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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476879" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sometimes The Clarity Comes Too Late</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes the clarity comes too late<br>to realize there was never <br>any need for forgiveness <br>and nothing to expiate<br>about the way we made our gracious farewells <br>into works of art <br>that would go on hurting forever. <br>We had a genius back then <br>for making death seem more beautiful than it is <br>because we lived on the edge of things <br>and not their surfaces <br>and o if we'd only felt all those things <br>that made us weep at the end <br>dying in doorways that were more cruel <br>than any threshold we had to cross to stand there.<br>If only we could have felt those immensities of good-bye<br>from the very beginning <br>what reason would we have had to cry like candles<br>when the wine turned back into water <br>and the roses wiped their lipstick off on their leaves? <br>One goes out. <br>One goes in.<br>Because severance <br>no less than the dance <br>takes two to make a difference <br>and as the years go by <br>the silver flakes off the memory of the mirror <br>and you can see clear through to the other side <br>experience is just another log <br>you throw on the stars <br>to keep yourself warm on a cold October night<br>by a small fire out in the open<br>where it's easier to sublimate <br>the intensities of fate <br>by opening the cages you keep them in<br>and burning your loveletters<br>like the flightfeathers of half-forgotten songs<br>to spread their wings in the flames<br>and give them the freedom to rise higher <br>than the nest of ashes they were born in.<br>History isn't the muse <br>the immeasurable mystery is<br>and if you don't learn to let things go <br>you'll never know <br>how to live lyrically alone in the wild <br>unbounded by your solitude <br>by the side of a river whose flowers are dying. <br>The green bough hisses and blisters in the fire <br>but the cracks in the heartwood <br>burn far into the night <br>and give off way more heat in the autumn <br>than the pre-emptive lightning strikes of spring. <br>It's a rite of passage as old as migrating geese <br>mournfully bearing souls south<br>whose bones have turned to dust <br>to take all my prophetic skulls like moon rocks <br>out of the house of the dead <br>and arranging them into the ring of a firepit<br>stand in the middle like the eternal flame<br>of an unrepentant heretic <br>to rekindle the dance<br>even among the skeletal shadows <br>of a persecuted romance. <br>Even in sorrow. <br>Even in the silence <br>of the great distances <br>that add their aerial perspective to time.<br>Not to call ghosts back to a seance<br>as if they could tell me anymore about death <br>than I've already lived through <br>but every year at the second full moon in October <br>after the harvest is in <br>and the scarecrow has come down off his cross <br>and left it to the ravens of nevermore as a church<br>I lay a blue violin on a funeral pyre. <br>I stretch my heart out like a skin on a drum. <br>Dressed in the plumage of solar flares<br>I enter a trance of firebirds <br>that have long since disappeared back into the sun<br>and like Icarus in eclipse <br>or the last grasshopper <br>who didn't take the advice of the ants<br>to drag the leaves and wings of things <br>piecemeal into a shelter <br>to prepare for deeper separations yet to come.<br>I take my chances by the hand out here in the open <br>and I dance. <br>I dance with heresy. <br>I dance with the angels and the demons <br>that were martyred in the name <br>of what is unforgiveable about my human nature <br>and yet more sacred than the rain I dance for <br>to put the war I dance for out.<br>I dance with whole asylums of noetic visionaries <br>who went insane <br>trying to explain me to myself<br>like the origins of life on another planet.<br>And I dance again to the music of the women I've loved <br>whether in pain or bliss <br>whether I was hung by the tail <br>like a plague rat over the abyss <br>of my cannibalized emotions<br>like a famished snakepit<br>or I fell sidereally under the spell <br>of the fragrance of summer stars in their hair <br>I dance not as if it were all worth it in the end <br>but something inestimable to celebrate <br>that gives the chartered undertakers pause <br>about what they do for a living <br>when they see how a poet can dance<br>to the picture-music of the crazy wisdom<br>that sings the dead up out of the earth to their feet <br>without looking down from the mountaintops <br>or back at the valleys behind<br>to take the measure of their heart<br>to see if it's empty or full. <br>I let the new moon <br>feel the old moon's arms around it again<br>like the bright vacancy and dark abundance <br>of what's joyfully absurd and playful about life <br>whether it's doing a sword dance with words <br>or dancing in blue heron feathers <br>like a shaman among waterbirds <br>longing for enlightenment<br>like a tantric star map <br>to break the jinx of their prayer-wheels.<br>Or dancing to bullets like a greenhorn <br>in the main street of nineteenth century Dodge<br>or like me out here in the country dark <br>alone with six thousand visible stars<br>eleven miles outside of Westport<br>spreading my wings under the sign<br>of the Eagle and the Swan going down in the west<br>to add my phoenix to the feathers of the burning sumac<br>and grabbing the lightning lance of the thunderbirds <br>like a serpent from their talons <br>hold it up to the stars to the east and the west <br>like the wavelength of a crazy insight <br>into the dark word of the living light <br>that makes me dance my way <br>out of time <br>out of place <br>out of my mind <br>without leaving anyone or anything behind.</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=476879" data-title="Sometimes The Clarity Comes Too Late de Patrick White" data-description="Sometimes the clarity comes too late
to realize there was never 
any need for forgiveness 
and nothing to expiate
about the way we made our gracious farewells 
into works of art 
that would go on hurting forever. 
We had a genius back then 
for ma..."></div>
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