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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476982" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To A Young Poet</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">As you are now, and I have been <br>	a long branch at the top of the tree<br>		in a black spring, reaching out<br>for the fury of a distant star <br>	to adorn your spine <br>		with a leaf of light<br>that might be the sail <br>	on a boat full of worlds <br>		that will thunder like windfall fruit <br>or an army of hearts <br>	pulsing across the drumhead plain <br>		of your moon-salt thoughts, <br>their liberation, a sea of blood, <br>	a squall of vipers, a murder, <br>		and a brazen idol away <br>from the beguiling taste of another paradise. What <br>	does this mean? This means <br>		I come before you <br>like a brutal lighthouse without a warning, <br>	unfolding wings of light like a stormbird<br>		slipped like a letter <br>under the door of huge winds <br>	that have driven most sailors to shore, <br>		prudently seasoned <br>by what the ocean can do. But you are <br>	a creature of the depths, <br>		a volcanic thermophile <br>grown gigantic in your darkness <br>	and your solitude, the Cyclopean shadow <br>		you would cast on the castle walls <br>in the tiniest burning house of time<br>	if only there were light and life enough<br>		to convince the grotesque it’s beautiful; <br>the folly of your unknown world<br>	is the secret wisdom of a second moon. Not<br>		insane enough yet <br>to be a credible witness <br>	to the antics of your own asylums <br>		where the mad angels <br>swear you’re real and fling you like a drug <br>	they won’t take across <br>		the lunar floor<br>of your infamous acquiescence, I come to you <br>	like a prophetic lighthouse, arms of light <br>		outstretched on the edge of a towering cliff, <br>pleading like a Druid with God <br>	for answers I could sacrifice<br>		like rams and humans <br>to questions on the altars of a mountain brain <br>	that heaves me like a continent <br>		up out of the depths and opens my mouth <br>to announce a black wind in the abandoned caves of silent oracles.<br>	I can hear the whisper <br>		of the serpent ghosting through the grass <br>in a cemetery of dead echoes, and I can read the names <br>	of the midnight shipwrecks <br>		you have suffered on the inclement shores <br>of your own island consciousness. Are you marooned <br>	or is it that you’re just choosey <br>		about rescues and life-boats? <br>Unfolding these petals of light like straitjackets, like tides, <br>	I come before you, <br>		a navy sunk in a well on the moon, <br>no footprints on the map to where your treasure is buried <br>	like the jewels and wishbone harps of the dead.<br>		I’ve always disappointed my own wisdom, <br>and the dark-hearted clowns <br>	of the suicidal circus <br>		that waits like a sense of humour <br>for an encore, <br>	have long ago died without applause<br>		like unexploded shells <br>far from their badly-aimed humanity.<br>	Like the universe, whose life <br>		hasn’t been a clown <br>shot out of a cannon <br>	without a safety-net? So <br>		I come before you without a face, a mask, <br>a self, or the worn-out authority of a wound <br>	scarred like a book out of the sum <br>		of all my failures, offering <br>these simulacra of keys to what <br>	has no need of a lock, but conceals your fate <br>		in a mouthless rumour of intimate stars.<br>And I do not come to fill the dead seabeds of the moon <br>	with tears and raise vast armadas against the fact; <br>		no one need tell the wind the world is sad, <br>nor multiply the horrors of hell like bitter weeds <br>	in the ashes of the wheat when fire itself, <br>		so long the nun of its own burning, <br>pledged to ferocious purities, <br>	is corrupted by what it consumes. <br>		And among these murmurs of murder and war, <br>these corpses and civilizations sandbagged into seawalls <br>	against this toiling deluge of blood, who <br>		but the most unfeeling, could indulge<br>the obscenity of the lie <br>	that life is beautiful or good <br>		in the radiant marrow of the bone <br>cracking like a flute in the jaws of an iron dog? <br>	Nor do I come scrying fissures in the sky <br>		marking annual Armageddons<br>in a calendar of vengeful tomorrows. If the world<br>	isn’t already worthy of love<br>		it could never be worthy of hatred.<br>No curse, no blessing, no reform or utopian felicity, <br>	ignorance and enlightenment both <br>		one heartbeat shy of the truth, <br>and freedom, compassion, genius, <br>	three brides on a bridge of snails, <br>		how could I come before you clearly<br>if there were anything in my hands? Fire <br>	doesn’t need a teacher to burn<br>		nor the wind an instructor to fly<br>and if you haven’t already been struck <br>	like a birdless tree <br>		by lightning on the moon <br>what farce of the sublime could show you<br>	what you don’t need to know <br>		to be what you are<br>when spring comes like a voice, a whisper of bliss, <br>	a green arsonist, a jest of life <br>		to the startled garden <br>in the rootless urn of your unsayable longing?</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=476982" data-title="To A Young Poet de Patrick White" data-description="As you are now, and I have been 
	a long branch at the top of the tree
		in a black spring, reaching out
for the fury of a distant star 
	to adorn your spine 
		with a leaf of light
that might be the sail 
	on a boat full of worlds 
		that will th..."></div>
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