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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476966" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>There's Nothing Cozy About Real Beauty</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There’s nothing cozy about real beauty. <br>That’s why it scares you to death <br>when you’re around it. You sense<br>that it disdains to kill you<br>simply because it knows it can<br>but that only makes you beg for the knife <br>even more, even deeper, until <br>you’ve suffered more death <br>than you ever knew there was to suffer. <br>It’s the same with the truth. The truth <br>isn’t the act of a well-meaning <br>coffee-table sentiment, <br>a hundred dollar book<br>of recycled paper <br>to help save the Caribou, <br>an a chequered impressionist table-cloth<br>with compositionally balanced butter-knives<br>that have never tasted blood in their lives.<br>If you can’t hear the shriek <br>of the red-tailed hawk as it plunges <br>toward a mating pair of killdeer <br>executing an aerial ballet in May<br>that would make you cry it’s so beautiful, <br>you can’t hear the hummingbirds <br>at the holly hocks either <br>even if you know sign language.<br>And no more than the truth, poetry <br>isn’t a mirror you hold up to nature<br>with preconceived notions of what<br>you want to see reflected there. <br>In hunting season around here <br>the truth can bleed Bambi upside down <br>from the bough of a willow <br>that let’s its golden tresses down <br>all the way to the ground <br>until its tips are dyed in blood.<br>The truth can tear the heart of a wolf out<br>and eat it raw in front <br>of a classroom of schoolchildren <br>while it’s still beating. <br>Go ask any child army.<br>Go ask any street kid in Ottawa<br>or any bushwhacked adolescent in Lanark.<br>You asked me to read your poems<br>without holding anything back from you <br>and I have and I won’t. <br>You keep a tidy house<br>on the right side of the tracks <br>of a zodiac with astro-turf lawns.<br>And I see all your candles <br>have been dipped in scented wax <br>and write right-handed<br>with glowing nibs on the reverent air<br>and there’s a stick of sandalwood incense<br>protruding from a buddha’s belly-button <br>that makes me wonder <br>whether he’s committing hiri kiri <br>or lowering his lance at a joust<br>to let a lady tie a ribbon to it<br>as you have most of these poems<br>to designate them your champions.<br>You’ve bomb-proofed your church so well <br>with so many lesser lights <br>in cages and black outs there’s no chance <br>you’ll ever be struck by a bolt of inspiration. <br>The lightning doesn’t send messages<br>like sweetgrass in the beaks of doves. <br>You sip from the muses like bottled water <br>from the tears of crystal skulls.<br>But you haven’t yet learned how <br>to swallow their watersheds on the moon<br>or drink blood from the skull of your own <br>in a single gulp for fear <br>they’ve been contaminated by fracking. <br>Flying fish in a sea of shadows <br>that’s always at full tide <br>but you never reveal <br>the constellations of dead starfish <br>that reek to high heaven <br>like the stink of enlightenment on the bottom<br>when the tide bleeds out<br>like a white-tailed doe. <br>Happy lifeboats moored safely in port <br>as if there were nothing to risk or rescue<br>but a new paint job <br>as a storm front moves in<br>like a curtain call of judgmental grey.<br>All your feral cats have been fixed <br>and the darkness has no claws or fangs, <br>and that wilderness that used to howl <br>in an agony of sex and longing <br>under your windowsill of potted herbs<br>all unnerving night long <br>now purrs impotently in your lap.<br>You strew your path with rose-petals <br>but when have you ever walked barefoot <br>on toxic thorns or the plinths and eyelashes <br>of the splintered chandeliers of the stars? <br>You cut the polar ice-caps off <br>the extremes of a hard-boiled planet <br>and only eat the temperate zones <br>you can scoop out with a silver spoon <br>like the front left parietal lobe <br>of Humpty Dumpty’s sunny brain. <br>Blackholes do more to enhance <br>the radiance of stars and fireflies, <br>ignite the fire of dragons<br>on the other side of a wormhole hourglass <br>into the next coincidence <br>of a harmoniously contradictory world<br>than all those sunbeams <br>you try to keep on <br>like night lights in a morgue <br>because you’re afraid to sleep with the dead<br>and they don’t want to wake up without you. <br>And I’m not saying <br>you need to go out and mess up, <br>trample on your own garden, <br>turn Taurus loose <br>in the china shop of the Pleiades.<br>No one can go out and think their way <br>into an experience they haven’t had yet.<br>They merely experience their own thought. <br>Just another poetry book <br>having sex with itself<br>in the hopes of winning an award<br>to make it feel fulfilled enough <br>it can take what’s real for granted.<br>But even Rimbaud who <br>dissociated his sensibilities rationally<br>and then killed a man with a stone <br>on a construction site in Cyprus <br>discovered how dangerous it is <br>to broach the spontaneous deliberately.