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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476895" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The American Flag Just Below My Studio Window</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The American flag just below my studio window <br>one floor down, a real estate office carrying the colours <br>on the left and on the right, the Maple Leaf, <br>stubbornly clinging to its flagpole like the bough <br>of a tree that won't let go of it even in a storm, <br>are both snapping in the air like two mad dogs <br>at the end of their chains, as if they smelled bush wolfs <br>moving through the dark without any respect for property. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Poor dogs. Poor wolves on a night like this. <br>Store lights smeared on the black asphalt streets, <br>a Fauvist palette, or the trail of a snail of lipstick <br>on a mirror in full eclipse. Everything tonight, <br>a jaywalker, a refugee, an exile, or a pariah, <br>with a mind shattered like pottery into any one <br>of a hundred ostrakons. No country for him, <br>his identity ends at the limits of town<br>as the willows rave in the asylum of Stewart Park.<br>The windows are rattling and the doors are banging<br>their pots and pans to keep the ghosts at bay<br>as the hard eyes of the rain sadistically whip my face<br>while the waters of the Tay froth like a troll throwing a tantrum <br>over the rocks under the Rainbow Bridge<br>that's standing its ground like a harp in a rage. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nocturnal greys with a tinge of infra-red in the clouds. <br>For anyone who likes to look up, it's a night <br>to keep your eyes on the ground as I make my way <br>to Devil's Rock, to watch the white mustangs <br>of the river run wild the way they used to drive <br>sheep through town a hundred years ago<br>before the coyotes and coydogs took their toll<br>and the vagrant hearts of the shepherds <br>found it a lot easier to go with the flow<br>by leading from behind with a couple of dogs <br>turning their flanks than I do tonight, <br>with a hemorrhaging heart in the eye of a hurricane rose<br>stirring the cauldrons of things up like the golden ratio<br>of galaxies and sunflowers thrown into the mix<br>like memories of better days at an exorcism. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Things torn away like children and lovers <br>caught in the turmoil and undertow of cosmic venting<br>that breaks the koan like a one-fingered wishbone <br>and achieves liberation followed by <br>the interminable solitude of going it alone<br>on a starless night out into the open fields <br>trashed by autumn after the harvest, <br>complicit with the storm, the pathetic fallacy <br>of the objective correlative that plunders my soul of adjectives <br>until all that's left are these verbs gnawing at my bones<br>like a neolithic grammar of scarred calendars <br>and discarded manuscripts not worth another draft<br>with beautifully illustrated cave paintings <br>spit on the walls of my inaccessible skull<br>like shamanistic magic under a Hunter's Moon<br>I can feel, even if I can't see it, under this snarling <br>wolf-hide of clouds, from the inside out, <br>howling back in agony over the roadkill I've become.</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=476895" data-title="The American Flag Just Below My Studio Window de Patrick White" data-description="The American flag just below my studio window 
one floor down, a real estate office carrying the colours 
on the left and on the right, the Maple Leaf, 
stubbornly clinging to its flagpole like the bough 
of a tree that won't let go of it even in ..."></div>
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