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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476899" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Blonde Shock</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The blonde shock of wild sea grass from New Brunswick. <br>At first I thought it was your hair. <br>And tiny beads of iridescent peacock seeds<br>as small as the myriad hopes of a poppy<br>she'll come again <br>that fell out of the envelope<br>into my coffee<br>as a muse of patchouli oil <br>inspired the air like an Egyptian temple <br>tending to the rites of Isis<br>when the moon's in the nymph phase <br>of her ancient seduction. <br>And a drawing of a rainbow phoenix <br>in the form of a flower <br>and a money-order for five hundred dollars<br>to paint violet horns <br>on the black inverted star <br>with its plinths open like legs <br>giving birth to helical vines and snakes.<br>A symbolic tattoo <br>that means you <br>that will hang like a flag from your spine<br>down your back <br>as a sign of whose country it is<br>should anyone ever get lost.<br>You're right. <br>You can't draw butterflies. <br>But your darkness intrigues. <br>Your light is true to its star. <br>Space bends around you like water.<br>And there's not a chained tree <br>in the whole of your wilderness.<br>The gates of your rivers are open and free<br>as the salmon who jump them <br>conjured out of the sea<br>by the siren who sings to them <br>like a journey of things to come <br>at the end of the long way home.<br>Love breathes life into death<br>and even on the fly <br>love is the prime circumstance of now. <br>And I feel the gold of your harvest in every seed. <br>And there's no scarecrow with a sword <br>trying to defeat the ploughshare<br>it was born from <br>like the moon as it moves <br>like a white horse <br>through a wounded valley<br>looking for its lost rider<br>somewhere out there like the wind. <br>I've been blinded by squalls of stars before <br>the sphinx blew in my face <br>and I have felt my eyes <br>evaporate in the blazing <br>of certain fireflies <br>who could read the braille of my face <br>like elegant fingertips of light <br>deciphering the writing on the wall.<br>And I've lived through it all like space <br>whether I was a celestial snakepit of passion<br>with a mouse for a heart <br>or I was blowing kisses <br>like the petals of bruised flowers <br>into the grave of an enlightened starfish<br>passing by in a deathcart. <br>And sometimes the geni gets his wish <br>by rubbing the lamp on the inside <br>and asking the night to need him<br>like water needs a fish<br>like fire needs a tree <br>like air needs a bird <br>like earth an unpoached elephant. <br>I'm not a species bent on martyrdom <br>to any cause lesser than the love <br>I aspire to <br>and I won't burn my eyes <br>on insincere candles at a black mass <br>or the votive fires of delusional crucifixions<br>that yearn without conviction <br>for a better infancy in their afterlife. <br>Things have been tough<br>but I still go to bed at night <br>with the door wide open <br>as hope to folly <br>to catch a thief<br>that might put the moon back<br>she stole from my window<br>like the coin from my mouth <br>I had hoped would pay for my passage.<br>And I've been given up <br>like the sea gives up its dead <br>like the ghosts of old cliches <br>to the voice of a new medium<br>and I've discovered <br>that love isn't the forensic history <br>of a mystery that can be cracked by the truth.<br>It's apocalyptic lightyears beyond both<br>like a prophecy <br>uttered in the secrecy of your solitude <br>that can only be overheard <br>with your eyes. <br>And there is no age in it<br>no youth that leaves the stage <br>a wiser happier skeleton<br>no shrines to spring <br>no pyres of autumn.<br>It isn't the beginning or end of anything<br>that wanders in a world of forms<br>like a road with all the answers <br>to questions it never stops to ask.<br>Love isn't a lost cause <br>looking for someone to take a risk. <br>And it isn't the silence <br>it isn't the singing<br>it isn't the longing<br>to be pulled out like the lucky straw <br>in a random draw among exiles<br>to decide who should go first. <br>It isn't a thumb in a plum pie.<br>It isn't the kiss that lifted the curse.<br>Or a lifeboat on the moon <br>that overturns like a blessing <br>that only makes matters worse.<br>And it would be unforgivably spacious of me <br>though I have loved long and intensely <br>to say what love is <br>when it wings its own immensity <br>like a nightbird of blood <br>that sheds its hood <br>to fly among the stars<br>like a fire feathering its own solitude.<br>But if I were to say anything <br>I would say<br>love might be a mighty sword<br>drawn from a dark ore<br>tempered in secret waters on the moon<br>enfolded like time in space<br>like a worldly loveletter <br>in a cosmic envelope<br>with a return address by the sea <br>that keeps faith with its prey<br>by giving its word to life <br>it's not the expedience of the slayer <br>or the obedience of the slain<br>not the exaltation of joy in death <br>or the mystic terror there is in birth<br>that calls the lightning down <br>to make the weathervane crow at midnight: <br>I have tasted the light on my tongue <br>like the tine of a new direction.<br>A dragon sheds it skin<br>like the ashes of a spent fire.<br>And the serpents of desire <br>dance to the flutes <br>of a lyrical resurrection<br>like words that take <br>their meaning from us<br>when love's the native language, <br>the grammar, the muse, the voice, the silence<br>the playfully profound way the picture-music<br>hides like a Rosetta stone <br>that doesn't want to be found <br>like a key to the meaning of everything <br>when we're what it's trying to say.</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=476899" data-title="The Blonde Shock de Patrick White" data-description="The blonde shock of wild sea grass from New Brunswick. 
At first I thought it was your hair. 
And tiny beads of iridescent peacock seeds
as small as the myriad hopes of a poppy
she'll come again 
that fell out of the envelope
into my coffee
as a m..."></div>
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