<br>As for me, I’ve learned <br>to delight in the despair <br>of my own crazy wisdom. <br>As for you, you might start <br>by turning the light and around<br>and looking into the darkness within you <br>not as a smudge on the reputation of your lilies<br>but as a chunk of coal <br>that didn’t let your diamonds down. <br>A suggestion I suggest you ignore <br>if you’ve understood anything I’ve said<br>about the nature of poetry <br>that makes any petty sense at all to you.<br>And the next time you <br>you run into your own clarity <br>like Galileo trying to show you <br>through his telescope <br>there are sunspots in your field of view <br>like bruises on a banana <br>and the moon is pock-marked <br>by one too many facelifts, <br>don’t try to paint the lens<br>as if you were airbrushing <br>the imperfections out of your own eyes<br>just realize how important it is <br>to open them from the inside out. <br>And as for those little black ants, <br>that keep inciting a riot of words<br>you’ve got no crowd control over<br>you keep setting honey-traps for, <br>to keep them from running all over<br>the planetary orb <br>of your moonlit peony in bud<br>like a chaos of minutes<br>looking for a fixed place <br>on a spherical waterclock<br>as if they were all <br>running out on time simultaneously. <br>Trust me, or don’t, they’ll let you know <br>when the sun shines at midnight <br>and your hour’s come round to bloom.<br>Meteors cry like diamonds <br>for the species they make a big impact upon. <br>And volcanoes eventually <br>weep their way into islands <br>that will be seeded by birds and castaways. <br>The eye of the rose <br>looks into the secret heart of the worm <br>and sees the wings of tearful loveletters <br>being born like butterflies in the rain. <br>And then the sun appears <br>and dries them out <br>like laundry on the line. <br>Or the negative of an eclipse <br>hung up in a dark room <br>like a flypaper map of the stars<br>in an alternative universe <br>on the other side of your eyes <br>that hasn’t come up with a name, <br>a fixed place, or a myth of origins for you yet<br>until you’ve passed <br>like the tiny planet of a firefly<br>through the gravitational eyes<br>of a constellation of black holes<br>without going out <br>like a flashlight you keep shining<br>nervously into the dark doorway<br>of a dragon’s mouth when you write<br>to see what was making the noise<br>like the universal cosmic hiss <br>of a flamethrower in a snakepit <br>of oracular wavelengths<br>that keeps you from going <br>downstairs to find out.<br>As a Zen master once said. <br>The stone is lustrous <br>but there’s nothing inside. <br>The ore is different <br>but from it comes gold.<br>And as any poet knows <br>who’s ever been inspired<br>you polish gold in fire.<br>You don’t write white noise <br>to block the darkness out<br>as if you were afraid <br>of things that go bump in the night.<br>Don’t fall like a snowflake on a furnace<br>then try to sip your tears like spit <br>from its prophetic mouth when you melt.<br>Be a star, be a Chinese lantern, <br>be a fire-kite of burning insight.<br>Light upon light means <br>the darkness shines as well<br>on the inside as it does without<br>whether you see it or not.<br>The moonrise of an emotion <br>follows the sunset of a thought. <br>Two tides of the same ocean, <br>the highs and the lows <br>the crest and the trough<br>of the same wavelength we’re all on. <br>And the mountain you’re trying to climb<br>is only as high and white <br>as the valley is deep and dark. <br>Not two is the furthest thing <br>you can say in a universe that isn’t a lie.<br>There’s a lot of shadowless noon <br>in your impeccable poetry <br>but where’s the starless midnight<br>on the other side of of your eyes? <br>Don’t orphan your first born <br>to legitimize your poems <br>like a forged birth certificate <br>you hope everyone will recognize<br>as your rightful place <br>in a table of contents<br>with the good taste of a menu.<br>A suggestion I suggest you ignore <br>if you’ve understood, <br>deeply understood <br>anything I’ve said<br>about the nature of poetry <br>that makes any petty sense at all to you.<br>And I don’t say this to be kind or cruel.<br>You know how <br>to harvest the full moon<br>like a sparrow<br>the gleanings of the light, <br>twelve grain whole wheat bread, <br>but you don’t know how to sow stars <br>on the dark side of an eclipse<br>that will sprout and bloom, <br>a phoenix feathered in wild fire<br>that will catch on and spread<br>like life itself <br>like the syntaretic spark<br>of the timeless with the fruitless dead.<br>Out of the dark abundance<br>of watersheds and roots, <br>the phoenix energy of your cells, <br>the bright vacancy of the full moon, <br>a blossom on a dead branch, <br>the new moon of a crow in autumn<br>on a green bough of night birds <br>that are never at a loss for words <br>when the truth and the beauty <br>of the light coming out of the darkness <br>leaves them as speechless <br>as a starmap of fireflies<br>where the constellations have no names, <br>going up in flames.</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=476966" data-title="There's Nothing Cozy About Real Beauty de Patrick White" data-description="There’s nothing cozy about real beauty. 
That’s why it scares you to death 
when you’re around it. You sense
that it disdains to kill you
simply because it knows it can
but that only makes you beg for the knife 
even more, even deeper, until..."></div>
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