Poetry is like swinging a cup through the river like a bell and holding it up to your lips, and drinking until you meet the sea. Strange intermingling of simulacra where the stone flows and and the trees sculpt the wind and every painting is a portrait of the brush. The stars come out, and it’s your eyes that are shining, your seeing that the myths are shades of. The majority rejected by the individual, and the individual, the apprentice of a tyrant, what discipline isn’t the foreplay of chaos? Every theme comes round again like the petal of the hour, and the shrieks and the dreams, the laughter, the sighing and the sorrow, all the alloys of an ambiguous art, are the conditions of ignorance that enlighten the word when the word listens to its own advice. It may be Buddha, but I’m grateful to the anthropogenetics of my ancestral abyss. Here. Look into this, quickly. It’s not true we’re a death shy of the view. Look at the palette, not the painting, but don’t mistake the facial for the face. That’s the mysterious grace of the seeming that recognizes you. Poetry is not like asking a shoe about a journey you made, and if you’ve raised the sail of your voice to blossom on the wind, remember, that’s only the prelude of the fruit of where you’ve been, and the wind will wreck it, and the leaves grow green.
PATRICK WHITE
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