(I already had a post about ellipsoids, which are squished spheres. So I might as well have a post about regular unsquished spheres.)
First picture: "Proxix". Next picture: "Was It A Sphere?". Third picture: "One Cursive Eclipse". And the final picture: "Intermediacy".
Seen Upon A Concave Sphere
------------------------------
Seen upon a concave sphere is this bluest yellow,
Is this greenest magenta seen -- seen within
That dawn rotating is the placid sand we
Endure, we enclose in among our salvation.
Seen in delicate octahedra is such a crumb,
Is my own dreaming shell. And is the mind
Its madness; is the soul its own psychotic pangs?
Oh, seen in indecent ghosts explained, seen is
The thrice duplication of sparks proclaimed.
And known, known is the antagonism of this
Sultry amoeba that is our humanity. For we
See the circularity of entropy's riddles, see
The exploitation of sight yet voluminously
And cursively stricken.
...................
Mundane Edifices
-----------------
Converging
Upon the sphere, the circles envelope us each.
They taper then conceal the screams imprisoned.
Then they circumvent our spiraled shell. Oh,
I look and stare into the gaping hollow. And
There I see the concavity imagined. But still,
I tire, tire of these mundane edifices. Inside, we
Remain both pristine and conscious; although we
Become but our own corpse pretending. Then this
Sphere extracts from itself its meaning. Could
We be simply superimposed here? Could the cylinder
Be its lonely introversion? Then I fly, tasting
The earth as I surrender. But soon we know
That converging upon the sphere is our circle,
Is our pathos drowning in such sculpture,
Drowning obsessively in certainty's bleak fluids.
===============
Inexactly Drawn
-----------------
Drawn are the spheres each equal to my iris;
Drawn are these shadows upon the string,
Upon enlightenment and light. Drawn is again
The image of images; is the vision of metaphors.
Drawn is the glass, is the spark, is the water
Dripping into oblivion, into such categories
Of moisture.
And I drew the perpendicularly acute diagonals
Within the point itself within the vertex. And
I transformed curvature into seclusion, transformed
Scrawl redeemed into such formulae unmade.
And I drew the circle without center, drew it
Inside its own reciprocals and synapses, drew
The games' pronouncements onto dimensions
All elevated and lateral, all benign in their
Interpretations sketched intriguingly,
But inexactly drawn.
++++++++++++
Crystal Ball
----------------
I stare into the dreams,
Wondering if they are ever mine.
I stare into this world that inspires:
Into this world, a sphere,
A palindrome written backwards;
And I fixate upon what I have seen
Before my iris (a halo).
Repeatedly,
I barely recall within the edge
My sight and its creations.
For I stare into one clear drop of ice,
Stare into what has been sought and rejected,
Into this, only here,
Which is so a crystal ball.
*****************
Within The Shapeless Sphere
------------------------------------
Almost I had just forgotten to recall
That these, our souls, were simply
Stains, were amorphous and offensive abstractions
Having no purpose we might have derived from
Any such remembrances concerned
Nor un-relinquished.
I now presented to my sight this:
That each of our lives is but only
A suicide-note,
Is but our prism, our prison, is but
Our stage.
And performing within the shapeless sphere
Both transparent and opaque (but
As to whom?),
We might have become our own wonder,
Might have ourselves asked:
Has this TV-static, this
Image of seemingly vacuous light
(Of vacuum and void as so imagined);
Did we see it as defining
OUR very solitary and isolated dream?
Or/and have these misplaced emotions
Masquerading as observation, as science,
As the essence of substance, the substance
Of the symbolic, of the simplest ghosts;
Have they resolved
And implied themselves, have they
Rejected such perfect geometry; for as to
Reject even us, even this,
This which is our human triteness
Truthfully manifested?
===========
The Surface Of All
-------------------------
The surface of all
Is but only a once-sharp pencil
Now so apathetic and dull,
Was every voice avoided,
And was this which was as I,
Was indeed I,
Will not ever be again
In rotation around unenlightened pinwheels.
Although each sphere spinning
Is as it has consistently been:
But only as seen,
The surface of this which is unenclosed,
The termination of words
Incapable of ever being unspoken.
oooooooooooooo
The Spheres Elliptical, Ecliptic
------------------------------------
(a noun-poem)
The spheres elliptical, ecliptic,
Eccentric in their isolation,
Alone as only points, isolated
As the sentence’s period now becoming part
Of the picture in which all of our
Beliefs of reality are represented
Faintly,
Represented falsely but so very statically,
So very motionless ... motionless in
The super-structure of time as well as
Space, only existing for a quantum atom
Of moment,
Only existing for only that point
Without shape, but yet so indeed with form,
Without darkness, but, yes, possessing
A shadow,
A shadow which is its entire self.
-----
Leroy Quet
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