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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476948" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Stars Will Not Devise</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The stars will not devise a way out of your life <br>	that they haven’t already offered you<br>		and the sprawl of green fountains <br>that hallows you now, the victorious trees, <br>	 will later dropp all their keys <br>		like a nightwatchman too drunk to get in.<br>You must stand in the ashes if you want to study orchids, <br>	you must fill your body up with clouds<br>		and red-tailed hawks, and autumn leaves <br>torn from the pages of the history of fire <br>	if you want to follow what the wind is saying <br>		back to its mouth in the sun. <br>Everything else is the source of everything else<br>	and the rain knows more about circles and arrows<br>		than all the bows and compasses<br>of the sad magician who’s stripped his purities of flesh.<br>	Stay close to the earth if you want<br>		to look deeply into the eyes of the stars <br>and see the golden maggot that hangs from its lifeline<br>	like a message in a tear delivered with wings. <br>		Your blood, no matter how you say it, <br>is a prelude of wild roses beside a murdered brook, <br>	and there are legends of light on your skin <br>		that are ancient instructions <br>on how to bring it back to life again. Denude yourself<br>	of those feathers and leaves and mirrors<br>		you dress the morning up in <br>to go and sit on the corner like an open guitar-case<br>	to deprive the music of the night before. <br>		There are women everywhere, half-awake, <br>who grope the sheets for you like spare change <br>	in an empty bed, and blue doors where you live <br>		waiting for you to fill the tiny eyes of their spy-holes<br>with ruined moons willing to sacrifice themselves <br>	for a few moments more.<br>		If you give your word to me <br>you won’t desecrate their graves with shallow questions, <br>	I’ll show you where the harps<br>		of the enlightened peacocks were buried with honours<br>when they saw through the veils of the eclipse <br>	that opened their eyes to a dawn <br>		they hadn’t expected. Get up off your knees<br>in that house of chains and crippled ladders you worship in; <br>	there’s nothing holy about the crutches you contrive<br>		in a shipyard of able bones, and your voyages <br>are already blessed by the sea that pounds in your chest<br>	to add you to her islands. Can’t you feel <br>		the soft adagios of her secret distances <br>swaying the keyboard of your crossed horizons like waves? <br>	And why do you quote the fool of your own silence <br>		to contradict the wisdom of the night <br>that everywhere answers you <br>	with the shadows of bells and owls <br>		you can read between the lines of the stars; <br>isn’t it clear that all that vastness is a rock in a well <br>	she’s singing to you, a fragrance of time <br>		that wants to voice the solitude <br>of her lachrymose labyrinths to someone <br>	who knows how to listen<br>		in the nocturnal flowers of her native tongue? <br>Write, yes, write; by all means <br>	show us the beauty of your soul <br>		in its passage across the moon<br>whether coming or going, array your lonely jewels <br>	on the carpet of the sky before us <br>		like the fruits and tears and eyes <br>that have congealed from your sorrows, <br>	and those dark drops of amber and tar <br>		that preserve all your flights and fears intact<br>like supple summers jailed in a locket; let’s <br>	hold them up, too, to the light and wonder <br>		that you could endure such fables of pain; <br>and not just your bleeding rubies, not just <br>	your emeritus emeralds and the radiant sapphires<br>		that fell from the crown <br>that graced the domain of your regal demeanour<br>	with a northern constellation, <br>		but the painted fish and electric eels, <br>and the sharks and the crabs and the jelly fish <br>	that live in the dead cities of your all night corals <br>		like cheap actors in ravenous wardrobes of blood<br>playing for real; let’s see them as well, <br>	and all the rank gardens that grow in the dirt<br>		beneath the crescents of your untrimmed nails<br>slumming like landlords in places you wouldn’t live; <br>	let’s see all of these and more lifting the veils<br>		on the ferrous brides of your unimpeachable sincerity.<br>But when all the vows have been taken and forsaken <br>	and your dead have been lavishly mourned<br>		in brass, granite, marble, and staples, <br>let’s see if you know how to drink with the shadows <br>	you go out every sunset<br>		with your tongue as thick as a broom <br>to sweep from the stairs? After the cool, blue, jazz clefs <br>	warming up like fireflies and fiddleheads<br>		to the implications of emptiness improvising<br>on the black trumpets of the scorched daylilies, <br>	let’s hear from some passing storm now and again<br>		that you’ve learned how to die enough <br>that the pulse of a profounder heartbeat <br>	that marks time with the breathing of nightfall<br>		is all that keeps you alive.</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=476948" data-title="The Stars Will Not Devise de Patrick White" data-description="The stars will not devise a way out of your life 
	that they haven’t already offered you
		and the sprawl of green fountains 
that hallows you now, the victorious trees, 
	 will later dropp all their keys 
		like a nightwatchman too drunk to get..."></div>
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