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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477022" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>When My Heart Isn't A Hummingbird</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When my heart isn't a hummingbird on a keyboard, <br>it's a spider on a guitar. The long fingers of a surgeon <br>my mother used to say, the air bright with potential<br>and the creature with a purpose, a future it meant, <br>a destiny it was born to fulfil like a chain reaction. <br>Now it's an error of evolution just to make it through another day. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And nights, sidereal ballerinas leaping like Cygnus at zenith <br>over the toxic wavelengths in this snakepit of street life. <br>Blessings on everyone's head, I've shed a few lives of my own, <br>but I mean the nights, sometimes the nights, <br>scatter my own ashes over my head in mourning <br>like a nuclear winter that won't let me forget.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now there's nothing perennial about my paradigms<br>and the flowers don't grow as imperial as they used to.<br>Ferocious weeds spring up among the downtrodden <br>and swarm the gardens of the sun-king, the cattails <br>impaled, and the heads of the poppies on pikes by the gate.<br>I'm looking for new moons in the calendars of chaos<br>to sow the teeth of a dragon under. Soil made vintage <br>by the dissolution of the dead who are buried in me<br>as I keep on living their deaths like an impossible ending <br>to a recurring dream I haven't woken up from in years. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Red alert. Don't climb higher than the mountain is tall<br>unless you've got a star in your eye you're going to follow <br>for the rest of your denatured life. But no one's listening. <br>They're all taking polls of bad examples on talent shows. <br>Can't stand the artificial lights or the trained hilarity<br>of the audience defrocking sacred clowns at a cult ritual.<br>But I found a flap at the back of the circus tent <br>I like to slip out through and let the darkness <br>wash the patina of blazing out of my eyes <br>and encounter six thousand stars whose shining <br>ease the mind by enlightening its unique insignificance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I like to blunder my way into places alone <br>where who I am is nobody's business but the willows <br>and they're not saying anything to the wind <br>that's heard it all before. One moment you're the canvas <br>and the next you're a paint rag up to your alligators <br>in muddy oils trying to save an orchid from its own hysteria. <br>If there's any rafter of my life left standing <br>it's as fragile as a compass needle wobbling on a thorn. <br>One moment you're teaching spiders to play the guitar <br>without barring their chords, and get rid of <br>those old harps of theirs that have been collecting in the corner <br>like dreamcatchers they couldn't hold a note <br>if it were a velcro butterfly, and the next <br>you're boiling strings like spinal cords in a bird bath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But alone, where there's no assent or denial, <br>and the false redeemers are orphaned <br>in their baskets and mangers among the hay and bull rushes, <br>I can juggle the crazy wisdom of myriad worlds <br>bubbling up in my blood like a playful multiverse <br>without dropping one of them, and swallow the swords <br>the moon lays down on the lake in tribute.<br>No blackboards in my freedom. No chalk fossils <br>among my crayons, I have been schooled<br>in the ghettos and still life studios of my solitude.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here where the river emerges from a larynx of dead trees<br>I can think my way into the most open-minded modes of death <br>without having to turn around and go home again<br>or forget I'm just an organ of light that makes things visible<br>for anyone with an eye to spare, or the time<br>to listen to the picture-music where their senses meet <br>like parallel lives that have suddenly come into focus.</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=477022" data-title="When My Heart Isn't A Hummingbird de Patrick White" data-description="When my heart isn't a hummingbird on a keyboard, 
it's a spider on a guitar. The long fingers of a surgeon 
my mother used to say, the air bright with potential
and the creature with a purpose, a future it meant, 
a destiny it was born to fulfil l..."></div>
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