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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476992" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Tryst With The Muse At An Ungodly Hour</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A tryst with the muse at an ungodly hour. <br>The past creatively adapts to the moment <br>as readily as the future does. The bronze age flames<br>of your auburn hair, withered petals <br>of a fire flowering in the rain<br>that may be down, but not out.<br>The wellspring of a muse is always<br>the third eye of a woman overwhelmed by tears <br>at the approach of spring. Last night, <br>pink-lilac Mercury on the short leash of the sun, <br>Venus as bright as I've ever seen it<br>and nearby Jupiter dim by comparison, <br>Sirius southeast of Orion, then Mars, <br>and shortly before dawn, Saturn.<br>I stood for an hour at the backdoor <br>of the all night laundromat, out <br>in the parking lot behind the Chinese Restaurant, <br>while the streetlamps held their heads down in reverence <br>as if they'd all taken vows or something, <br>and I, cigarette in mouth, looked up <br>like a chimney spark in awe of a radiance <br>so unattainably beautiful all I aspired to <br>seemed merely the ashes of firefly by comparison, <br>a runt of light in the vastness of the fire-womb<br>of a busy, busy sky, while <br>I waited for my laundry to dry.<br>And the last time I can remember feeling like that<br>was combing my hands through your hair<br>as if were laving my roots in your bloodstream, <br>without getting my fingers burnt<br>walking on fire all the way <br>to the gibbous moon of your earlobe. <br>And here you are at the door again <br>like the red maple key <br>of a rainy night loveletter<br>that's let itself in soaking wet <br>to inspire me to write it in tears.<br>To shed my eyes like the starmaps <br>of last night's luminaries, to tear down <br>the old spider webs of the defunct dreamcatchers <br>hanging like constellations <br>at the broken windowpanes<br>of the abandoned houses of the zodiac. <br>I was on my way to the homeless oblivion of my bed<br>as if I'd found a heating grate to sleep on <br>to keep me warm for another night.<br>As I once saw a man in old Montreal <br>after a poetry reading at Concordia, <br>curl up on his cardboard flying carpet<br>as if he'd run out of places to go, <br>friends, family, lovers he used to know<br>and pulling the shadows up over him <br>let himself by swept up on the concrete shore<br>like a dead starfish on his own private island.<br>Every time you step across my event horizon <br>you break another taboo of mine, your voice<br>slips into mine like a watersnake into a moonlit lake<br>and you become the connubial chanteuse<br>of an unspeakable solitude with something to say.<br>It's always been this way with you. <br>A fire-bird flies into the room at night<br>like inspiration through an open window<br>just as I'm about to put out the lights<br>because the music's over and the dancing girls <br>of the candleflames have completely disrobed <br>and stand naked in gowns of wax at their feet.<br>And just as I'm about to leave my seat in a dark theatre, <br>you come in the guise of an usher<br>to show me the way out of curtain call<br>like the moonrise of a crocus in the snow.<br>And I can hear you from way off<br>like a ghost being summoned <br>by an empty lifeboat in the fog.<br>Like a fragrance of life returning <br>to the apparition of my spirit <br>when you kiss me and it feels <br>like someone doing cpr on my deathmask<br>to prove I can't hide from you anywhere <br>even here, where I've said<br>who I thought I was in my solitude <br>and buried my name in the night<br>like a silver star-shaped locket <br>deep in the palm of your fathomless hand <br>for you to remember me by before I drown <br>again in again in the eyes of Isis <br>like a sailor who sees a different life <br>flash before him every time <br>he goes down for the night<br>and can't get Venus off his mind.<br>Because even in the empty parking space <br>of my deathbed in a dark room<br>lying there like a crystal skull <br>that's gone prophetically blind<br>in the shroud of the black sail <br>I've taken down like the tent<br>of a wild iris in mourning down by the river, <br>even when my eyes fail <br>before the unattainable, <br>I can feel through my fingertips <br>you coming on to me like a stripper in braille.</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=476992" data-title="Tryst With The Muse At An Ungodly Hour de Patrick White" data-description="A tryst with the muse at an ungodly hour. 
The past creatively adapts to the moment 
as readily as the future does. The bronze age flames
of your auburn hair, withered petals 
of a fire flowering in the rain
that may be down, but not out.
The well..."></div>
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