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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477023" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>When Rage Broke Down Into Tears</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When rage broke down into tears <br>over the shattered chandeliers of stars <br>that crashed against your windowpane<br>before they thawed in the furnace<br>of a Promethean thief of fire <br>human enough to burn, <br>and you cried, yes you did, I was there, <br>I took the splinter of light out of your eye<br>with the corner of the sky where Venus <br>goes down in the west like the crumb <br>of a radiant dream that wanted to break <br>loaves and fishes with the masses <br>only to find you were swimming through glass; <br>you cried as if all the birds in the world<br>had died under your windowsill <br>like the words to the song <br>you were dancing to at the time. <br>And you picked them up one by one <br>and cradled them in your hand <br>like a midwife with a manger <br>and stroked their soft bodies with your finger<br>as if you would give their lives back to them again <br>by way of apology for being human <br>in an ice age of rain <br>that had lost its purpose in life<br>like the seeds of flowers on the moon.<br>And that’s when the wind, that’s always <br>the moment when the wind cools your eyes <br>like a glassblower dipping crystal blue birds <br>in the fountains and watersheds of the moon <br>and strews your path with the flight feathers<br>of a nightbird that can see beyond a starmap <br>fireflies shining in the distance.<br>And you suddenly realize <br>a thousand and one ways home ahead of you<br>like a Nazca landing strip <br>for alien artists blown off course <br>into the third eye of a spiritual hurricane.<br>And you can’t help but fly through it <br>like an open window into your soul <br>seeking repose and shelter<br>among the human totems <br>of more habitable emotions<br>scratching fish, birds, monkeys, spiders<br>jaguars, flowers, trees, fallible people out<br>in the desert plains of coastal Peru. <br>Zoomorphic geoglyphs of greeting and return <br>in every conceivable sign of life <br>as if the whole planet came out <br>all at the same time to say hello <br>and welcome back<br>like a vow they kept for you <br>until your myth of origin <br>returned to its fulfilment, <br>a nightbird singing<br>in a rootless tree on the moon, <br>as if love, rage, life, joy, <br>death, separation and sorrow<br>were all pilgrims of one voice. <br>A pageant of medieval notes<br>bearing the banners of knights <br>the hoods and habits of monks, <br>unholy vocables of middle English<br>on the tip of your tongue <br>like the wicks <br>of holy candles at a black mass<br>where a young girl dances naked <br>around a pale fire on the moon<br>as a flower blooms in the flames, <br>or sparrows on a stave of power lines, <br>when the music makes its return journey <br>like Canada geese in the spring <br>bearing the souls of the underworld back<br>like the eyes and stars <br>and new moons of the dead <br>to the night of the living<br>making love in the dark. <br>Pelvis to pelvis, <br>heart to heart, <br>crescent to crescent, <br>two halves of a broken wishbone <br>conjoined again into one harp, <br>one cithara, one guitar <br>in the ashes of a blue moon, <br>the second harvest of loaves and fishes <br>at the spring and autumn equinox.<br>Every year a new zodiac, <br>the growth rings in a tree.<br>Something protean about memory. <br>The dark matrix of the muse. <br>A wavelength with its tail in its mouth<br>that doesn’t ricochet off anything else.<br>Lamentations, bewitchment, rapture, <br>time in the hold of the abyss <br>for not mastering your own powers.<br>You either cast the spell for yourself <br>or you wind up gilled <br>in your own sidereal nets, <br>a firefly in spider webs of dark matter, <br>and it’s not likely <br>you’re being hauled into a life boat.<br>There are realities, there are windows, <br>some broken, some whole <br>even the moon won’t dare look through. <br>And there are rooms in a palace of water <br>that move like fish on the moon, <br>and starmaps that are used to start a fire.<br>Birds that are the sacred syllables of the sky<br>that nest in chimneys like hash pipes, <br>every one of them the Rosetta Stone <br>to a language of your own <br>only you can learn for yourself <br>even if you’re the only one<br>who was ever born to speak it. <br>Most people sip spit <br>from other people’s wishing wells<br>but they’re always two echos shy of an original<br>and it’s enough if they put a seashell up to their ears<br>like a hearing aid to listen to the ocean, <br>a tidal pool dying like a starfish <br>out of water and sky, <br>a shore-hugger that’s afraid <br>to go along with the ebb and neap <br>of the dream that gives a pulse to the moon, <br>your own mindstream <br>returning to its homeless source <br>to realize that life and death are both redundant.<br>That whatever passes away, stays. <br>And that which doesn’t, goes.<br>And there are places so deeply secret <br>that everybody thinks they know <br>what’s happening to them as it unfolds.<br>But this is just a way of using knowledge<br>to keep your eyes closed to the world. <br>Only a fool would build a gate<br>and live in a guardhouse <br>of sword swallowers and fire-eaters <br>to keep the birds out of the garden.<br>Or a refugee camp for turtles. <br>True clarity doesn’t know the light <br>for what it is. <br>Reality is as blind to its own translucency <br>as a painted window.<br>Two blades of stargrass in a hurricane. <br>But if you were to take them away <br>like the long and short straws <br>of something to win or loose<br>like the luck of the draw<br>and chew on them like cud <br>to get to the deeper meaning <br>you might get a gesture of it, <br>you might get the flavour of it <br>like a dry wad of gum <br>stuck to the bottom <br>of a school room desk, <br>but you wouldn’t get the use of it, <br>for any reason at all <br>that should or should not concern anyone. <br>Have you ever noticed <br>that time might be<br>an hourglass full to the brim on top<br>but it always begins at the peak <br>of an inverted pyramid <br>stuck like an arrowhead <br>in a flesh wound of sand that’s bleeding out? <br>What’s the point of trying <br>to claw your way up the heap <br>to the top of the bottom <br>when even Sisyphus knows <br>enough about absurdity<br>to realize the mountain <br>climbs its own reflection <br>all the way down like an avalanche<br>of all those little rocks <br>you used to roll up a hill<br>convinced you were getting somewhere. <br>And it’s true there’s a different universe <br>in every grain of sand<br>and every grain of sand is us. <br>So why go looking <br>for what’s already been found? <br>In any universe there’s no up or down.<br>And everywhere anywhere you are<br>from the smallest pebble on the beach <br>to the most radiant star beyond reach<br>the gates of the lost <br>are the end of the search.</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=477023" data-title="When Rage Broke Down Into Tears de Patrick White" data-description="When rage broke down into tears 
over the shattered chandeliers of stars 
that crashed against your windowpane
before they thawed in the furnace
of a Promethean thief of fire 
human enough to burn, 
and you cried, yes you did, I was there, 
I took..."></div>
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