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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477042" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Wired To Looking For Gardens of Eden</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wired to looking for Gardens of Eden at the wrong end of my dopamines.<br>Want to move back to the country <br>and live in a secluded place <br>you couldn't find unless I led you there. <br>Want to take pride again <br>in knowing all the names of the trees and stars and flowers <br>as if they all lived in the same small community<br>of intimate immensities that I do<br>like pebbles on the edge of an avalanche. <br>Tired of playing Russian roulette with the asteroids.<br>Want to live somewhere even the animals know <br>the plants know more about healing than they do. <br>And it would be great <br>to have a woman who knows how<br>to think and feel and make love there with me <br>to laugh at what a brilliant idiot I am <br>to know how to make soap out of the sap of flowers<br>that smell like their names. <br>Bouncing Bet. <br>Pride of London. <br>Lady at the Gate.<br>I'm not looking for purple noons and honeybees.<br>I'm not trying to make a big splash like Basho's frog in Walden Pond. <br>Just want to lie down in the tall yellow grass of a September hillside <br>and feel like a freshly baked loaf of bread <br>cooling on a windowsill<br>like a philosopher's stone<br>as the sun goes down over the hill<br>and the dust of many roads<br>gets in the eyes of my starmaps<br>like gusts of stars <br>that makes them water with the wonder <br>of being here at all to know how lost and homeless I am<br>even in the depths of the dark womb that first imagined me like water.<br>I cling like a tree to my lucidities <br>and I'm rooted in the light <br>as much as I am the dirt <br>and I sprout poems and paintings like flowers and leaves<br>and even when I've been struck by lightning <br>the dead branch blooms like the moon<br>and you can hear the drums of silver apples <br>marshalling at my feet<br>like a troupe of white-winged horses. <br>Like the pulse of the windfall <br>when death first entered the garden <br>to let me know how alive I am<br>in this present moment <br>that has no death or birth in it<br>no beginnings <br>no ends <br>and goes on forever <br>as the only feature of time <br>that doesn't need a calendar. <br>But I'm not waxing Biblical about the brevity of days <br>and I've always been grateful <br>that I was born too stupid to be a cynic <br>and looking up at the stars from anywhere<br>one of the greatest wonders of life to me <br>is that so few people are amazed. <br>They've never listened with their eyes to the night <br>so that when their eyes speak<br>they don't understand<br>the mother language of the light<br>and the fireflies forget how to talk to the stars<br>and everybody's looking for an interpreter <br>to tell them the meaning of things. <br>They don't know how to enjoy <br>being alone <br>with everything they don't understand. <br>That's why I like New England asters and purple loosestrife. <br>That's why I like being kept at home by snowbound roads <br>and unanswerable fires. <br>I want to sit at a carved picnic table <br>under a locust tree in the morning<br>when it's in full bloom <br>and humming with thousands of bees <br>and wonder aloud in a poem that's writing me why <br>whenever you find nectar<br>there's always thorns<br>as if my life depended upon it. <br>I want to approach my material confinement <br>with the suppleness of water <br>given that's what I mostly am <br>and have no fear of spiritual evaporation <br>after I'm dead<br>and gone beyond into <br>the transformative darkness of my original watershed<br>because I've seen the same thing happening to the shapeshifting stars<br>that everyone says are fixed. <br>I am not deceived by appearances<br>into believing there's any kind of reality behind them <br>as if a mirage were lying to a desert. <br>Water's no less of a window <br>when it reflects the moon on its surface <br>than it is in the depths of the sea<br>that grows it like a pearl. <br>If you can only see with the eye<br>and not through it <br>as Blake suggested<br>then you're inundated with visuals<br>as impersonal as the camera lens<br>that follows you through the city <br>like an upgraded form of state shadow.