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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476904" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Closer To Death, The More Risks You Take In Life</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The closer to death, the more risks you take in life. <br>Whatever's left of your dark abundance, you spend it here <br>on things you know you won't be able to take for granted <br>in a few light years, windows and wildflowers, dragonflies <br>and Venus going down blazing blue-white in a tangerine sunset, <br>the haiku novel you write spontaneously in your head <br>about the future of the red-haired kid with floured skin and freckles.<br>The way the light waxes lyrical about the larkspur. <br>Even the hairy scab of the spider you found<br>stranded in the bathtub after he'd put himself in peril <br>to come out of the darkness for a drink. And the long <br>pathway to heaven you laid over the side <br>like a two ply Milky Way of toilet paper<br>so it could be gone, as it was, in the morning<br>with blessings on its head and house. So much time<br>and then there's forever. We don't run out of it <br>we just plunge into one hell of a lot more of it <br>than we can use. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So given what I know <br>as one of the few certainties that have <br>brutally enhanced my intensity for life, <br>is going to happen to me sooner than later, <br>twenty springs, twenty summers, twenty autumns<br>if I'm lucky beaded out like new moons <br>on the optimistic abacus of my fingers and toes, <br>how could I not, like Tolstoy walking with Turgenev, <br>at the crepuscular end of an epic life, <br>crush flowers against my face, or let the stars <br>tattoo my skin with whatever constellations they wish? <br>How could I not admire the immensity of the light <br>thinly smeared on the delicately leaded stained glass window <br>of the fly's wing, lying like a black maple key <br>on the windowsill at the foot of the sky it couldn't unlock? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I absorb every mystically specific detail <br>the way I breathe. The inconceivable uncanniness <br>of its being here, just as it is without amendment, at all, <br>and me as well, to witness that all there is<br>to my unlikely presence is the fly on the windowsill.<br>Is the unknown star I'm trying to name<br>the constellation it's so furiously from <br>shining through the crowns of the birch groves<br>pulling their leaves up around their throats <br>as autumn approaches for all of us. So far <br>not moribund about death or the passage of the flowers. <br>If it were a bad thing, the animals would know, <br>and be afraid of it, and yet I've witnessed <br>some of the highest summits of dignity <br>in the way an animal dies, accepting what must be, <br>with such grace and dignity, even in the clutch <br>of great agony, I just have to remember <br>what I saw in their eyes as they looked at me calmly <br>as death underwhelmed them on the inside<br>without the slightest disappointment <br>that this was the end of life. And no panic, <br>no sense of possibly having lived it wrong. <br>Just the calm of a flightfeather making a soft landing. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">All my life I've tried to have the courage of my calling <br>and look into dark spaces and forbidden realms, <br>fathomless abysses that staggered the imagination <br>with their imageless prolixity, the hidden harmonies <br>of archetypal starmud subliminally suggesting<br>themes and metaphors of picture-music that might <br>shed light upon my emptiness and yours as if <br>we, too, were hidden secrets that wished <br>to be known creatively, the way the moon is, <br>when the seminal dew is on the grass like the waters <br>of a breaking womb, though a lunar life is strictly visionary, <br>or there's an orgasmic frenzy of silver fish <br>flashing their lunacy like sabres of light <br>in their urgency for life in the rising tide <br>of a providence that inspires them when it's high <br>to do or die, or expire in a tidal pool of shore-huggers.<br>I've looked into the dragon's eyes directly <br>like two switchblades in a back alley <br>and recalling Rilke's advice, tried poetically <br>to kiss them back into princesses I've neglected too long, <br>to humanize them back into my good graces again <br>like the dark side of the moon taking off its deathmask, <br>and turning around, showing me its face, eye to eye, <br>as if mirrors hadn't been invented yet, <br>and I wasn't a bird that had to be afraid of turning into stone.</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=476904" data-title="The Closer To Death, The More Risks You Take In Life de Patrick White" data-description="The closer to death, the more risks you take in life. 
Whatever's left of your dark abundance, you spend it here 
on things you know you won't be able to take for granted 
in a few light years, windows and wildflowers, dragonflies 
and Venus going..."></div>
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