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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476954" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Willows Adorned By The Return Of Their Old Hair-Dos</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The willows adorned by the return of their old hair dos. <br>I've been mud-mashing my way down to the banks <br>of the Tay River lately through the primordial ooze, <br>now that the weather's turned round, just to feel<br>with an overly sophisticated sense of childish anticipation, <br>Venus bright in the apple-green gloaming of the swallow-swept air, <br>as if I were playing with fire again, the flaring <br>of the wild irises of the spirit burning hot and blue <br>as hydrogen in the heart of a needle-shaped flame <br>that can see right through me into what goes on <br>behind the curtains of my theatrical third eye<br>when I come like an amorous arsonist, <br>bearing bouquets of dried flowers <br>I've pressed between the pages of a matchbook<br>as a token of an old love affair I'm annually immolated by.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not as a martyr who takes things lying down <br>but as a heretic who does his time standing up at the stake, <br>though I've always been a little suspicious about the heroism <br>implicit in that. Even in the fires of hell <br>I've tried to avoid posturing. But there again, you see, <br>I'm assuming a virtue I may not have, I'm blooming in fire, <br>I'm shooting clowns out of cannons without safety nets <br>as the heavens come down around me like the circus tents<br>of the empty envelopes of day old loveletters<br>who've lost the scent of what made them so flammable <br>in the first place. Just because I'm waiting for wild irises <br>to break ground along the banks of the Tay <br>doesn't mean I'm not a spiritual disgrace <br>that's as hard to fathom as a shipwreck <br>in my oceanic consciousness as it is <br>to see myself raising the skull and crossbones <br>like a condor among the angel fleets of heaven <br>at anchor in home port just to give them a good run for their money<br>like the wind in an orchard in bloom <br>impatient to get beyond the first fragrance of things <br>and taste the fruits by which everyone of us shall be known. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Either that. Or I've got more of a river nature than I thought <br>and that could explain why I'm always talking to myself<br>like water in passing that no one's listening to <br>in these solitudinous out of the way places along the river <br>I seek out like natural shrines in the woods, <br>trespassing against obstacles in the way of my pilgrimage <br>securing its footing on the bones of those underfoot <br>laid out like crosswalks and the rungs of ladders<br>stepped on like thresholds that stayed well within bounds<br>as you would expect any mystical stairwell addicted <br>to its spiritual vertigo like a Sufi at a crossroads <br>dancing with a dust devil of blue hydrogen stars <br>into ecstatic annihilations of satoric fireflies <br>who clarify the afterbirth of their clouds of unknowing <br>by sitting still as constellations on contemplative waters, to.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Besides, everyone's got their own way of dealing with metaphors<br>to render the chaos of experience communicable <br>through some intimate form they can spend their whole lives<br>trying too hard to relate to as if it knew who they were<br>and were simply waiting for the right time <br>to let them in on the secret that it knows <br>nothing more or less about what it is or you are<br>than you suggested to it in the first place<br>when you began to take yourself too mysteriously. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I see a red and black baseball cap floating down the river <br>and right away I think of a decapitated tiger lily. <br>A fire someone put out too early to catch on and spread <br>like a spiritual conflagration of heretics <br>through the alphabetic birch groves of the Druids. <br>Does that mean whatever rises from the ashes <br>is thereafter struck dumb, deaf, mute and illiterate? <br>The counter-intuitive grammars of free association <br>are thenceforth to be demonized and burnt as witchcraft? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">If I await the coming of the wild irises with poetic devotion <br>and the offshoot of my daydreaming to pass the time <br>is to see the eddies in the water like the tendrils <br>of wild grapevines trying to get a grasp on things, <br>couldn't that mean that life playfully suffers <br>the same highly suggestive visual imagination I do? <br>And did its ears come late to the party as mine did too<br>and crash it as usual like an egg a crow drops <br>on the skull of a river rock anointed by the sun, <br>beaten away by the irate broomsticks of the sparrows, <br>because there is more instinct in swimming upstream <br>salmonwise against the flow of your own thought <br>on a return journey more dangerous than the first<br>than there is in painting watercolours <br>from the back of a hearse when it's raining? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But don't try to answer that question with your eyes open <br>unless you're used to seeing things in your own light <br>and waiting for something as I am wild irises to bloom <br>like the sagacious fires of female dragon muses<br>on the dark, unmothered side of the moon<br>I'm seasonally inspired to sacrifice myself to<br>on the altar of a river rock that sticks in my imagination <br>like a vow of the voice in my throat<br>I made to the river as much as myself<br>never to let its beauty lack a messenger<br>that couldn't speak in the tongues of the wild irises<br>without tasting my own ashes in the blue fires <br>of what they wanted me to convey<br>with a passion for extinction to the clouds and the stars.</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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I've been mud-mashing my way down to the banks 
of the Tay River lately through the primordial ooze, 
now that the weather's turned round, just to feel
with an overly sophisticated sense of..."></div>
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