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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476920" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Light Doesn't Talk To The Flowers Anymore</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The light doesn't talk to the flowers anymore <br>the way it used to. I can feel a lot of shadows touching my face<br>as if it were written in braille. Acid in the rain. <br>Tears of dry ice in the housewell. Weathervanes <br>knocking at the door to get out of the storms <br>they used to revel in, and the storms themselves, <br>no kamikazes riding a divine wind against the Mongols, <br>at best, a mango-flavoured tempest in a Japanese teapot.<br>And even Zen can't put an edge on the full moon <br>to cut through everything like a harvest being threshed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No songs from the birds that used to wake me up in the morning, <br>only these spiders weaving their smokey laryngeal webs <br>like a voice that got stuck in the throat of a chimney<br>when it forgot, when you sing from the heart, <br>you don't need a medium or a seance. Not even an art<br>that's interested in what you're saying unless <br>you're obeying a grammar of headstones that don't know <br>what you're talking about until it's not worth <br>bringing up anymore in anybody's language<br>whether the metaphors are living or not. Words in a bonebox. <br>Locks and bars on our eyes. Dumb-bells stuck through our tongues <br>like someone was doing voodoo on the leaves <br>or the baton of a drum major in a parade <br>that's never going to come, afraid to leave home on its own. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Since I was a boy in the late Cretaceous, <br>I've always wondered about the timing <br>of the asteroids and comets and why <br>they had such an impact upon the dinosaurs. <br>But I hear they were already on their way to extinction<br>because of the earth's own volcanic activity, <br>and, at worst, the asteroid just accelerated <br>the flywheel of birth and death a bit. <br>Bad spin on an antiquated myth of origin.<br>Better luck next time, but right now the mammals <br>have evolved so far beyond that they're destroying themselves<br>in a long, slow nuclear winter of attrition <br>that's putting a pillow over everybody's face <br>like the cloud cover of a screening myth with an air force<br>that buffers the light with our own ashes <br>and much prefers smouldering to ignition. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What did Berryman say in a letter to Wang Wei, <br>centuries after the fact, just before he jumped from a bridge <br>into an ice-covered river with the Pulitzer Prize in his hands? -<br>O to talk to you in a freedom from ten thousand things. <br>Be dust myself pretty soon. Not now. Or words to that effect. <br>But just the same, it's hard to get into the skull <br>of the man anymore without the flame of a candle or a dragon <br>to see where you're going in case you nudge an atom the wrong way<br>and bring on another astronomical catastrophe inadvertently. <br>Minefield covered in snow like a pioneer cemetery <br>buried on the hilltop of an avalanche with a view of the valley below. <br>Dangerous, too, to move among the stars freely <br>like a rogue planet without a starmap, causing perturbations <br>in the orbits of the shepherd moons on an exploratory flyby<br>to see if there's any kind of intelligent life you can identify with.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The nights are getting darker. The stars are moving further apart. <br>Sooner or later everything tends toward empty space<br>until there isn't even any room left in it for itself.<br>And nothing ever dawns upon you there but endless entropy<br>and time comes to a sudden halt where spaces runs out<br>and the bones of the fossilized stars are left like empty chairs <br>in a dark auditorium with bad acoustics.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'll write it on the wind now, while I have the chance.<br>I'll write it like a fire in smoke at a ghost dance. <br>I'll write it in blood and tears and rivers and stars. <br>I'll write it in scars and wounds as deep as roses. <br>I'll write it on the skins of the snakes that I've shed <br>like serpent fire running up the lunar thread of my spinal cord <br>like a lightning rod tattooing the clouds of unknowing <br>with the insights of fireflies into the mysterious darkness of life, <br>who know that one glimpse is enough of a Big Bang <br>to satisfy even the blind who go looking for their eyes <br>with their eyes like a windfall in a thunderstorm of picture-music<br>though they're still hanging on to the same old lifeline<br>like an umbilical cord between the backdoor and the barn <br>in blizzard of stars and butterflies. I'll write it in light. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'll write it on the eyelids of eclipses and occultations alike. <br>I'll write it on the foreheads of the mute rocks <br>in runic striations of glaciers retreating north in tears, <br>I'll write it on my bones before I'm buried under the hearthstones<br>with a big rock on my chest like an asteroid <br>rolled over a cave to make sure I'll never rise again<br>like Jesus and Muhammad said I would if I was good, <br>or Ali Baba and the forty thieves muttering their shibboleths <br>on the thresholds of an artificial paradise, in case I wasn't.<br> <br>Now is the light. Now is the loving and the living. <br>Now is the hour for the hidden nightbirds to raise their voices<br>in the sacred groves of the moon to celebrate <br>the brevity of their own longing for the unattainable<br>blossoming on the dead branch of their aspiration.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There's only so much time, and then, in a moment or two, forever. <br>The heart sings awhile like a red-winged black bird on a green bough. <br>And then the eyeless silence of the stars <br>who have looked down upon nothing for 14.3 billion lightyears <br>and watched the fireflies dancing to the music <br>of their own tiny hearts, lockets of light, of insight, <br>that open like seeds and eyes sown into the abyss <br>to let all winged things, and even star-nosed moles can fly, <br>out of the cages of their earthbound solitude like dragons<br>taken down like occult books from their hardwood shelves, <br>with the wingspan of constellations singing in the night to themselves.</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=476920" data-title="The Light Doesn't Talk To The Flowers Anymore de Patrick White" data-description="The light doesn't talk to the flowers anymore 
the way it used to. I can feel a lot of shadows touching my face
as if it were written in braille. Acid in the rain. 
Tears of dry ice in the housewell. Weathervanes 
knocking at the door to get out o..."></div>
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