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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477028" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>When The Spirit Moves</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the spirit moves it's the summation <br>of everything I am without definition, <br>the averaging out of all my existential crucials, <br>the dark matter of the moment<br>expressing the perennial insight<br>not as signs in the light, but light itself. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I don't know what it is or it is not, <br>maybe just an enculturated meme of antiquated emotion, <br>or a way of hallowing the next breath I take.<br>I could be cynical and say it's fake. <br>But then I'd have to eat my own ashes <br>with a long spoon, and what would I do<br>for an encore? Boring if the truth <br>doesn't leave you gaping in wonder at something. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I've seen the wind at night in full moonlight <br>silvering the hot gold of the wheat<br>as if it were cooling a sensitive burn on human skin. <br>I've seen the fireflies in the valley <br>illuminate the cloud of unknowing <br>after a summer thunderstorm<br>like a chaos of lighthouses on shore <br>signalling to an empty lifeboat.<br>I've been engulfed by the fearful immensities <br>in the heart of a woman when her dark energies <br>start to accelerate space up to the speed of light<br>and even the most quotidian moments, <br>lipstick on a rumpled kleenex on the kitchen table <br>beside the abandoned mirror that couldn't <br>get a handle on things, blood on the bedsheet, <br>the cooling red of a farewell rose, all, <br>supercharged with chameleonic frequencies <br>of eternity forever the silence of time and the void <br>when you're mystically terrified by the passage<br>of beauty and passion into the carrying forth <br>of a waterclock just back from the wellsprings of it all. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who knows where the time goes and everything with it? <br>I suspect it follows me home like a feral cat <br>that wants me to adopt it so it can bring me in <br>out of the cold. I used to think that spirit <br>was a smudge of a ghost, a gesture of air, <br>an aurora borealis in a twilight zone <br>where the sun shines at midnight and the snow blooms.<br>I used to try to touch the intangible with my imagination. <br>The void arrays the things of the world. <br>Can the mind do any less as a serious creator? <br>That's when I discovered the fingertips of the very hand <br>I reached out with was the spirit reading Braille <br>because I was blind to what the dark constellations <br>in the black mirror were trying to tell me<br>engaging the spirit as a scribe and interpreter<br>one moment, then blowing it in my face, the next <br>like a squall of stars in a vertiginous gust of wind. <br>Snuffed out like a matchbook just when I thought <br>I had things flaring away like sunlight at a rave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The spirit that witnesses is not a cartographer <br>with a surveying team on the dark side of an Orphic skull<br>to assess if all its softer continental plates<br>had synarthritically reassembled themselves <br>like Humpty Dumpty back into a cosmic egg.<br>The lamp might be shattered but that doesn't mean <br>the light's broken. The spirit never really mends. <br>It just keeps on shining in a wounded space <br>until it doesn't feel the swords of the assassins of water <br>arming their shadows for a firefight with a dragon<br>that brings the rain like a medic to a battlefield <br>where the slain forgive their slayers for healing the moon. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The heart governs in silence. But the spirit moves <br>like a processional stillness through the mind <br>that shakes the diamonds out of the cuffs of your crazy wisdom<br>like dew from the mandalic cobwebs of the morning<br>and turns the lint in your empty pockets out <br>to show you you were richer than you thought <br>before you left home to seek your treasure elsewhere. <br>You cherish the jewels at the expense of your eyes. <br>One star tweaks your devotion more than the rest. <br>And they all go out at the same time. The spirit <br>doesn't refuse the mind anything that allures it. <br>The full moon doesn't obstruct the flight of the blue herons.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The spirit isn't the voice coach or dream grammar <br>of what gets written about your life long after <br>you're too far, too long, the moment you're gone, to read it.<br>The spirit is like sentient space. It doesn't come<br>with an entrance or an exit. The axis of the earth <br>might be the tent pole of a circus going up in a starfield, <br>and all the constellations swinging on a trapeze<br>in a travelling freak show of ring masters <br>and snake oil salesmen pitching their wares <br>on a blazing midway meant to befuddle the senses <br>into buying a peek at the grotesque and ugly <br>so you can secretly gloat at the shapeliness <br>of your own reality depending upon the comparison<br>for your sense of ascendency, your shaky rung <br>on the ladder out of the snakepit it's got a foothold in <br>like a black hole cornerstone in an avalanche of galactic quicksand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Spirit is flame, muse, familiar, sybil and friend. <br>No more than butterflies need to be liberated from their cocoons, <br>or dragonflies from their chrysales, the gerry-mandered huts <br>of their koans and fortune-cookies, does the spirit <br>need to be liberated from its earthly transformations. Who <br>can liberate the wave from water. Who can liberate <br>space from space? Just because the blossoms blow away <br>doesn't mean they're trying to flee the apple tree. <br>Let the spirit dance to its own picture-music. <br>Let the spirit play like the sea with its own weather.<br>In a bifurcated world that revels in reflecting its opposite <br>to get a rise out of consciousness, need one eye <br>be the disciple of the other? Speak quickly <br>or you'll regret you forgot the answer<br>and start looking for intercessors to do it for you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dark watershed and radiant wellsprings of the muses <br>hauling up buckets of stars to bathe in like a moonrise, <br>your spirit a fountain, what need for it to drink spit <br>out of other people's mouths, or masticate <br>the sacred syllables of someone else's rapture at being alive <br>but its own? Whether you're at a foodbank <br>or sipping nectar from the birdhouses of the gods, <br>even the angels can't chew your spiritual food for you <br>and have it do you any good. Say, ah, <br>when you look at the world with infantile appetites<br>like gaping new moons trying to add to their collection <br>of silver spoons. Let the thief run off with them <br>like a crow with an eye for shiny things. The sooner <br>you get rid of the tinfoil, the sooner the shining <br>will get real for once and everything you rejoice in, <br>everything you feel and think and grieve for, <br>your commonsensical ignorance of the goat paths <br>up the mountain, and the avalanche of asteroids<br>you bring down on yourself as if your valley were a grave <br>the mountain dug for itself, to the enlightened lunatic <br>of your crazy wisdom raving in laughter with the wolves <br>at the rising moon, everything thereafter will taste of stars<br>in the eyes of the ageless friend you've made <br>of your own presence sweetening the air of a late October night.</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=477028" data-title="When The Spirit Moves de Patrick White" data-description="When the spirit moves it's the summation 
of everything I am without definition, 
the averaging out of all my existential crucials, 
the dark matter of the moment
expressing the perennial insight
not as signs in the light, but light itself. 

I do..."></div>
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