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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477036" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Who Isn't Trying To Live</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who isn't trying to live<br>as they vaguely hope they are<br>whatever extremes of moderation they've gone to <br>behind all the masks and fraud? <br>Crosswalks and bridges of fire <br>trying to get to the other side of themselves <br>like the promised land, or God, <br>ladders up to heaven <br>like vertebrae and ribs, <br>and ropes like spinal cords<br>down a well on the moon <br>that hasn't enthroned hell in her depths yet, <br>everyone's trying to put a face on chaos <br>they remotely hope is their own.<br>One by one the plum blossoms <br>fall to the nightstream <br>like loveletters <br>from the branch of the tree <br>that read them once and then let go.<br>No one knows where they're from <br>or where they're going.<br>Some give their wings up <br>like graduate degrees to the ants<br>and others are raising their sails <br>like the flames of a great fire <br>that consumes the prophet <br>who wanted to hold his arms up <br>like a wishbone to the lightning <br>in the revery of his desire <br>until everything is ash and nails, <br>and others who think they're<br>the rudders and keels of the flowing.<br>Sometimes I am nothing more <br>than this terrible inevitability<br>of flesh and bone <br>alone in the vastness of my unknowing <br>where neither ignorance nor wisdom prevails<br>and then it's as clear as stars <br>on both sides of the window <br>that everyone's everyone else's good guess<br>as they encounter one another <br>passing the time <br>in a crumbling game of graveyard chess.<br>I don't know why what's wise about me <br>always ends up listening to myself <br>like a fool's confession <br>but I've run out of rosaries <br>like habitable planets <br>and my homelessness has exposed <br>the ruse of divining purity <br>in the afflictions of compassion<br>as if everything had evolved in sorrow <br>like a heart-bending occasion for tears<br>as the mountains that fell <br>like an avalanche of cornerstones <br>into the valleys they've dug <br>like pyramids and graves over the years <br>abide like salt in the eye of the sea.<br>Intelligence might be an elaborate mode of paranoia, <br>but eased into the wonder of being here at all <br>with trees and stars and the midnight rainbows <br>on the necks of the grackles<br>and the hectic butterfly among the grape hyacinth, <br>since I was enlightened <br>by my absolute uncertainty, <br>I have gathered all my voices together like leaves <br>and burned the old texts of myself<br>for not being much of a liar.<br>Five petals opened <br>and one flower bloomed <br>like a good laugh.<br>Now my awareness <br>is a kind of playful fire that doesn't burn <br>what it consumes<br>though the light <br>still tastes of the jewel<br>and even as the good-byes deepen their voices <br>like echoes in wells, <br>because I've grown older <br>and autumn keeps shedding its choir, <br>the hellos still take on a life of their own<br>as if nothing had changed. <br>An illuminated clown <br>I am astounded by the profundities <br>in every jest of being<br>revelling in the creative hilarity <br>of its mystic specificity <br>and how every time I get serious about something<br>as if I had just remembered myself, <br>I bring the house down.<br>Only a hypocrite is humble enough <br>to underestimate his own irrelevance, <br>and go sorting through himself <br>like a cellphone in the ashes <br>but for those who have become fire, <br>aspiration is achievement <br>and fulfillment and desire, <br>one breath. In every event <br>there's nothing to be<br>further than you can see.<br>But that doesn't mean <br>take a harder look <br>as if your life were a book <br>you were learning to read<br>or a mirror you had to stare into <br>until your eyes bleed<br>to know who you are.<br>When you stop thinking <br>every perception is a clue <br>to who you are<br>you'll shine out like a star <br>ahead of its own light <br>and stop trying to recognize God<br>through the featureless eyes <br>and vigilant simulacra <br>of a stolen identity.<br>You will be neither partially <br>nor wholly yourself <br>and before and beyond <br>will not seem <br>the unending extremities of now<br>rounding the skull of a clock<br>that's lost its way home.<br>Your seeing will grow deeper than eyes <br>and you will stop sending <br>your reflection out<br>like the moon's last lifeboat <br>to haul you up out of the abyss <br>like a fisherman gilled in the tangled mess<br>of his own s.o.s.<br>You'll let go of the oars <br>and breathe easy like the sea<br>and in every blossom of being <br>you will taste the whole orchard <br>drunk on its knees in laughter, <br>not knowing where to begin.</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=477036" data-title="Who Isn't Trying To Live de Patrick White" data-description="Who isn't trying to live
as they vaguely hope they are
whatever extremes of moderation they've gone to 
behind all the masks and fraud? 
Crosswalks and bridges of fire 
trying to get to the other side of themselves 
like the promised land, or God,..."></div>
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