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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477003" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Water Has Its Followers</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Water has its followers <br>but the wind is free of an audience. <br>It doesn't encourage cults of wild irises and daylilies <br>along the flowing of its banks. <br>It sows the orchards with the pollen of stars <br>it kicks up like dust at its heels. <br>But my voice isn't the larnyx <br>of windmills and waterwheels <br>and when I speak <br>I'm always one among the crowd <br>that's listening at the same time <br>to a conversation with themselves <br>that took the words right out of my mouth. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">My voice is a seance. <br>The dead use it like a bus stop. <br>The swallows and the pigeons <br>drink from it as if it were a public fountain <br>efflorescing like an Easter lily in Florence. <br>It's a guitar. But I am not <br>the medium, the message, or the master. <br>Sometimes my voice comes in the mail <br>like a self-addressed suicide note <br>I wanted to take a cheap form <br>of copyright out on. Be dead <br>by the time it got here <br>like the light of a star that's gone on ahead<br>so I won't need to open it to the public. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No echo. I know it's a black hole<br>with nothing to say to anyone <br>who isn't as singularly empty as it is <br>cowboying aeons of dark matter into galaxies <br>that won't stray from the herd like starfish.<br>Still life with clown, sometimes <br>it finds me meditating among the pears <br>or half-lotus in the nunneries of the waterlilies <br>praying for something important to come down <br>like Jesus or a ufo and take me away<br>just take me away for good from this alien place.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When it talks as if it's been insulted<br>I'm the one who loses face when it decides <br>it would be more honourable for me to die <br>facing in the direction of my chi, <br>gutting myself on a compass needle <br>that's been in the family ancestrally, <br>than waste my death as I have my life on poetry. <br>And when it's in a less ceremonious mood <br>it holds a broken beer bottle up to my throat <br>and threatens to cut my heart out <br>like a bird stuck in a chimney <br>putting wings on its jugular like a one-stringed harp.</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=477003" data-title="Water Has Its Followers de Patrick White" data-description="Water has its followers 
but the wind is free of an audience. 
It doesn't encourage cults of wild irises and daylilies 
along the flowing of its banks. 
It sows the orchards with the pollen of stars 
it kicks up like dust at its heels. 
But my voi..."></div>
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