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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476909" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Fire Hydrants Look At The Chandeliers Of The Black Cherries</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fire hydrants look at the chandeliers of black cherries <br>like Leonid meteor showers they're never going to put out, <br>a pawn shop of new moons, a rack of tabled cue-balls. <br>A difference in the quality of heart, if not kind. <br>The stolid earthbound. The more translucently cavalier. <br>Hearts that function. Hearts that look for somewhere to dance <br>against the gathering storm clouds like fireflies under the stars<br>while it's still clear enough for everyone to shine. <br>The galaxies whirling around their black holes <br>in three four waltz time knowing behind<br>all that beauty and grace, like a death mask of dark matter, <br>lies a chaos of rapture, a state of unknowing <br>that nonetheless knows, a crazy wisdom, <br>a lucid ignorance in the eye of a draconian eclipse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who needs a crystal skull, or a rattle of the spirit filled<br>with the sacred seed syllables of a dream grammar <br>that undermines and derails the logic of syntax <br>like underground rivers of lunar clay moving <br>under them in the night, not out of radical spite, <br>or delusionally estranged from a nature <br>that is neither true nor false, nor any desire <br>to see the work train topple into the lake as I saw <br>happen several times in the muskeg when I <br>was romantically labouring and teaching on an extra gang <br>lining and tamping our way through the wilderness <br>from anywhere to here we thought there was a purpose <br>as useful as a shovel in quicksand. As I said <br>who needs a crystal skull when you've already <br>got two eyes in your head and a mind behind them <br>to create endless paradigms and occult cosmologies <br>of the world as you see it, create it, and it becomes you? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nights I weep mercury like a broken-hearted thermometer <br>taking the measure of my own entropy. Nights I weep <br>blood and water, cruel roses and compassionate rain<br>for love affairs I've never found the exit or the entrance to<br>though everything was self-contained and understandable, <br>but for the pain, but for the pain, expanding like space, <br>there was never a unit of measure or monad for that <br>when it's wavelengths were millions of angstroms off <br>the scale of the Doppler Shift that would let me know, <br>in relative frames of reference, whether a heart <br>was moving toward me or apart. The birthmark <br>of a meteor with extinction on its mind, or a windfall <br>of black cherries like balloons in mourning released <br>like laughing gas at a black mass for poets and pariahs. <br>Tonight is agony without extasis. I may be <br>a high wire act crossing the void on my own spinal cord, <br>who knows how to land on his feet like the stars, <br>but balance is not peace, and tomorrow I'll be jumping <br>through hoops of fire like a tiger of a comet in a circus <br>of endangered life forms when the lightning <br>cracks the whip like a ringmaster with a boomslang in his hands. <br>And the night after that I'll be carving Mayan calendars <br>out of the petrified bones of my flesh and blood, <br>fossils in the Burgess Shale, to count the eras off <br>since I've last seen either of my children, feeling <br>like Stonehenge without a spring or autumn equinox. <br>A sun dial of the apocalypse, why has there never <br>been anyone here to explain this endless silence to me? <br>Why do the lies go on seeking God to justify themselves <br>and the truth refuses to speak for itself? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hey, but I'm made of sterner stuff than that. <br>An adamantine alloy of necessity and imagination, <br>I've evolved a spiritual immunity to a whole range <br>of emotional insecticides crop dusting the wild harvest<br>of my jungle heart with napalm and agent orange, <br>as much by mutation as through transcendence <br>when I'm not morphing without roots in a salted wasteland<br>that's forgotten the taste of bread and the fragrance of flowers<br>and everybody's afraid of eating the polluted fruits of the earth.</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=476909" data-title="The Fire Hydrants Look At The Chandeliers Of The Black Cherries de Patrick White" data-description="The fire hydrants look at the chandeliers of black cherries 
like Leonid meteor showers they're never going to put out, 
a pawn shop of new moons, a rack of tabled cue-balls. 
A difference in the quality of heart, if not kind. 
The stolid earthbou..."></div>
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