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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477052" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>You Can't Embrace Me With Your Moderate Love</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">You can't embrace me with your moderate love <br>as if two arms were one too many to give someone a hug, <br>or one eye were enough to look at the stars in your lover's eyes, <br>and make up constellations you've never seen before. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I've never fallen in love with anyone who ever <br>made my whole body feel like it was a ghost amputee <br>who had never gotten over the memory of having one.<br>You can't read Braille without fingertips.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And it's either brave and suicidally noble, or something <br>drastically real about me but I've always preferred <br>the dark, dangerous muse, to the sunny cheerleader<br>who cut the bananas into my cereal just for the potassium.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No moon. No music. No slumming in heaven <br>when we take every other nightshift off from hell<br>and then walk out on the job permanently like a Tarot deck <br>to see how it feels to be a shipwreck on the bottom of a prophecy</div><div style="margin:10px 0">that foretold, one day, swimmers and drowners alike <br>would be in it way up over their heads. And that's <br>when I learned to count on my heart <br>like an overturned lifeboat to keep things afloat</div><div style="margin:10px 0">for me and anyone I love who went into exile beside me. <br>Got to be ancient starmaps in her eyes <br>like the return address of extraterrestials<br>who promised to come back one day </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and make crop circles in the hay together. <br>And fireflies for back up in the long dark halls <br>of what we were reading when the stars went out <br>and we opened up to each other about our secret research</div><div style="margin:10px 0">into the comparative mythology of each other's psyche.<br>Even at high noon I want to look out of the corner of my eye <br>and see in the depths of her silence, stars <br>hiding out in the shadows on the bottom of her wishing wells</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and know that she's ok at either end of the telescope. <br>And I'll show her the sun shining at midnight <br>and the moon among the corals, and come up like a pearl diver <br>with new metaphors to show her how I can still see her radiance </div><div style="margin:10px 0">like a lunar eclipse in a mystic moon rise just behind<br>the guile of her veils and the eyelashes of her tree line.<br>And there shall be no shadow upon the earth <br>that she casts behind her that shall remain starless.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And it must be well understood from the very start <br>that you can't put the wing of an eagle on one side of the heart <br>and that of a sparrow on the other, even less so, a dragon, <br>and expect it to fly very good or straight to the mark. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And no broken arrows of the promises <br>we make to each other at a rain dance for the waters of life.<br>And no sipping from the river when there's a chance <br>to swallow it all in a single gulp and satisfy all wells at once </div><div style="margin:10px 0">without getting the waterbirds stuck in our throats <br>like the high notes of sacred syllables above the reach<br>of the black swans that live in our chimneys for free. <br>By all means, I want to see the light</div><div style="margin:10px 0">but coming out of the dark like a nightbird <br>with a message that wasn't meant for anyone else. <br>She can be swarmed by faeries, she can <br>live on a menu of mushrooms and toadstools, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">all the soft gilled things without hooks in them she wants <br>I don't care, as long as she includes <br>a banshee or two scratching at her wings like windows<br>to be let in to the inner sanctum of her devotion </div><div style="margin:10px 0">like a black candle at a white mass for wounded voodoo dolls. <br>And if she wants me to jump through her wilderness fires <br>to satisfy her occult desires in a coven of one <br>that's ok too as long as she's enough of a firemaster</div><div style="margin:10px 0">to know when I've been done well. Not medium rare.<br>And I won't have things fifty-fifty, a hundred and fifty percent <br>and a hundred and fifty percent, or die in the attempt, <br>because anything less than that is nothing at all. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Love when it comes to the hour of gates, becomes<br>the best of the other in the leaving, as your lover <br>absorbs in the turn-counterturn-stand of the perennial dance<br>things about you she loved at first glance, jewels and virtues, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and all the wildflowers a suffering soul puts out with generosity<br>that were meant for her eyes only, even you<br>couldn't see in yourself at the time because even <br>among the most enlightened of us, the deepest insight</div><div style="margin:10px 0">into ourselves as embodiments of thoughtless reality <br>is always blind. And if you couldn't find what you wanted<br>together, you always find it under your pillow <br>once the other who left it like a parting gift is gone. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Don't want anyone after we've broken up <br>who doesn't know how to honour the memory of what we tried <br>to be to each other before we outgrew what we meant<br>when we vowed to console our loss of happiness</div><div style="margin:10px 0">with peace and a gentle release of the moon <br>like a blossom from a dead branch in the middle of winter.<br>She can come to me flawed, she can come to me wounded. <br>She can come to me like an apostate sunflower</div><div style="margin:10px 0">who wandered off the beaten path to follow the moon. <br>Selfless as we all are behind our delusions of probity <br>who remains to be a judge of character except <br>the most doubtful and disdainfully vain among us? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let the death masks argue it out among themselves <br>who is real and who is not, who's been true and who forgot, <br>as for me and my house, I'd rather be loved than right.<br>I'd rather have my lover's head in my lap at the end of the night, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">or mine in hers. I'd rather stand beside her <br>and look up at the stars together as if they knew <br>more about us than us about them, than feel them <br>hemorrhaging like supernovae in both our eyes </div><div style="margin:10px 0">arguing like medieval theologians painting<br>a picture on the third eye of the telescope <br>we're looking at through both lenses simultaneously <br>eye to eye, tooth to tooth, one false idol to the other, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">squabbling over whose lop-sided view of the paradise <br>we planted to live in together, is most worthy of worship, <br>the hunter or the farmer, the hunter or the farmer, <br>keeping in mind women invented agriculture.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Intrigue me, berate me, teach, upgrade, or refute me, <br>just let me feel your hand when I suffer<br>as if it were the wing of a bird <br>I was scrying aviomantically to see </div><div style="margin:10px 0">if it had healed enough to fly, to make <br>my homelessness a big enough sky for her <br>to spread her wings in and wheel <br>on the passionate thermals of joy</div><div style="margin:10px 0">that arise within me like double helices of inspiration.<br>And in return, I would promise her to never think <br>I'd found an answer to her mystery, or a reply <br>to the silences that abound within her<br> <br>like nightbirds that just won't answer. <br>And if she's not in her shrine when I come to lay <br>a bouquet of stars at the foot of her temple stairwells, <br>or off at a coven somewhere with the Horned One, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">trying to get a handle on my polyphrenic diversity<br>that can speak to the angels as well as the demons in tongues.<br>Shapeshifter though I may be, I promise her <br>by the time she gets home she'll always recognize me </div><div style="margin:10px 0">in the form that most becomes her. I've always thought<br>that death was shorter than life, because<br>death isn't lived through even for a moment and if <br>anything lasts forever anywhere, it's right here</div><div style="margin:10px 0">where we can dance like rootless trees to the songs of the nightbirds<br>and listen to the squirrels in the walls in the morning<br>stacking black walnuts like prophetic skulls, <br>and reach out to the waterlilies like dragonflies<br> <br>that know how to interpret them like loveletters on the sly.</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=477052" data-title="You Can't Embrace Me With Your Moderate Love de Patrick White" data-description="You can't embrace me with your moderate love 
as if two arms were one too many to give someone a hug, 
or one eye were enough to look at the stars in your lover's eyes, 
and make up constellations you've never seen before. 

I've never fallen in l..."></div>
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