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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476892" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Tempering The Carbonized Steel Of My Heart</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tempering the carbonized steel of my heart <br>in a drainage ditch hissing like a snake pit<br>to make it impervious to the pins the colour-blind lepidopterists <br>keep sticking in it as if it were a voodoo doll <br>for the projections they keep putting on it <br>like death masks of their own making.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tired of hauling corpses like dead weight up the mountain <br>on a fragile lifeline where they hang <br>like mummified spider trophies on a thread of fate<br>swaying precariously in the wind while I drive <br>my heart like a piton into rock to secure a footing. <br>Why is compassion reserved for the weak <br>who just want to fall backwards into the abyss <br>taking the strong with them who endure <br>greater agonies in climbing than they do in falling off? <br>Enough is enough. Time to cut bait <br>and throw the little fish back into the depths <br>like minnows of the moon bottom-feeding on shadows<br>though they aspire like the vernal equinox <br>to a constellation of their own where everybody <br>can see them shining like the Circlet of the Western Fish in Pisces. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sick of lighting other people's fires and blowing on the flames <br>until their star is blazing, and then having them turn around <br>and throw acid in my eyes that burns like white phosphorus <br>through metal, even under water. All my life <br>I've pulled one shipwreck after another into my lifeboat <br>only to watch them punch holes in it to sink us all <br>behind my back as I was trying to swim through stone. <br>Why is that? Why do people cut off the hands of those <br>who were trying to help them like Che Guevara in Bolivia, <br>and kiss the asses of all those who are sitting on their faces, <br>who squat enthroned on the garbage can lids they're living in? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I don't make cages of gratitude for the doves and the crows <br>I've opened the door for so they can sing for themselves<br>when they get out of the egg and see how vast the sky is. <br>And I'm not a warden of aviaries trying to brain wash the parrots <br>into saying the same things I do to myself <br>when there's no one else to talk to in the dark. <br>I'm not passing out little executioner's hoods <br>to trained falcons perched on my arm like cuckoo clocks<br>timed to go off like i.e.ds at midnight at the stroke of doom.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shakespeare might have been happy enough to teach the alphabet<br>to grammar school boys for seven unknown years, <br>but that doesn't mean he wouldn't have been happier <br>writing a comedy of errors of his own. I'm not <br>drawing any analogies here to my own state of affairs, <br>but if you ask and I say yes. I will. And I do as if <br>it were just as important to me to see you learn to address <br>your own potential as it is crucial I apply myself to mine, <br>why should anyone try to make me the dupe of my own ideals <br>just as a little black dwarf of a punk who thought himself <br>the legend of his own matchbook did yesterday on Gore Street<br>when he asked me politely, hey mister can you spare a cigarette<br>and not wanting him to go through nicotine withdrawal <br>because I remember what it's like, I gave him a handful, <br>one to smoke now, and the rest to tuck behind his ears, <br>and the next thing I hear as he returns to his buddies is <br>hey, did you see how I hustled that old man over there? <br>Two days of intense heat at the end of May, <br>the next time he leans on my generosity, that black fly's toast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Just because the lion lies down with the lamb, and the lamb <br>gets an attitude that abuses the parity of all sentient beings <br>doesn't mean the lion's forgotten it's got fangs and claws<br>and knows how to use them, or that the golden fleece <br>can presume upon the dragon that guards it with its own teeth.<br>And if I were a sheep in the company of flame-throwers <br>I'd worry about getting my wooly parts singed if only <br>in the name of strategic self-interest if I weren't capable <br>of anything else higher than the grass I'm grazing on. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I've been a sacred clown ghost dancing with Sitting Bull <br>just before Custer's last stand, and I've been demonically possessed <br>by the best consiglieres hell has to offer, powerful familiars <br>with surgical minds as sharp as scalpels, black holes in space <br>the galaxies plunge into without hesitation as if they were jumping <br>from paradise into a mystery older than light, and I've made <br>my way out again with my own prophetic skull in my hands, <br>howling at the moon for the agony of this death in life experience<br>that might have broken me and my harp like a wishbone<br>that didn't have anything to sing about anymore, <br>but the deep cover singularities that exist in the darkness <br>of everyone's heart, whether they're looking for God particles or not, <br>and never been so twisted by any space I've ever been in <br>as to practise emotional espionage against my own feelings <br>or turn back on myself like a solar flare that festers <br>in its own light like an incestuous ingrown hair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When Blake wrote that the tigers of wrath are wiser <br>than the horses of instruction, do you think he said it <br>with his tongue in his cheek? Or jumping through hoops of fire <br>in a flea circus with stagefright on tour through the boonies? <br>If someone offers you a clear, cold drink of water for free<br>from his own wellspring in a desert sweating mirages, <br>and you spit it in his face like acid rain on the flowers <br>after its' been polluted in your own mouth, what do you think<br>your chances are of not dying of thirst beside a fresh water lake <br>when all you had to do was roll over and drink the whole thing <br>in a single gulp, instead of pissing into the swimming pool <br>we're all trying to stay afloat in, as if you were an oilslick<br>sticking like an eclipse to the waterlilies in the last oasis <br>you're ever going to get another chance to frack <br>before the desert hangs you out to dry on your own bone rack<br>like a fish fry still trying to fly through the smog <br>of your own smokehouse like a ghost long after <br>you've been cooked on the pyre of your own matchbook?</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=476892" data-title="Tempering The Carbonized Steel Of My Heart de Patrick White" data-description="Tempering the carbonized steel of my heart 
in a drainage ditch hissing like a snake pit
to make it impervious to the pins the colour-blind lepidopterists 
keep sticking in it as if it were a voodoo doll 
for the projections they keep putting on i..."></div>
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