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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477016" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>When Grief Grows Savage And There's Nothing To Hunt</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When grief grows savage and there's nothing to hunt<br>and all your mandalas are turning back into cave paintings<br>running down a limestone wall like spears <br>in the tears of weeping shamans, and you want <br>to tear your heart out and eat it to nourish your emptiness <br>but you're not sure if it's still the noble enemy it used to be, <br>or if the power of its sympathetic magic has past <br>the expiry date, and you think you might be <br>the last of the big mammals to go extinct in the ice-age, <br>time to sit down on the ground and have a good laugh <br>at how the things we take most seriously in life <br>make sacred clowns of us all in the last analysis <br>just before enlightenment. Put your lifemask on again, <br>coax a star or a firefly out of the tinder of that nebula <br>you're blowing on until you've got a good blaze going <br>then throw all your grave goods on it as if<br>you were sending them on ahead of you <br>while you danced the pain away like the sky burial <br>of the ghost of another age that's been haunting you<br>like a glacier that's slowly beginning to wash itself clean of itself<br>as the numbness in your heart thaws like a baby mammoth <br>that fell into a crevasse of ice, and your fingertips <br>are melting like elk horn candelabra at a native exorcism. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And, yes, it stings for a while just as things are starting <br>to warm up, but that too will pass like a wet snowfall in April, <br>when your blood will begin to flow again <br>as if it were teaching the wild columbine and gypsy poppies<br>to waltz to the picture-music of the wind without banshees <br>howling and scratching at your eyes like dead branches<br>as if they were raking their fingernails against the glass <br>of a cold, crystal skull disappearing like an ice-cube in a night cap.<br>Sit down on the ground and have a good laugh <br>on the tab of everything that's ever wounded you <br>and you just watch how easy it is to wipe <br>that gruesome grin off the face of the moon <br>like the sabre-toothed Smilodon that mauled you <br>and replace it with the smile of a Chesire cat <br>that just ate the canary in a coal mine of fossilized constellations<br>because grief can intensify the darkness into diamonds <br>that can see through the translucency of the tears in your eyes<br>new stars breaking out all over like waterlilies in the night skies<br>waiting for you to name them and give them myths of origin <br>derived like starmaps from the legends of your own shining.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Eventually the jesters of crazy wisdom will come to us all<br>and wipe the tears from our eyes and paint stars in their stead <br>we can point out to the cloaked ones<br>under the covers of their death beds<br>as if the deeper and darker the night the better to see<br>trillions of fireflies flung off the wheeling<br>of the celestial spheres like compassionate insights <br>into what we suffer for, what we lose whenever <br>we try to possess forever by trying to pour <br>the universe out of the universe like a waterclock in Aquarius <br>when we're already swimming through eternity <br>like Pisces and there's never a moment that passes in life <br>that isn't a vernal equinox in a locket we hold close to our hearts<br>that doesn't bloom in the fires of enlightenment <br>like star seeds hidden under the eyelids <br>of last year's dolorous windfall of pine cones<br>because however the wind screams <br>through the broken wishbones and harps <br>of our shattered limbs, our torn dreams, <br>the eighth time we get up from our seventh time down <br>we get up and stand our ground like evergreens in the starfields.</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=477016" data-title="When Grief Grows Savage And There's Nothing To Hunt de Patrick White" data-description="When grief grows savage and there's nothing to hunt
and all your mandalas are turning back into cave paintings
running down a limestone wall like spears 
in the tears of weeping shamans, and you want 
to tear your heart out and eat it to nourish y..."></div>
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