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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477068" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Your Face Among Many, A Blossom</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Your face among many, a blossom. <br>Let it go. Let it go. Let it go. <br>The sun can't understand why it can't <br>open the buds of the parking meters. <br>Some people worry they don't have talent.<br>Given a name, who isn't a masterpiece? <br>A perfect self-portrait of what they're becoming? <br>Talent, the worst superstition of all.<br>That lullaby you sing to your voodoo doll <br>at bedtime, to let her know she's special<br>when, in fact, she's blind. Talent. <br>That estranged mix of an eclipse and an oilslick<br>that isn't sure of its standing in life. <br>Sensible shoes wishing they had wings on their heels. <br>The redundant navigator of mountain streams <br>that would have found their own way to the river <br>all by themselves. You ask if I think you have talent. <br>To me that's like a flower asking<br>if I think it will ever come to bloom, <br>a star wondering if it's shining or not, <br>a sea uncertain of its own waves and weather.<br>And I say, your eyes do, your ears do, your mouth has, <br>these birch-trees, those starlings, that tree, those rocks, <br>these rags of last year's flowers do, but not you.<br>On the day of creation when God exhausted herself <br>using up the leftovers of her inspiration <br>so as not to let anything go to waste, she pinched the noses <br>of a few sacred clowns and instead of <br>breathing life into their lungs, she opened their throats <br>and poured a special esoteric elixir of talent, <br>the mother of all oceanic love potions <br>that ever played favourites with a select few <br>among everyone she'd ever given birth to, <br>out of her mouth into theirs, such that like her <br>all they had to do, they were so talented, <br>was give the word. Say be. And it was. <br>Because the moment you ask if you have something, <br>you've already lost it. Like space or time or mind, <br>talent isn't possessed. It's made manifest spontaneously. <br>Do you see the ruby throated hummingbirds<br>in a last duel with the thorns <br>of the locust trees in blossom, <br>one drawing blood, the other, first honey? <br>Behind every river making its way to the sea <br>stands the cornerstone of a mountain<br>buried under an avalanche <br>it brought down upon itself<br>like the winter solstice <br>between the dolmens of Stonehenge, <br>just as every dropp of water is a lost key, <br>the Rosetta stone of a nameless grave in the rain <br>that can still speak fluently<br>the mother-tongue of the dead language<br>that buried oviparous metaphors <br>like oxymoronic dragons in cosmic eggs, <br>a coincidence of contradictory birds and snakes<br>the highs and the lows, made whole again.<br>Asking me if you've got talent is like<br>a nebula light years across asking me if it's got stars.<br>Do the candles wish they were fireflies? <br>Do you write with your eyes or your ears? <br>And if you're asking me if you've got <br>the bit, the spit, the spurs, the stirrups <br>to ride a wild, white-winged horse in a rodeo<br>without being thrown off, I'd say <br>the most seasoned saddle of all <br>is to ride bareback along the Milky Way in summer<br>and see for yourself if you can make it as far <br>as Altair in Aquila or the Deneb in the Swan.<br>And then realize, if you can't, the real star<br>of the show all along was the rodeo clown<br>who rescues the riders when they're down and out<br>by living dangerously on the horns of a dilemma<br>he had to make his own to spare the hero <br>from any further injury that might come <br>from taking anything too seriously. <br>And don't canter as if you had talent<br>you can put your trust in like a reliable lie.<br>Risk everything on one leap of the fence. <br>Assume you're a genius and fly.<br>You sweep the stars under your prayer rug <br>and then come and ask me if you're a good housekeeper. <br>You want to know if your third eye is glass <br>or real crystal, something from the depression era, <br>and I turn it circumspectly in the light<br>and focus it on the sun and the moon <br>and few oddball stars nearby, <br>and I can see where you've being crying a lot <br>and missed a spot that makes things perfectly clear. <br>Talent might polish the mirror of the Hubble Telescope <br>to get rid of the smear of the Andromeda Galaxy, <br>to rub a hundred billion stars out <br>for the sake of appearances, but genius <br>sees through every dropp of rain that falls <br>like an eye of its own through a broken windowpane<br>it's just thrown the moon through like a lunatic <br>at the reflection of its own face <br>on the waterless pond of its own seeing <br>to make waves just to see itself as it is <br>warped like space and time <br>by the crazy wisdom of the circus mirrors <br>that are always in tears of laughter. <br>And this by the merest of inclinations <br>to have a good chuckle at the expense <br>of the straight-faced paradigms <br>trying to get a fix on their shining as if <br>they were measuring the nearest distance <br>the fireflies approach earth at apogee by parallax.<br>Talent may well be the architectural blueprint<br>of the underlying infrastructure of the chrysalis, <br>but it's the worm that crawls<br>into whatever house of transformation, <br>whatever zodiac squatting on the outskirts <br>of whatever shantytown gerry-mandered out of scraps, <br>salvage, cast offs, discarded parts of mechanical experience<br>looking for a new purpose in life, <br>and flies out the other end with mandalas <br>not starmaps on its wings.