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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476936" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Practical Uses Of Poetry</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not to be practical, not <br>	to mean, be, do, <br>		no more than the wind <br>to insist upon itself, to <br>	move like the wind, <br>		like a disembodied intelligence <br>over the mindfields<br>	practicing the twin disciplines <br>		of light and rain, <br>scattering the mystic pollen <br>	of intuitive seeds <br>		that bloom like roseate fire <br>in the shadowless gardens of the abyss<br>	arranging the cosmos like a wild bouquet <br>		in the blood vase of the human heart. <br>To remind us <br>	we're not fireflies or stars <br>		stuck on a chromosome<br>of intellectual flypaper, <br>	a buzzing that will stop, <br>		but a passion of native iron <br>in the arms of alien oxygen, <br>	urged into creative consummation <br>		by carbon. <br>Free as water, free as God <br>	the night she put the universe on <br>		like make-up <br>to attend to the beginning of everything<br>	with a cosmic efflorescence of fireworks, <br>		to speak for the stones, the stars, the trees, <br>to say them into being, <br>	to say us, to whisper us <br>		into the enormity of her solitude, <br>the inconceivability of her darkness, <br>a secret she couldn't keep anymore.<br>	Experience is a child playing, <br>not function, not a job, not a career.<br>	What's practical about singing alone <br>		because the mysterious nightbird<br>has come like a blossom of joy <br>	to the bough of the tree in winter? <br>		Or must dancing have a use, <br>music be enchained to the stone ear of utility? <br>	Bleeding isn't very practical either <br>		but how would you ever know <br>you were a rose scarred by your own thorns <br>	if you didn't? <br>		Sooner renounce the sweetness <br>of the star-flavoured summer night air<br>	or teach the wind a compass and a map, <br>		the sky to consult a control tower<br>than try to grind the stars of poetry<br>	with a stone and an ox <br>		into a function and a fee. <br>The wages of poetry are always a gift<br>	that takes the recipient by surprise <br>		with the beauty of its subtlety<br>and a coin as true as the moon.<br>	Who asks to be paid <br>		to dance alone with God? <br>And even the abyss <br>	has provided you with a world <br>		like a passport to anywhere you want to go.<br>Among the birds and the leaves <br>	flowing along with this pilgrimage of stars <br>		to shrines that are older than knowing, <br>if the sun or the moon <br>	should open your voice like a flower <br>		in the deep woods<br>to hear you singing in the light, <br>	and you are urged into poetry <br>		through a gate as open as the cosmos, <br>and you discover colours have echoes <br>	and the notes of your song <br>		are a palette of gardens, <br>and everything you paint with your picture-music <br>	is the portrait of someone you're becoming<br>		until you look like everyone <br>from the inside out, <br>	every passion <br>		the longing of a planet <br>to burn with life, <br>	and the deepest watershed of your humanity <br>		is itself<br>the fountain <br>where the goddess drinks from her own reflection, <br>	and you understand<br>that the word in the morning<br>	is the word at the end of the day, <br>		and that the life that adorns your body within <br>is the wine of the worlds <br>	in a cup of clay<br>		encrusted with stars<br>and you are the delirium the dream seeks, <br>	the lightning and lucidity of the dark sage <br>		your roots consult like a storm, <br>would you then look upon the first crescent of the moon <br>	and try to fix it to a plough, <br>		would you look forever <br>into the wells of now <br>	like the eyes of a lover<br>		who combs out the tresses of the willow like the wind<br>as if he played the whole of the night <br>	on the blue guitar of your heart, <br>		would you renounce the music as impractical? <br>To walk through this world aware, <br>	with a spear of moonlight through your heart <br>		like a poet, to feel <br>everything a human can feel <br>	and have the courage and the art <br>		to sing<br>the joys and sorrows, <br>	the gardens and intimate hells alike <br>		with compassion and understanding, <br>even when you often don't understand<br>	because the shadow of the world <br>		eclipses your eyes, <br>or the windows are saturated with pain, <br>	to be able to do that, to be that <br>		is beyond assessing<br>because there is no intention to life <br>	or the running of the river<br>		or the unspooling of a poem <br>that conceives of its seeing as progress. <br>	What the eye writes <br>		on these pages of percipient sky <br>that bring the world to a focus in us<br>	is not a reality in advance <br>		of the dream that shadows it.</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=476936" data-title="The Practical Uses Of Poetry de Patrick White" data-description="Not to be practical, not 
	to mean, be, do, 
		no more than the wind 
to insist upon itself, to 
	move like the wind, 
		like a disembodied intelligence 
over the mindfields
	practicing the twin disciplines 
		of light and rain, 
scattering the my..."></div>
</div>
</div>