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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476967" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>These Days, This Late At Night</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">These days, this late at night, I'm usually a lone wolf sage<br>high above the timberline in a sanctuary of solitude<br>that occasionally breaks the silence<br>with the elegaic echo of the anquished shriek of a hawk <br>wheeling in the abyss like the stars overhead <br>feeling as if its flightfeathers just caught fire <br>and for a few brief moments no longer <br>than the wingspan of a wavelength <br>it was shining like them and there were jewels <br>like a woman's eyes cracking the rock <br>of a heart that's been more of an asteroid <br>than habitable planet with a few ancestral skulls of its own <br>for moons and a creative atmosphere where the clouds <br>can move mountains to tears with the beauty <br>of what can bloom spontaneously out of nothing<br>like wildflowers strewn all over the starfields <br>as if they were expecting someone to come <br>of the things we really feel are worth crying for.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These days, this time of night, I delight <br>in looking for the most beautiful nocturnal metaphors <br>I can compare to you inside and out and beyond both<br>like a spirit of female serpent fire that haunts me <br>into paying tribute to her like a muse <br>who's beginning to possess me like the sea does <br>when the moon swims out to practise witchcraft <br>on a lonely island retreat that sings to itself at night.<br>Even from here, I can hear the song being carried <br>across the light years like the dove of a deep lament <br>she keeps like the wind in a locket the size <br>of the noose around her neck, and the flying carpet <br>under her feet all that's between her <br>and firewalking on stars like a burning kite <br>someone let go of like the umbilical cord <br>of a lifeboat that had come unmoored in a lunar storm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Maybe I'm just fossil hunting on the moon <br>I've been howling at all these years <br>over the bone pits of dark wisdom I've dug up <br>on the far side of a black mirror <br>that doesn't insult your seeing with a night light. <br>But I swear sometimes when I think of you, <br>what lies like an archives in the riverbeds <br>of the sedimentary starmud you put back down <br>like a book you've read eras of time before, <br>and look out the window like a door <br>where you don't have to leave your body <br>on the threshold like shoes at the edge of the sea<br>when you walk into your own depths up over your head <br>to see if your eyes can still swim <br>with the dolphins and the stars and the flying fish <br>you left in your wake like a locust plague of urgent telegrams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know we're still more strangers to each other <br>than intimates, that there maybe watersheds <br>we have in common, and maybe it's still too early <br>for the fountains to come into blossom yet <br>as the last stars of the season become<br>the chandeliers of the morning stars of the next<br>like dusky candles going out in the blue light of the dawn. <br>And maybe there are ladders of fire to paradise <br>trembling like crutches on the edge of a shaky precipice<br>trying to climb higher than its cloud cover<br>to break into light like the Pleiades <br>just above the moon and Jupiter on a good seeing night, <br>but these days, this late at night, I've been inhaling<br>a lyrical lantern of oxygen and breathing out stars<br>like the circumpolar constellation of a healing dragon <br>pole-dancing with the caduceus of the celestial axis of the earth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm laired with the unmarrowed riddles of bones of my own <br>I'm trying to read like the yarrow sticks <br>of a bird skeleton with rose-arbour wings <br>to see if the light I sense approaching out of the dark <br>is a mirage of fireflies disguised as a lightning bolt <br>or the soul mate of a rogue planet <br>that wants to ghost dance around the third eye <br>of a first magnitude star that doesn't have any idea <br>of what I'm doing up here, nor how far <br>a whisper of light away can seem <br>to a man fully awake these days, this late at night, <br>writing in the shadows cast by the candelabra<br>of a homeless zodiac off the beaten path<br>like the first draft a waking dream <br>sleepwalking beside me like the dakini <br>of a star struck maniac lifting the veils <br>of the inconceivable like the paint rags<br>of the night vision shining in the eyes behind them<br>that even in the dark make everything seem <br>so incredibly counter-intuitive and lucidly beautiful <br>I'd be truly out of my mind, like a crystal cranium <br>that's lost touch with its own translucency <br>if I didn't find it wholly believable<br>down to the last mystic detail my enlightened lunacy<br>howling like a wolf seer at the rising of a new moon <br>out of a valley where I can hear the distant barking <br>of the seeing-eye dog that follows Orion around<br>like a traffic light for the blind compared <br>to the way you light me up like the Pleiades <br>whenever I'm trying to get a parallactic fix <br>on your radiance dancing like a cult of fireflies<br>on the event horizons of my prophetic skull.</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=476967" data-title="These Days, This Late At Night de Patrick White" data-description="These days, this late at night, I'm usually a lone wolf sage
high above the timberline in a sanctuary of solitude
that occasionally breaks the silence
with the elegaic echo of the anquished shriek of a hawk 
wheeling in the abyss like the stars ov..."></div>
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