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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476881" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sometimes The Intimacy Of The Silence</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes the intimacy of the silence <br>can grow so profoundly intense<br>it seems impersonal. Or the heat of life <br>burn like the dry ice of the holy ghost <br>as you shudder with spiritual chills in the cold. <br>And when you see things whole in and of themselves <br>it's always as if you were looking through a broken window. <br>Truly fulfilled, you realize everything you're missing. <br>The more you explore the mystery of what you're doing <br>just walking around on the earth, aware <br>of your awareness, the more of a stranger <br>you seem to yourself, decultified of your identity. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The birches are glowing in skin tight moonlight <br>and there are sixties hash burns in their white leotards<br>and the leaves are falling and the river's flowing<br>and the Canada geese are sowing themselves <br>in the wake of the plough of the moon <br>like black and white sunflowers seeds further south again<br>and my heart is saturated with autumn's sad sugars <br>like a mournful apple at the pathos of their passage <br>as if time had abandoned everything and all <br>the solitary soul can do is harvest the loss like a human<br>with a romantic sense of irony as we dance <br>on the graves of the dead to celebrate <br>the bright vacancy, dark abundance of our starmud <br>occluding and enlightening our solitude <br>until you're enthralled to conclude, the darker the night, <br>the brighter the light. And appearances are only deceptive <br>to those who haven't broken on through to <br>the other side of the mirroring awareness yet like a hymen <br>over a virgin black hole that's all iris with no pupil <br>so all it can ever see are moondogs of exclusion <br>that begin to look like haloes after awhile.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'll write an epithalamion on my wedding night with death, <br>but while I'm alive I like to toy with euphoric elegies <br>that weep like old rivers in the discrete depths <br>of their watersheds. I spend hours by myself <br>watching the spiders of time stringing contellations <br>like bird nets between the sacred upper branches <br>of the aspens to catch fish on the fly the way I <br>wait for insights to start riffing on the blues guitar<br>in the corner jamming with the silence of itself<br>like a poignant wildflower blooming unfashionably late.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you stare intensely enough into the emptiness, <br>if your focus is searing enough to burn holes in space, <br>seemingly self-contained things will emerge like particles <br>you can elaborate in time and space like the fractals <br>of worlds within worlds engendered by your own seeing. <br>But turn the light down, turn your eyes away, dissipate <br>your concentration, everything reverts to the wavelengths <br>of the flying carpets unwoven on the waning loom of the moon. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Things done. Things undone. Does the water remember <br>the growth rings of its ripples, does the snake cling <br>to the loss of its skin, or fire reminisce in its ashes? <br>Or scars in autumn long for the springtime of their wounds? <br>Nights like this sensation haunts me like the ghost <br>of an amputated heart I dedicated to poetry to add my pulse <br>to a dying art like the blood of a noble enemy who knew <br>without saying, the only way to keep the calling alive <br>was to practice an excruciating discipline of heretical infidelity.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And that's why I'm out here alone in the woods, <br>still trying to think my way out of the bone box of my decline <br>by taking my mind off things by letting go <br>of the paradigms and symbols that kept me afloat <br>like the lifeboats and wandering starmaps <br>of the habitable planets of the past bobbing <br>like the prophetic skulls of black walnuts back down <br>the mindstream to Mitylene in Lesbos <br>where Orpheus still dreams of singing himself <br>back up from the detritus of his cosmic dismemberments<br>like Vega in the lyrical grip of a dreamcatcher <br>casting spells like a widow's veils on the water <br>to snare the stars like a fisherman who drowned on the moon.</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=476881" data-title="Sometimes The Intimacy Of The Silence de Patrick White" data-description="Sometimes the intimacy of the silence 
can grow so profoundly intense
it seems impersonal. Or the heat of life 
burn like the dry ice of the holy ghost 
as you shudder with spiritual chills in the cold. 
And when you see things whole in and of the..."></div>
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