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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477007" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>What Chains We Rattle</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">WHAT CHAINS WE RATTLE	</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What chains we rattle in our own emptiness.<br>	The void gnashes its teeth to dust. Is there love<br>		Anywhere that I'm worthy of? <br>I want to scream in this straitjacket of anti-matter<br>	but you are not here; your person is absent; <br>		so I scream into this paper ear; <br>I abandon my own blood, turn red white <br>	in my fear of losing you, witnessing your anger, <br>		the small glaciers that inch through my heart<br>like ice-ages. Maybe I'm crazy, maybe I'm old, <br>	maybe I'm burnt out, maybe all these words <br>		I throw at you mean absolutely nothing to you<br>or to anyone else, or even me, but there you have it.<br> <br>	I'm sloughing my old skin like a star-riddled universe<br>		and I don't know what I'm turning into. <br>When I want to know who I am I look at your face. <br>	Lately I've felt like some kind of eclipse, some darkness<br>		growing like fungus on the light. A leper in sunshine. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Am I broken glass; the black mirror, shattered? I mistake you<br>	often; looking for you in every shard and splinter of my being<br>		but the shadows are too young to give birth to stars<br>and you can't seem to give me the reassurance I need<br>	to return the moon to the goblet it fell from. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">		It's not so much that I doubt you but that<br>the affirmations that should be anvils under the burning swords<br>	crumble under the hammer-blows of the heart.<br> <br>		There is no fire in the answers; only the hiss<br>of metal cooling in black water. Now maybe I'm gone forever<br>	and maybe you're some bridge collapsing under its own weight<br>		and we're both acting too indignant to be honest, <br>but I feel a hole in me the size of darkness<br>	and a silence that dreams like God. Are you still there; am I? <br>		Have I woken up without you? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Burn for me, baby; fire all these love-crossed stars up <br>	and let me see you shining and naked on the nightwatch. <br>		I'm tired of issuing all these secret passwords <br>to an army of spies scrambling clarity in a coding machine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	Perhaps I'm not clear myself or haven't done or said it right, <br>		or there are lies standing-by like unfueled flights to nowhere, <br>but I feel like my heart's been through a paper-shredder<br>	and there are foreign troops entering the office with orders <br>		to exterminate anyone not already in pieces<br>or out dancing around the fire at a book-burning. I know you're young; <br>	I know your eyes would have to turn into skies <br>		and your heart, the Hubble telescope, <br>for you to see me as I am to myself, an infinitely remote galaxy, <br>	the faint smudge of a billion stars and planets<br>		evaporating like breath on a cold windowpane into the void.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A match blown out. Forgive me. I am the light, unmoored, an empty boat<br>	drifting through my own wreckage, <br>		looking for survivors among a feeding frenzy of fins, <br>all my useless modifiers dangling in shark-infested waters. <br>	I can't even remember what I died in the name of <br>		if anything at all <br>or who among all these bodies I've hauled into my heart<br>	brought me back to life<br>		if it wasn't you.<br>But how ridiculous. Two hours to make love; <br>	five and a half until you call<br>		or don't call after our exchange with healing or hurt.<br> Why am I always the one who is waiting? <br>	You always the one who seems to be labouring <br>		under some onerous imposition? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You're little boxes of wind, back-alley gusts of being, <br>	lifting me up a moment like a leaf<br>		and then off to something else with a gust of indifference. <br>No sooner do I crawl out from under<br>	these heavy Himalayas of heart-mud<br>		that avalanche down upon me<br>with every telling remark you don't make, the opening for tenderness<br>	missed again and again by your smouldering silence<br>		then I find myself washed clean of myself<br>in one of your dry wells of emotion. Do you truly love me <br>	or have I become some fading mirage in this black Sahara <br>		that bares its teeth like pyramids? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yes, and yes, and yes; I know I am not perfect. I do not think I'm god<br>	unless you and him and her and the daylilies are too. <br>		And if it's a revolution, a coup d'etat you seek<br>in the secret cells of your mind; remember, it's your own palace<br>	you're overthrowing, your own window you smash. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">		There is nothing in me or my life<br>that is not already yours by an immaculate contract of stars. <br>	I feel like a bottle of aged whiskey must feel<br>		when it's been drained to the last drop<br>and the drinker isn't even tipsy. Have I failed with you<br>	in some essential way that keeps the drunken dancers out of the garden, <br>		the mystic lovers like wildflowers<br>who have eluded the conforming vases enduring on the mantlepiece? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">	I love you so much every bit of your seeming unhappiness, <br>		your frustrated, frustrating petulance <br>is a wound I stitch up with my spinal cord, the ashes of an eye<br>	that falls into the dense atmosphere of my planetary heart like a meteor.<br> <br>		When I'm angry, be certain; it's only a wave<br>in a measureless sea of devotion, weather squalling the surface of the mirror, <br>	but in the depths, my love of you is law, <br>		however the wind blows open the pages of the book of the moon, <br>however my name is erased from the water it's written on<br>	even by your hand warping my reflection on the midnight lakes<br>		of your tempestuous seeing.<br> <br>I shape my body for you. I cajole my hair.<br>	I scrape worlds from under my fingernails<br>		and liberate the life that has lain dormant therein for aeons<br>in your honour, dedicating each first dawn of creation to your smile. <br>	The golden marrow of my genius is worthless to me<br>		except that it nourishes you in a market of one.<br> <br>And I am happy to be the nothing that is added to you <br>	so that it amplifies you over and over again by ten. Zero<br>		was ever in love with one since before the beginning of time.<br> <br>As I love you in this endless succession of an unmoving infinitely finite now.<br>	I want to be your white voice, your green heart, <br>		your black blood, the sky that catches you like a bird when you fall. <br>Do you see me? I'm standing here rooted to the earth <br>	like a tree that's been gutted by your slow lightning<br>		and yet still puts out leaves like eloquent tongues, <br>each one whispering you into the song of the other. My heart<br>	is unquenchably yours like a star that turns its light inward<br>		so that it can't be detected by anyone else. <br>Maybe we're doomed by circumstance and disposition, age<br>	and essence, and maybe we're not, but even in the denying of love<br>		you are the hidden harmony that affirms it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">PATRICK WHITE</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=477007" data-title="What Chains We Rattle de Patrick White" data-description="WHAT CHAINS WE RATTLE	

What chains we rattle in our own emptiness.
	The void gnashes its teeth to dust. Is there love
		Anywhere that I'm worthy of? 
I want to scream in this straitjacket of anti-matter
	but you are not here; your person is absen..."></div>
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