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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476905" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Day An Empty Envelope</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The day an empty envelope, the clouds<br>islands of their own in a slow wind, <br>gathering out of nothing, going anywhere<br>the blue conception of the dispersing sky urges<br>above the green, summer turmoil of the trees.<br>I wake up wondering if love is just a word<br>or a whisper of smoke from distant mountains <br>or a tuberous begonia someone tore up last night <br>in their madness to dramatize their exit out of ecstasy, <br>their roses, scalded lobsters, their heart <br>torn like a soggy dawn in the pincers of the moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I have been here before at the end <br>of these long wharves pillared in departure, <br>standing firmly fixed in the tides of sorrow, <br>saying goodbye to the sky and the sea<br>that have cried enough stars for the night<br>to remember its light is the taste of oblivion. <br>The air breathes you in like an anchor of mist<br>and all the words we released like vows<br>gently unhooking their wings from the fishing nets<br>we found abandoned in the wake of a lunar desert <br>that had wandered off like an arsonist in the archives of its tears, <br>are pens that have flooded in our pockets of blood like oilslicks, <br>not the feather of song left that could fly.<br> <br>And I should thank you for the bouquet of corals<br>you gave me like an island in a ocean of ashes, <br>and the nights my heart was a frenzy of mating eels<br>thrashing the silver waves in a ferocity of transcendence, <br>a rabble of moonlit tongues, that made me feel <br>the hanged man was at last a key someone would risk, <br>a boat moored to the wind that had at last found a door <br>with the eye of a water-lock and the Gulf Stream <br>of an infinite threshold it would take a galaxy to cross, <br>and there were voyages I dreamed, o, I dreamed<br>of naming continents after you, oceans on the moon <br>that teemed with startling new forms of luminous life <br>that did not salivate for each other like arrows on a food chain<br>but fell from the intensity of our wishing like rain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I wanted to add your fire to mine on a pyre of thorns <br>and mounting the last constellation uttered in bliss <br>by the mouth of a burning rose immolated in her own beauty <br>rise like a kite trailing a thread of blood to show the stars<br>how to weave a life that breathes like silk<br>out of the mulberry cocoons of their nebular cradles, <br>auroras exhaled like the veils and ghosts of riverine light<br>that disclose the grace of a woman, secret by secret, <br>until even the stars are homeless gestures of ash, <br>crowns of flame enthroned in the abysmal domains <br>of the radiant mystery they could draw from <br>like water from the wells of your eyes <br>to refute the claws of time and space with flowers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And it's been four starless nights, four bleached days<br>since I last heard from you, no word, no sail, no wick, <br>no eyelid of a candle to open the darkness like a dream, <br>not a chromosome in a fortune-cookie to dispell my fate, <br>only the incremental atrocity of the cruel silence that salts the garden <br>with the radioactive fall-out of your nuclear absence<br>so that even my shadow glows like a sunspot that won't wash off. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I must tell myself you're not the queen caprice <br>of a cherry in a hive of chocolate leaking honey<br>all over the sticky page of a theatrical candy-wrapper <br>blowing up the road like the obsolete playbill of a cliche <br>well attended by the ants who traffic in sugar. <br>I must tell myself over and over again like a wheel, <br>not to save myself like an enlightened pagoda <br>in a corner of the cones of the fools who wear<br>their disasters like the paper headlines of a daily heart, <br>not to adorn death with the lies of wounded heroes, <br>for I am a small planet of haunted wines <br>you can burst against the roof of your mouth like a grape, <br>and far too acquainted with eclipses and cremations <br>to exalt my ashes with the consolations of a reviving phoenix, <br>tell myself not to lawyer my sorrow with a congress of crows, <br>and in a crowd of placards and protesters, pretend that I am brave, <br>that my cause is just, that the world you've left me needs to be saved; <br>or that I can save it from myself like an arsonist<br>by learning how to swallow it like fire, <br>not to incriminate you among the cap-gun terrorists<br>who rage like chains in the doorways of their emergency exits, <br>their hearts boiling hand-picked scorpions like blackberries<br>to mitigate the acids of their glass wounds, <br>but to believe you're still out there somewhere like a road <br>that has wandered off in a wilderness of directions, <br>though the mountains and trees all point the stars out to you, <br>that cannot conceive of where it leads until we both walk it.<br> <br>I want to believe there's no bodycount <br>behind the words of love you send me like refugees<br>that gather in the valleys of my heart like liberated fireflies, <br>that the lampshades of your poems are not wrapped in human skin <br>with a star pricked out by fangs and the repeating decimal <br>of a genocidal number too powerless to stop itself<br>from biting at the running sore of its own ulcerations.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have never seen your face, heard your voice, <br>the wind more intimate with your skin than my longing, <br>but I have felt the stars within brighten in your presence<br>when all I could be to you over the miles, lives, the worn shoes, <br>was someone who charged space with gusts of ionic affinities, <br>hoping somehow the atoms knew, the rain, the hill in the fog<br>calling out to the drifting lifeboat with a disembodied voice<br>that there was yet a breath within a breath, a light within the light, <br>what I was before I was born to reach out empty-handed like this<br>to create you out of the nothing I am, a marvel more than me, <br>a clear fire that burns invisibly like breath on a windowpane, <br>the exhalation of a ghost startled by a spirit that lives <br>within and beyond it in a continuum of vital strangers, <br>closer to us than the patches on the underside of our eyelids.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I don't know what I am to you; though I have hoped <br>and you have said things to me I could only disappoint, <br>but they have made me want to drink your face from my bare hands, <br>they have made me a fountain and a vine, a door that bleeds <br>among the quicksand foundation-stones waiting out the mountain, <br>and my heart was a pauper lavish with revelation, a glove <br>that felt the universe fit it like your hand, and the answers, <br>were as evident as birds gathering seeds in an open furrow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We have grown over the months like the rain together <br>and maybe now we fall, maybe now this alloy of water<br>is to be threshed by the wind like wild rice <br>shaken into a birchbark prow of aboriginal moonlight, <br>and the waterlilies have finished blooming like asterisks<br>and the stirling is marred by the acids of black fingerprints, <br>and a patina of commonality makes the moon a cold stone, <br>but there's a pause between accountable heartbeats, <br>a world between waking and dreaming, exits and entrances, <br>where I think everything returns without having left<br>like stars paled in the blazing of a lesser light that thrives, <br>and the heart receives itself back into its own hands like a ball, <br>and even in the rain-soaked journals of the autumn leaves, <br>the wind still addresses the flowers with its inconstancy, <br>and hands still find each other across the dangerous table <br>like the lost receiving the lost in a place of belonging<br>that is a stranger to them both on the same side of the river.</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=476905" data-title="The Day An Empty Envelope de Patrick White" data-description="The day an empty envelope, the clouds
islands of their own in a slow wind, 
gathering out of nothing, going anywhere
the blue conception of the dispersing sky urges
above the green, summer turmoil of the trees.
I wake up wondering if love is just ..."></div>
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