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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477059" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>You Look Ahead At The Slice Of Light At The Opening Door</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">You look ahead to the slice of light at the opening door<br>and you're tempted to look back at what <br>you're not going to be anymore once you walk through it<br>without knowing whether it's an entrance or an exit.<br>A station of change. A bardo state that slipped between the lines <br>of the Tibetan Book Of The Dead you're karmically<br>sowing your way through to synchronize your seed to the harvest.<br> <br>Dawn soon. False or otherwise blanching the nightblue<br>like any other day of life upon earth, into the starless hue<br>of waking up from the mystery of being alone in the dark<br>shining into a vast solitude of hidden insights<br>like the eyes of shy animals warily observing you walk <br>through the woods like a nightwatchman without a lantern<br>looking for a light to go by like lightning and fireflies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In vino veritas, mystically speaking, I've been intoxicated <br>by the grails and skulls of life like a drunk for so long <br>I speak in the oracular voices of my own exhausted honesty. <br>I squandered my potential on the actual, applying <br>my imagination to the surrealistic factual aspects of life <br>like an oyster bed on the moon pearling whole new worlds <br>out of a grain of starmud. If work is a form of worship <br>as the Upanishads say, I've laboured long and hard creatively <br>like a heretic at play in the flames of the staked-out starfields.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the shadows I've cast upon the earth like scarecrows <br>to look after things in my absence have never depended <br>upon a light source that wasn't sublimely human.<br>I've reflexively responded like a shapeshifter <br>to any fixed image it's been imperatively suggested <br>I was created in the name of to mimic like a dead metaphor <br>I was living like the lyric in the heart of a man <br>with nothing left to lose when I breached the boundary stones <br>of the usual taboos like a labyrinth of seawalls, locks and dams <br>in the liberation path of an emotional tsunami<br>of oceanic awareness after every earthquake that shook <br>my foundation stones into an avalanche of quicksand <br>sliding down the unstable slopes of the world mountain<br>like an otter down the mudbanks of my own mindstream. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Compassion's a ruby. Innocence, an emerald. Insight, <br>a star sapphire. And I wore those like the corona <br>of an eclipsed crown on the head of a pauper prince, <br>but it was the diamonds that intensified out of the darkness <br>like coal in the furnaces of the star clusters I beheld <br>like luminaries in the black mirrors on the far side of my eyes <br>that intrigued me the most as an adamantine example <br>of how to live my life in the midst of decay<br>with feet of clay and my head among the stars<br>like the catalytic agent of my own transformations, <br>the mercury and sulphur of the royal quaternion<br>of the philosopher's stone I was enthroned upon<br>like a beggar king with a dynastic history of self-abdications. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I got down in the dirt under my fingernails <br>where Neruda says the poetry is. I planted <br>the withered crescent moons of zinnia seeds <br>in the furrows of my brow like terraced gardens <br>I ploughed with the needle of a boustrophic lp<br>like a palindrome that sang the same <br>whether you were coming or going either way. <br>A Satanic message from the angel in the mirror<br>trying to play both sides of the fence in reverse. <br>Like the moon, I've never lingered in the window <br>of enlightenment for long, without looking <br>for an unlocked, backdoor I could enter with effortless ease<br>like a thief returning what had been taken from me.</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=477059" data-title="You Look Ahead At The Slice Of Light At The Opening Door de Patrick White" data-description="You look ahead to the slice of light at the opening door
and you're tempted to look back at what 
you're not going to be anymore once you walk through it
without knowing whether it's an entrance or an exit.
A station of change. A bardo state that ..."></div>
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