The pictures' titles: "Within The Fulcrum", "Fulcrum Of Enlightenment", "An Equilateral Fulcrum".
The first two poems I will share with you I wrote just yesterday and the day before:
Predetermined Fulcrum
----------------------
A fulcrum enclosed, encased inside the sphere
Of water and glass and geometry -- this spiral,
It tilts and tapers and expands and explodes
Into dimension and truth and tautology. Oh,
In these cliches of resurrection the glow becomes
A triangle, a trapezoid, an abacus of thought.
And I enumerated those empty dreams. For in them
Is the crescent, is the rhombus, are the droplets
Forming air-bubbles rising, falling, transforming.
In the strangeness of beauty is the one vertex
Of delicate dissection. But still, the space
Among us each is beheld throughout, is
Vague and finite and vertical; still, the
Fulcrum succumbs to its predetermination, to
Its consequence of absolution, of purity submerged.
......................
The Pivot Returns
------------------
Intermittently,
The pivot returns to its perpendicularity,
To its parallel fulcrum upon the paper, upon
The tabletop made of assumptions, made of balance yet
Truthful and also bending. Intermittently, this
Gyroscopic mechanism tilts then falls, failing in its
Purpose, as we have. For, we too are asymmetric,
Despite our dichotomies. We too are never to fly.
Intermittently, the tangle becomes us, as we were
Once the scribbled scrawl of delusions. Yes, we
Are flung across the surface of reality, because
We are but inarticulate contraptions. We
Are but the spinning object, once upright,
Now toppled. But we continue to rotate, I suppose,
In the hope that we will someday succeed.
Yes, we hope that we will someday be magnificent.
But we can only come to know those prophecies
As misguided and selfish. Oh, maybe we will
Soon realize that we cannot ever again be made
Vertical, realize that we will never again achieve
Anything other than our doubtfulness, than
Our final placement sideways, resting on the floor.
===========
Dark Is The Pivot
-----------------------
Dark is the pivot equal to its own fulcrum.
Oh, this surface of flat and concentric squares, it
Spins and condenses into noxious emptiness. It
Abstains from those malfunctioning thoughts, from
These perfumed crumbs of enlightenment and salt.
Dark is the perimeter of simmering shape,
Are the bending obstructions deduced to be devalued.
Dark are the photons of enigma and shadow, are
The selfish prayers which endure the scriptures
Of spite. Dark are the ravaged paragraphs
Made then forgotten then scorned then shameful.
And darker yet is the continuation of destiny,
Is the swollen riddle (a devout vibrato), is
The circumference of bizarre simplicity, are
Such inventions surely slain by trite elastic.
+++++++++++
Center Of The Fulcrum
-----------------------
Imbalance; its beauty refracts within this arousal,
Returning her to the vastness beyond me. And there
She is the sunlight becoming a trapezoid. There
She is invoked by my prayers of stark betrayal.
For she tilts, then becomes her own doppelganger;
She becomes, as I, the dichotomy inside herself.
Oh, unbalanced are these cobwebs equal to such
Angry arachnids, each web created by this allure
And apparition, created via the polyhedron
Strangely sticky.
And she equals equation and distance conjured.
She evaporates before I speak of her, before
These particles of absurd and shimmering femininity
Implode into their vortexes at the center of
Such an inflection, at the center of the fulcrum
Both askew and diffuse, neither loved nor
Sought -- As I stare at her, she slips
At angles of wondrous mis-calibration.
**********************
Each Wisp Of Imprecise Solitude Decaying
-------------------------------------------
These meek spheres of uncertain mist overlap
That which is balanced upon such an elongated
Fulcrum. Dripping upon their still silhouettes, the
Curves coinciding all fold then coil, becoming
That moisture engaged in rupture, in transcendence.
Oh, these meek globules of vapor and simplicity,
They recede into millimeters and arc-seconds, retreat
Into the proper water of imagined stains.
And I grasp the foam; I rub the absurdity.
For I taste the window yet immense. I
Taste those miniscule bubbles of air and distance.
I touch again my finitude now blurry, touch
Again the savagery encompassed by perfection,
Encompassed by haphazard beauty and by
Each wisp of imprecise solitude decaying.
Thanks,
Leroy Quet
No comments:
Post a Comment