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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476962" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>There Was Nothing Ever To Forgive You For</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There was nothing ever to forgive you for<br>I'd say to you now if you were still alive.<br>Pain doesn't maintain an agent, <br>though as many who have lived <br>have been named as perpetrators; <br>it just occurs<br>like happiness just happens<br>like a stroke of luck, a touch of grace<br>in an astronomical lottery of famished chances. <br>Voices arise in my head to address you<br>in the immensities of time and sorrow <br>like spokesmen for my heart<br>and another part of me <br>listens from the audience to this play<br>that's been going on for light years without you.<br>I suspect I'm still trying to perfect the way I loved you <br>out of force of habit, knowing how <br>redundant and absurd that is <br>long after the play closed<br>and the plaster cherubs <br>on the Ionian cornices of the theatre <br>were buried in the rubble<br>along with the comic and tragic masks <br>that shed their petals when the lights went off <br>and everyone was left face to face with themselves. <br>You have drifted in and out of my poems for years<br>like a curtain at an open window <br>in an abandoned house, <br>like blue smoke from an autumn fire, <br>the fragrance of the bath you draw from the stars<br>and sweeten with the salts of lunar wildflowers<br>whenever you want to renew your virginity <br>like the kings' mistress <br>stepping out of the sea <br>like some Renaissance Venus<br>covering her sex up with a serpentine lock of hair.<br>You're the sparrow on the finger of Catullus' lover <br>except now you can only make it as far <br>as my windowsill<br>though I leave everything open to you <br>to come and go as you please and must.<br>No illusory skies. No broken necks. <br>No more finger-stroking the soft walnut of a bird's head<br>like a lost locket full of grief, <br>like a small lamp that can't grant anymore wishes<br>however you caress it. <br>Ah, the genie's out mingling with the Milky Way<br>like all unencompassed spirits of the night, <br>like dead souls in the bodies of Canada geese<br>heading southwest <br>though their echoes are veering northeast<br>as if their homeless ghosts <br>had a place and mind of their own, <br>an airy nothingness <br>without a local habitation or a name. <br>In my view of the world as picture-music <br>in an expanding universe with its foot to the floor <br>on a pedal of dark energy <br>the vision's always too big <br>for any frame or stage or star map <br>you bring to it to try and express<br>where things are improbably at now.<br>We were young together for awhile <br>and we sought to embrace the world <br>and everything in it <br>even if it meant kissing the dead on the forehead<br>to wake them up gently from their long dream<br>of flying in formation with Canada geese, <br>though it never did. <br>I tried it on you more than once.<br>I kissed every bead on a rosary of prophetic skulls.<br>And still to this day no one answers, no one hears.<br>I tried to scry the future <br>in the crystal balls of my tears <br>but all I ever saw was the same old moon, <br>the same old stars that crossed us off<br>their birthday guest list<br>like a calendar of total eclipses <br>that had already taken place. <br>And I knew the future was far behind us. <br>And your early death could only make you more beautiful <br>as the years wore out their threadbare flying carpets<br>and those rare bright nocturnal spirits of life <br>you were meant to meet and fall in love with <br>like the heart loves its bloodstream <br>like a waterclock loves the passage of time <br>when it's full to overbrimming <br>with water on the moon<br>grow rarer and further apart <br>like stars on the skin of our cosmic enlargements.<br>Just like this open window <br>that never lets eternity become a barrier to the dead. <br>I've never closed the curtains on the play.<br>I've never drawn a veil over <br>the fountains and the waterfalls<br>the wetlands and rapids of my mindstream<br>and said to the lady of the lake <br>in her garment of mist <br>this is live water <br>and that water's dead<br>as if there were a wave of difference<br>between the one that carries forth <br>and the one that carries away.<br>The cloud and the snow on the mountaintop<br>both speak the same language, <br>share the same mother-tongue<br>as does the fog in the valley<br>the ice, the rain, the dew, <br>as if what's false about the living <br>were true of the dead as well, <br>everything sublime, everything trivial.<br>Hydra-headed water shapeshifting <br>through our hands <br>like the desert sands of an hourglass<br>that dump the pyramid <br>and finally get out of the box.<br>Lunar landscapes <br>with transmogrifying mindstreams<br>that apply themselves like water<br>to mending gardens on the moon<br>while death waits like a stranger at the gate <br>to commend you on the green thumb <br>that's apparent in your choice of wildflowers.<br>I can still feel you bend time<br>like the body of a guitar <br>when you're around me<br>trying to tune the spider webs <br>in the corner of the room I write in<br>to your cosmic whole note of silence. <br>And just as you were a muse of mine in life <br>and I drew your intoxicating waters <br>deeply from the well <br>and we walked under the stars awhile <br>without caring where we were going <br>so even in death <br>I can feel you come to the dead branch sometimes<br>like inspiration to a night bird's heart<br>when it doesn't really matter <br>if anyone answers or not<br>because you flower like longing <br>in the roots of my solitude<br>and the moon blossoms <br>and my poems unfold like leaves.</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=476962" data-title="There Was Nothing Ever To Forgive You For de Patrick White" data-description="There was nothing ever to forgive you for
I'd say to you now if you were still alive.
Pain doesn't maintain an agent, 
though as many who have lived 
have been named as perpetrators; 
it just occurs
like happiness just happens
like a stroke of luc..."></div>
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