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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476870" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Some People Like To Take A Water Droplet</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some people like to take a water droplet <br>and turn it into a haiku. <br>Some people like to write <br>like the loose thread <br>of a quick-witted alpine stream <br>trying to unravel the mountain all the way down<br>with dazzle and flash. <br>But when I shoot my mouth off <br>about what I don't know about nightingales <br>it always comes out ice-hot stars<br>above a rush of northern rivers, <br>the Mackenzie, the Fraser, the Thompson <br>and when I want to risk <br>my cowboy B.C. French in public, <br>the Gulf of St. Lawrence.<br>Some people like to weave their mindstreams<br>into lakes with their third eyes open <br>to the flight of the white clouds<br>and the sky that doesn't inhibit them, <br>but me I like to flow and fall and crush<br>swell and fork, shift, shape, loop, swerve, <br>destroy, nourish, and change course <br>like the Ottawa or the Skeena <br>in the May spring run off<br>when the ice floes and weight-lifting waters<br>are flexing their muscles<br>in powerfully sculpted anthracite and jade.<br>A river, yes, blackwater and white alike; <br>what could be more<br>quintessentially Canadian than that? <br>A river as inhospitable and bleak as the Arctic <br>toward life in its beginnings, <br>and still as wild and dangerous as Hell's Gate <br>as it approaches the sea<br>after many perils and epiphanies. <br>I am the sorcerer's apprentice <br>when it comes to rivers <br>but I like to go with the flow, the power, the depth <br>the cosmic expansion of their homelessness, <br>the cataracts and wetlands of their manic mood swings, <br>the way they uproot and sustain, <br>carve traffic islands out of granite<br>and tear down bridges in their path<br>and then slow down mellifluously <br>to let a doe come out of the woods to drink<br>from the reflection of the way the water sees her.<br>I give the orange spruce root rot in rusty shallows <br>and strip the bark from defrocked trees <br>the herons nest in like a brain trust. <br>Grizzly, moose, cougar, wolf, <br>elk, deer, beaver, mink and muskrat, <br>eagle, loon, drake and Canada goose, <br>what totem of star mud <br>has not mingled its blood in my flowing, <br>what stars have not tingled on my skin <br>like butterflies landing on single sunlit hairs, <br>what tribes have not sat around their fires <br>while I flint-knapped the moonlight <br>into radiant silver spears<br>as the waves made small music<br>like a background theme of silence? <br>I don't need to know where I'm going.<br>I can be Kelsey, Thompson, or La Verendrye, <br>and keep a journal of where I've been <br>and make rough sketches of what I've seen <br>because flowing freehand isn't a point <br>it's a destination that's always on the move<br>shooting the rapids of the life line <br>in the palm of your hand <br>as if life were precious enough to risk it all<br>to see how far you had to go <br>to flow off the edge of a starmap that doesn't know.<br>Clash, dash, swirl and recover, <br>turn, counter-turn, stand <br>I like to waltz my way out of knots and nooses <br>like an Horatian ode in the glands of a Romantic poet.<br>I like to boost the torque of my whirlpools and currents <br>and open up the throttle <br>on the straightaways of cobbled river stones <br>as if I had a big four-stroke between my knees.<br>Underwhelm the birch groves before the beavers do, <br>tear the cedars out like molars, <br>turn whole villages into houseboats <br>and take my wrath out on the petty roads<br>that whine like potholes and puddles<br>if it so much as even rains. <br>All weak threads of ancillary streams <br>are gathered up into the strong ropes <br>of northern rivers with enough spine and backbone<br>to have all their chakras open <br>like the lunar and the solar filaments of serpent-fire.<br>My poems taste of stone and glacier, <br>unnamed valleys where the red-tailed hawks <br>have never set eyes on a human <br>and the sound of a voice <br>leaves the mountains speechless, <br>not knowing what language to echo.<br>Roil, roll, tumble, and spume, <br>lost in a froth of creative chaos<br>that brings forth rainbows and stars <br>and auroral veils of water and light <br>to mystify the message in the medium <br>by frustrating the logic of syntax <br>in the scintillant radiance <br>of counter-intuitive metaphors<br>that relate in myriad family ways<br>like salmon swimming upstream<br>summoned out of the spontaneity of the past <br>against the flow of the timely waterclocks <br>up to the sacred pools of birth and death<br>to die like old moons in the arms of the new. <br>I wreck whole forests like the Spanish Armada.<br>People run to me like a lifeboat <br>for shelter and sanctuary from the fire.<br>A northern river is the jugular of a snow dragon <br>with its wings spread as wide as Canada <br>breathing fire like two year old red oak <br>in a Napoleon airtight with a see through window<br>and a ten inch Selkirk chimney<br>that looks like it were cast out of moonlight <br>instead of polished aluminum <br>on a cold clear winter night in the country.<br>A poem should not mean or be <br>but do something to you like Vancouver, <br>rip off that life raft you've moored yourself to <br>like a running shoe tied up at a dock<br>and throwing it down like a gauntlet at your bare feet <br>see if you can learn to sink or swim for yourself <br>or, at least, walk on stars, <br>or pull the thorns of crescent moons<br>you're bound to step on along the way <br>out of your heels with your teeth<br>like a wolf pulls a porcupine quill from its paw<br>with barely a whimper of regret.<br>Sometimes you've got to bite the bullet <br>to get it out. <br>But a river's like a barbed arrowhead <br>and it's better to push it all the way through <br>than it is to let it tear at your flesh <br>like a bobcat on its way out of the bag. <br>It's not a good idea when you're in a northern bar <br>to start arm wrestling<br>with drunken men who build dams for a living<br>but you can get away with it <br>if you're a river and not a highway, <br>because they of all people<br>know your potential for destruction<br>when you're backed up<br>and there's no other way out <br>except straight through a brick wall. <br>El Toro! <br>And there's a crack <br>in the cement cape of the matador <br>that taunted the broad-shouldered bulls of the river <br>like a cattle prod in their stalls, <br>and a horn through his gored heart.<br>Torrent, rage, acquiesce, and chill out, <br>yes, a northern Canadian river <br>will do just fine as a similitude <br>for the way I like to write, <br>a neural connection to the planet, <br>a water root of dendritic black matter, <br>the circuitous blossoming <br>of wild irises and quaking aspen groves <br>all along the great water ways of life.<br>And as for inspiration <br>who needs more than the coming and going <br>of the waterbirds <br>to learn how to master words<br>as if they were as free to be what they are <br>as I am?</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=476870" data-title="Some People Like To Take A Water Droplet de Patrick White" data-description="Some people like to take a water droplet 
and turn it into a haiku. 
Some people like to write 
like the loose thread 
of a quick-witted alpine stream 
trying to unravel the mountain all the way down
with dazzle and flash. 
But when I shoot my mou..."></div>
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