<br>But out in the country where no one's watching <br>but the occasional squirrel <br>once you let the light in<br>your seeing isn't just <br>a phenomenological reaction <br>to photonic randomness <br>but a creative response to chaos<br>that makes images out of visuals <br>and symbols out of visions<br>and facts out of purposeless experience<br>like tiny mouse skulls <br>and abandoned herons' nests<br>that don't make a liar <br>out of your imagination. <br>I want to live somewhere in peace <br>without thinking I'm selfish or a coward<br>to observe the world around me <br>as if it were the expression<br>of the beautiful absurdity <br>of this reclusive artistic discipline<br>that keeps making me up as it goes along <br>to fill in the lyrics <br>of a half-forgotten song<br>it's singing to itself like water. <br>I'm tired of the gibbering of the sacred monkeys <br>who don't know what's holy about life <br>unless it's washed in blood. <br>I'm tired of the intrusion of the good and bad <br>into my solitude <br>as if the mob <br>and the government <br>civilization<br>culture and education <br>had a right to homogenize <br>the taste of life in my mouth. <br>Not the same. <br>Not different. <br>Not exclusive. <br>Not effacing.<br>I'm sick of gaming the rackets of life <br>for my daily bread. <br>Sick of the maggots <br>laying claim to the pedigree of butterflies. <br>Sick of the tapeworms <br>trying to convince me they're spinal cords<br>and shoelaces<br>or downed powerlines that are the envy of cobras. <br>Sick of never underestimating <br>the violence and ignorance of humans <br>without always being right. <br>Are there ants that go to sleep hungry tonight? <br>Are there bees in the hive without honey? <br>Just want to walk out late at night up to a high field <br>with a broken gate<br>by myself <br>or with someone else<br>that hasn't been closed in years<br>and delight in going creatively mad under the stars<br>exalting in the radiance of human eyes <br>in an exchange of lucidities<br>that proves we are not strangers to the light<br>here on earth <br>or in any other place <br>where we greet each other like guests without a host<br>wondering why we are gathered here to ask. <br>My heart is torn under its own weight<br>and all my dreamcatchers <br>have turned into unsustainable spiderwebs <br>by accumulation. <br>My soul is the swan of the full moon<br>unfeathered on dark waters <br>by a snapping turtle <br>that keeps rising from its depths like the world.<br>I've walked so long down this long road on crutches and stilts <br>it's forgotten the feel of my feet<br>and all the mystic auroras of my spirit <br>robe me in meat <br>and chameleonic anxiety.<br>Sick of technological progress <br>that is the equal and opposite reaction <br>to the devolution <br>of what's beyond comprehension <br>into the truth<br>into wisdom <br>into knowledge<br>into facts<br>into data<br>into lies<br>that upstage the myths of the stars <br>with mutative alibis. <br>Want to go somewhere I can scream <br>and the hills will understand the echo. <br>Want to go somewhere I can look at the spring columbine <br>growing out of the green moss toupee<br>on the lichen-covered rock <br>and not see it covered in the blood of children.<br>Want to walk out into the darkness <br>even on a starless night<br>and feel like a vulnerable mortal <br>made wary by the innocence of natural dangers<br>and not the deranged perversities<br>of ghouls off their meds in the cities. <br>Want to get away from the maggots and tapeworms <br>that govern the body politic within and without<br>like the corrupt flesh of a dead horse <br>that died of exhaustion <br>pulling the milkwagon uphill. <br>Don't want to walk any more roads that turn into quicksand. <br>Just want to kick my cornerstones like pebbles <br>down a dusty lane <br>as if I had all the time in the world <br>not to explain to anyone <br>why it seems so crucial <br>to get the colours of the New England asters right. <br>And I know it's a dream. <br>I know it's an illusion.<br>A mirage of the way I feel. <br>But sometimes even water <br>is wounded by this desert<br>where the only roads are snakes<br>that make paths in the sand and the stars <br>and it takes a mirage to heal.<br>Sometimes it's better <br>to let yourself be deceived by appearances<br>to be relieved by the compassion <br>inherent in the way things seem to the mind <br>like a cool herb on a severe burn <br>than go blind.</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=477042" data-title="Wired To Looking For Gardens of Eden de Patrick White" data-description="Wired to looking for Gardens of Eden at the wrong end of my dopamines.
Want to move back to the country 
and live in a secluded place 
you couldn't find unless I led you there. 
Want to take pride again 
in knowing all the names of the trees and s..."></div>
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