<br>Talent takes note of the traffic signs <br>long before it's walked the road.<br>Until you realize through the eyes in your blood<br>with a passion that won't go back the way it came, <br>like the fish hook of the moon <br>torn out of the fleshy part of your heart the wrong way, <br>or revoke the names of the things you've given birth to<br>crossbreeding with a fertile imagination<br>when things get dark and narrow <br>in a black hole where the shadows of sacred fires <br>dance to the picture-music of hallowed cave paintings, <br>until you realize how meaningless and futile <br>the most significant things in life are <br>you'll never know the playful intensity <br>of being so wholly absorbed into your own creation<br>there's no afterbirth of inspiration to cast off <br>like a shadow of the mind upon the light. <br>If you're still looking for your own face <br>behind the veils you lift <br>like the mirages of mediocrity<br>in the breathless splendour <br>of the restless mirrors of reality <br>where you drink from your own reflection <br>like the false idol of an image <br>you've kissed the feet of before.<br>Be assured. If you're still down on your knees<br>before this simulacrum of seeing<br>you're just peeking through the keyhole <br>of a little door into a bigger world <br>that isn't sleepwalking through the same dream you are. <br>If you've got talent. And why not? <br>When everything else including you does, <br>except when you're a fish out of water <br>dying of thirst beside a fresh water lake <br>asking the stars if you can swim as well as they do.<br>If so. Why do you keep it to yourself <br>like some secret contagious disease <br>you haven't had time to spread around yet? <br>If you've got talent, don't judge <br>the quality of the wine by asking someone <br>to appraise the worth of the jewels <br>that open like the eyes of rubies and rhinestones, <br>like fierce Venutian diamonds in the twilight <br>of empty, golden goblets mortally wounded <br>by the going down of the sun<br>striking its colours like pennants of surrender. <br>But if you've ever known the delirious oblivion <br>of the protean genius or juno of a child <br>then your cup runneth over like the moon at full.<br>You drink from the cups <br>of the wild gypsy poppies<br>with the crazy lunar slips of the tongue<br>they keep whispering like the sacred syllable <br>of a cataba worm at the bottom of a bottle <br>like an unforgiving message for help in your ear. <br>And it's perfectly clear <br>from the either/or lens of your orbiting telescope<br>the stars aren't waiting for an answer <br>to all their big first magnitude questions, <br>but if you were to say anything, say it <br>like the ghost of a breath from the past, <br>a shadow in passing<br>that makes the candle flames tremble<br>at a seance of sensitive souls and murky mediums <br>in a delirium of stars giving rise<br>to a dancer in a dream riding her own thermals<br>in the cooling of an August afternoon like a red-tailed hawk<br>winging it on the fly for the euphoric high of it, <br>for the pure joy and solitude <br>in the miscreant freedom of it <br>from the wounded wild rose in her heart<br>like blood and wine and the miracle of mirages <br>in a bottled hourglass of quicksand. <br>Down to the lees of moonset<br>in your own bottomless skull<br>where you can read the black tea leaves for yourself <br>like the spinal vertebrae of books on a library shelf <br>to see if you're ever going to make it into print or not<br>like a fossil in the Burgess Shale<br>of a lonely species of heart and mind <br>that was one of a kind from beginning to end.<br>Of course, you're talented. Show me a star <br>or a stagestruck flower in the green room that isn't. <br>But talent isn't just another antidotal snake serum <br>you pour like iodine onto to the burn <br>of a lightning strike you can't mend any other way.<br>And genius, what can anybody say? <br>You won't find it out trying to stake a claim <br>to the insights it's been panning for <br>like nuggets of harvest gold <br>from the blue ore of the new moon's dark potential.<br>from the mindstreams that have been turning over <br>the reflections of the green mountains<br>they've been walking beside all day<br>like stones in the flow of an ongoing conversation<br>that might have something hidden under them <br>like stars that size of misfit diamonds<br>that ring the craters of the meteor impacts<br>that don't enlighten anything <br>that's bigger than your eyes <br>could ever dream of seeing.<br>And what new species of intensely creative visual life<br>might have come of them in the aftermath<br>by adapting that poem you're holding in your hand<br>like the neck of a dying swan song<br>to a whole new biosphere of picture-music<br>where merely to breathe the stars in and out <br>even at these lower altitudes <br>in these valleys of the fireflies<br>the storm passed over out of consideration<br>for their blood ties to the lightning, <br>were to sign your name in the first edition <br>of a cosmic guest book with the wingspan<br>of an immensely talented constellation<br>working on the first draft of a brilliant myth of origin<br>that says as it will be at the end, <br>so it was in the beginning<br>and is now in the coming of nightfall to a stranger.</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=477068" data-title="Your Face Among Many, A Blossom de Patrick White" data-description="Your face among many, a blossom. 
Let it go. Let it go. Let it go. 
The sun can't understand why it can't 
open the buds of the parking meters. 
Some people worry they don't have talent.
Given a name, who isn't a masterpiece? 
A perfect self-portr..."></div>
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