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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476976" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>This Is An Old Sorrow</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">This is an old sorrow, almost beautiful in the way <br>it underwhelms me from above, a sky caving in <br>like a circus tent under the weight of the rain, <br>a ghost of fruit that could not bear the weight of its tears.<br>This is a random sadness that's got me as its only friend<br>when it thaws like a mirror <br>looking back over its shoulder <br>at its glacial past, ex-lovers, friends, certain pets, <br>and eyes that were glass weeping <br>in the intense mystic heat of a blast furnace full of stars <br>for how little they understood at the time, things pass <br>like Canada geese migrating across the moon<br>like a river you can't step into twice. <br>Though it doesn't make any sense to say so. <br>This is an ancient sorrow. And though one direction <br>is as good as many, I'm still following<br>the herds of the grazing stars as far north as I can. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O we shall sit down on the good earth half lotus sometime <br>and cry together for the wound of being alive. <br>The rose has teeth. And celebrate the scars <br>in the herb garden as if they were crescent moons.<br>Or the eyes of a powerful wraith of sadness <br>saturating the atmosphere with the pathos <br>of a lament that's been sublimely burning <br>through its heart for lightyears<br>like some deep emptiness it knows can never be filled.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As if God would never be enough for herself <br>and the whole of the universe were <br>one long maternity of endless creation <br>that is manifested in its entirety in each one of us<br>the way the moon's reflected in a dropp of blood <br>hanging from the thorn of a rose <br>with the last of two beautiful sunsets for eyes<br>like the sheen of auroral silk glancing off the scales <br>of a black watersnake at nightfall when the swallows go in <br>and the bats come out on the nightshift <br>like the winged heels of some demonic messenger <br>with minions that squeal in a frequency too high to hear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But however you send it, by sound or by silence, <br>by light or by night, be assured the message you send <br>however time and space bend things <br>is the message that's received, like a bee by a flower <br>or a star by the eye that transcribes it creatively<br>into hieroglyphic metaphors of picture-music <br>following a dream grammar of starmud <br>with a bird stuck in its voice like a phoenix in the Arctic. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Time washes the dust of the road off <br>by shedding the moonlight like a snake's skin<br>and skinny-dipping in the fathomless lakes of eternity <br>it finds along the way like eyes along the mindstream<br>full of stars and fireflies and what blooms in the soil of its sorrows<br>beside the stairs at the back doors of all those tomorrows <br>that left the way they came without saying good-bye. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Volcanic lunar oceans that are only as deep <br>as the dark tears I have left within me<br>when I dip the leaking cup of my heart <br>like the goblet of an impact crater <br>into a watershed of compassion that looks like the holy grail <br>and share it with my fellow mirages in this desert of stars <br>as if they were all as thirsty as I am and everyone <br>deep down inside somewhere within them <br>like the green star you can find at the core of an apple, <br>had a fountain within them like a moon dial or a wine glass <br>they smashed on the high notes of the nightbirds <br>just to express their joy as a kind of defiance <br>in the face of their lots in life, though, in fact <br>nothing is longer or shorter than anything else in eternity <br>just as there's only so much time and then there is forever. <br>And it's the black magic in the roots of a demon <br>that blossoms like Venus in the west<br>or New England asters up around Westport in the fall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And though there's something beautiful in this sadness <br>that eludes me like a Braille starmap <br>I can't quite put my finger on to see what's shining <br>like Aldebaran through the tree line of a bride in a widow's veils, <br>as I listen to a whisper of flesh <br>pleading in the darkness not to be excluded <br>from the presence of time, or left behind by the spirit <br>like a false clue of cast off rags on a hawthorn bush <br>to say where it's gone forever and ever and ever<br>as if whatever the spirit and the flesh had <br>going on between them never mattered, <br>whenever the clarity cuts through <br>the thin-skinned mirror like this <br>as if it were trying to slash my eyes open <br>like an insight into what's beyond the obvious, <br>immediately out of a wounded mouth <br>I am healed by the balm in a voice of compassion<br>that rises sweetly like the new moon from the womb <br>of a scarred guitar that didn't know it had such music in it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And it says in moonlit windows and nightbirds <br>that make all the dreaming children wake up and listen<br>to the intimate strangers that speak as gently as fireflies <br>to the vast nightskies of their own imaginations, <br>that the world that casts these shadows on your wall <br>like a crow preening its feathers, or a bell <br>that's lost its faith in knowing, and plunges like an apple <br>into its next afterlife, are merely the holy petals <br>and sacred syllables taken like pages from the Book of Life<br>left out like an orchard in a nightwind for every one to read<br>like a story each of us writes for ourselves <br>to help us drift gently off into sleep again<br>to find out how it all ends in a dream that goes on forever <br>like the fragrance of lilac in an old woman's memories <br>or the marrow of the apple bloom <br>that clings like the moon to our bones<br>or stars to the flypaper stairwells of our chromosomes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No other way to explain the shining of this sadness deep within <br>as if my very blood mourned the passing of the things <br>that have drowned and disappeared into it over the years<br>like honey-bees in the lees at the bottom of a black tulip <br>full of rainwater, and by that I know <br>this is a sadness common to all <br>that's worthy of the stars in its windows, <br>and the dreams in the mirrors that paint our faces<br>like quick watercolour life studies of rainbows in tears.</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=476976" data-title="This Is An Old Sorrow de Patrick White" data-description="This is an old sorrow, almost beautiful in the way 
it underwhelms me from above, a sky caving in 
like a circus tent under the weight of the rain, 
a ghost of fruit that could not bear the weight of its tears.
This is a random sadness that's got ..."></div>
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