skies, freaked by stars tattooed on heavy eyelids, falling<br>	into dream and destiny. Graffiti Mona Lisa mother Bacchanal, <br>		mad, menstruating, moon-dump bag-lady, I see you<br>vaulting topless over the horns of lunar bulls in ancient Crete, <br>	or lady of the lake, royal witch-bride, bored with weddings<br>		and vase-tamed bouquets, waiting to grasp the hilt<br>of magic swords whose power is older than the stones<br>	from which they’re drawn. And there, in the window<br>		of the thirteenth house of the zodiac, isn’t that you<br>plucking dead leaves off the herbs you grow on the sill, hanging curtains<br>	you’ve pirated thread by thread from old mythologies<br>		and woven again like the moon into light? Crow-weaver, <br>tell me, have you ever stolen silver from the mirror to heal a wounded vision, <br>	or known an appetite so great, so incomprehensible<br>		it consumed the galaxies like krill? Death is the dark inspiration, <br>pure energy, radiant and whole, the mute mirror that reflects nothing<br>	that stands before it in an arrogance of forms; the face you wore<br>		before the beginning of faces. Already achieved, <br>not something up ahead, a black star on a white night, the dark mother<br>	who fills the wombs with gestures of light. Death is the ancient future<br>		that passes instantaneously, the crone-nymph, oyster and pearl, <br>the miner in the ore that releases the child like a bell. The dream that wakes you <br>	from a dream, the dead tree that gives birth to a bird. Death is<br>		the terrifying abundance, the terrible joy of perfection falling<br>into perfection, the honey and the horror of the sacrificial wound. The child<br>	that carries her mother in her womb. Death is no less life, no less us, <br>		than a wave is water. Death has no beginning so life is never <br>finished. One afternoon, in an autumn garden, the air shuddered with mine<br>	and I knew that it was already done like the stars above the flowers<br>		of gardens to come. What death, then, to stare into <br>that isn’t already under your feet? Wombs, waterclocks, and coffins; <br>	can you tell me the difference? Here’s my skull. Break it.<br>		The bird’s already out singing you like a handful of joy<br>hurled well beyond itself into the dawn, and in the morning market<br>	among laughter and apples<br>		the phantoms array their illusions.</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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	for miscreant flowers opening for the moon, no ghosts
		who can’t find their way back to the grave. No one
is unacceptable in this place where even the dead dig 
	for the blue bone..."></div>
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