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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476929" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Night's A Black Hole Of A Begging Bowl</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The night's a black hole of a begging bowl<br>that doesn't know what to ask for anymore. <br>Shall I throw the new moon of another beginning in <br>like good coin of the realm, in passing, <br>or bite the bullet of a counterfeit eclipse <br>in the silver silo of the dark abundance <br>I'm trying to trigger into stars again<br>like apocalyptic insights going off in my brain? <br>The heavens roll like an old thirty-eight<br>I raise to my temple for old times' sake.<br>But the gate I used to close behind me <br>in the high starfields to keep nothing in<br>is hanging on like a lapwing by one rusty hinge <br>to the wing and the prayer it's dragging on the ground.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's getting a little late for suicide. The timing's <br>overtaken the importance of the content. <br>And this close to the end, it would be a shame <br>not to see yourself out like friend in the doorway <br>saying farewell to yourself as you say in return <br>I'm glad you came to the stranger whose threshold<br>you crossed like a star in transit at zenith. <br>My pulse is still hammering swords of light out <br>on the anvil of my heart for me to fall upon, <br>but lately I've been bending them like horseshoes <br>to put them out of use and return them in tribute <br>to the water sylphs in the sacred pools of my mindstream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Inspiration ages into crazy wisdom that still <br>doesn't take its own advice but never fails to sing <br>in a voice worthy of a wolf or hermit thrush at moonrise. <br>I've been firewalking my way through this<br>long, dark, strange, radiant dream since I first <br>opened my eyes and the stars began to shine <br>but I've never lived the same thing twice.<br>Though the morning star falls like Lucifer <br>in the false dawn of enlightenment, the abyss <br>cannot be bridged by anyone's trajectories<br>however high we ascend, how ever deep we plunge, <br>until we're burning like maple leaves and shooting stars <br>in the second innocence of our return journey back to earth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fletched arrowheads of the sky, even the birds <br>falling short of the unattainable miss the mark <br>and return to the green boughs of their beginnings<br>just like the flight of these words in the sunset <br>as the night overwhelms us all unspeakably <br>with the proto-nostratic of the stars <br>like a mother-tongue of light that leaves nothing unsaid<br>in the autumn darkness fragrant with the decaying dream grammars<br>of the dead slipping their shadows like secret messages <br>under the door of the book we're writing between us, <br>the beginningless prelude of the endless epilogue<br>of the memoir of the love life we had with Venus in Virgo<br>when the new moon was in the claws of sensuous Scorpio.<br>Big, red-hearted, archaic Antares <br>threshing the green wheat of Spica<br>as if the harvest had been achieved before the seed was planted. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Just because we die doesn't mean that life <br>is finished with us like the draft of a manuscript <br>we threw into the bonfires of the maple trees <br>to inspire our ashes to rise out of the open urns of our firepits <br>like the feathers of a dragon enflamed by the wind<br>so our spirits could ride their own legends a breath <br>higher and closer to the stars every time we open our wings <br>to re-read the lyrics it took a lifetime to write in scars <br>like thorns in defence of the mystery of the black rose<br>we were happy to bleed for as if our blood had no other use<br>than the ink in the pens of these leafless woods <br>dreaming of new foliage in the spring returning <br>like the plumage of eagles to the lonely flight feathers <br>of their skeletal quills. Fossil constellations <br>in the darkness that whisper between the lines<br>of the alpha and omega of the life themes that once ran <br>like purple passages of the mindstream <br>that can still shed light on our afterlives in a book of shale<br>long before we had eyes to read what we were writing<br>like loveletters to ourselves on intimate terms <br>with the inconceivable solitude of this distant future<br>we're all living now in celebration of yesterdays yet to come.</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=476929" data-title="The Night's A Black Hole Of A Begging Bowl de Patrick White" data-description="The night's a black hole of a begging bowl
that doesn't know what to ask for anymore. 
Shall I throw the new moon of another beginning in 
like good coin of the realm, in passing, 
or bite the bullet of a counterfeit eclipse 
in the silver silo of..."></div>
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