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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477035" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>White Void For The Moment, Quiescent as Paper and Canvas</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">White void for the moment, quiescent as paper and canvas, <br>a little white square in the middle of my heart <br>as a psychologist once said, startled and wide-eyed, <br>and there's no one there, as if I were the simplest <br>of impossibilities. Could be. But who would be there <br>to know what it might make a difference to, or care? <br>Some purposes fulfill themselves or maybe <br>the quality of peace goes white in the winter <br>as it does in the dove, so as not to attract <br>undue attention to itself in a snow storm of poems.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or maybe, sooner or later, even reality<br>comes to realize its suprasensual ground of being <br>is misconceptualized from a word or a name<br>that has the creative power of one of the shapeshifting lords <br>of the dead metaphors that get brought back to life <br>with no idea of where they've been in the meantime. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">All of genesis in the first word, the to logos, <br>the whole table of contents of the imagination, now and to come, <br>the alpha and omega like the short and long vowels <br>of the sacred syllables of picture music, <br>apple bloom playing the dead branches of its leafless violins, <br>and the grammar of a living medium of animal images <br>and the shamans who entered into their visionary agony <br>painted on the blackboards of our native skull caves<br>where we worshipped bears dressed in the hides of humans.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The happy beginnings quit and the hard-line endings go on forever.<br>I'm back here at Long Bay, like the long story<br>of a lifemask that's been passing itself off as me for light years <br>sitting alone around a daylily of fire <br>giving a private lapdance to the wind, <br>scattering stars and leaves and smoke around <br>all over the place, as if it were looking for something it lost<br>in a panic to retrieve it from the passage of the mindstream<br>like time unravelling the seams of all things<br>unstitching the constellations like the wavelengths <br>of the enfeebled threads that kept our wounds together<br>long enough to heal into the crude ores <br>of terraformed scar tissue that might smoulder <br>like a starmap of brown stars over the course of time, <br>even when it's been mined out like the open pits of the moon, <br>no light bulbs in the sockets of an empty skull <br>but never shines the way its eyes used to<br>when you could look through them <br>like reflecting telescopes into the sidereal splendours of the soul. <br>Before it discovered the unbearable solitude <br>in the nightfall of pain, and the white apparition <br>that comes like the silence of a nurse in soft shoes <br>to sow its mouth shut to keep the others <br>from waking up on the night ward from their dreams <br>to discover like a wild rose at the end of summer <br>that everything is terminal, our departures and arrivals, <br>our exits and entrances alike. That there's a holy war of one<br>deep in the heart, win, lose, or draw, day and night <br>that goes on without respite that even for survival <br>the crazy wisdom of a compassionate warrior will not fight, <br>our human divinity not something to be won, <br>but a birthright, a square of light like a faceless stamp <br>on a loveletter that melts like a snowflake<br>as soon as it alights like a star on the furnace of the heart<br>and the ghosts of our tears return like rivers<br>to the oceanic awareness of the bays <br>we sit beside listening to the spiritual white noise<br>of the cosmic events, in bliss and sorrow, <br>we once lived through like the mirages and muses <br>of a tomorrow that came too late to celebrate our absence.</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=477035" data-title="White Void For The Moment, Quiescent as Paper and Canvas de Patrick White" data-description="White void for the moment, quiescent as paper and canvas, 
a little white square in the middle of my heart 
as a psychologist once said, startled and wide-eyed, 
and there's no one there, as if I were the simplest 
of impossibilities. Could be. Bu..."></div>
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