See my first post on the topic (titled simply "Butterflies") here:
http://prism-of-spirals.blogspot.com/2008/07/blog-post_28.html
First picture (as promised in my post about entropy): "Entropy Of A Butterfly". Second picture: "Gumball World". Middle picture: "Someday". Fourth picture: "Opaque Fragility". Last picture: "Vision Of Essence".
Butterfly With Infinite Wings
--------------------------------
A butterfly with infinite wings, with a
Thousand proboscises, with a billion eyes -- it
Dares to fly, dares to rest upon the stagnant cusp,
Upon its very thirst where it is vaguely poised.
So, it resonates in hues of yellow, of purple.
It echoes in the tints of fuchsia and blue. Yes,
It is but imprecise in its magic. But then,
Then it needs not its spells; for, it is
Diffused and yet contained. And thus, it
Wakes to sleep, wakes to tilt the sky upwards.
And it launches itself so as to be beneath us.
It flies, stirring the arid rain, stirring
The gaping wind, stuttering inside its occlusion.
For, its infinite wings are denied their metaphor.
They are denied their triumph. But they are
Enduring; they are also spectacularly afloat.
..............
Aloft And Distant
-------------------
Above these dreams, aloft and distant, is
A butterfly of magic and pondered colors.
And this insect's wings are fulfilled; for,
They descend and ascend inside their verticality.
Those wings are both round and imprecise.
And in their imprecision they obtain such
Thickness and dimension. Yet they are
Indescribable. Yet they are magnificent;
For, they are fuchsia and yellow and blue.
But assumptions seen within me resent this beauty,
Although I too am dichotomous and symmetrical.
I too fly in dreams made enduring. But
The butterfly is never proud of its levitation.
Its electric images are its metamorphosis.
Its allegories are its very amusement, are
Its embodiment as the flower it resembles.
===========
Nexus Of Our Symmetric Imbalance
------------------------------------
Intersecting such perpendicularity, the spaces extend
Upwards and horizontally into their nonconformity,
Into their foreshortening not explainable, oh. Yes,
Upon the nexus of our symmetric imbalance,
The coils remain jagged, and the angles are
Devoid of this broth of thought. Intersecting
The equilibrium of butterflies, of bowties and epitome,
There our gambits divine truest fruition.
There the topology curls into that diameter.
And we ignore those shapes. For, they are us.
They are the emergence of pompous imbeciles.
And, surely, we derive from the scene
A malicious interpretation. Then we crumple
This origami in our fanged fists. Then
We laugh, because we are amorphous. We
Are human monsters drawn among the spirals, drawn
Among the labyrinths we attempt to circumscribe.
***************
Butterfly Blood
-------------------
Butterfly blood, yet it stirs, yet it beckons
Unto the shattered mandala. Butterfly blood,
It transforms from caterpillars of magnitude into
Such resurrection. Dripping, dripping onto my
Allure. Dripping, it drips again onto the floor.
Butterfly blood, tell me of its beginning.
Sleeping until the dream shimmers and rises
Towards the night. Rising, it is evaporating
Quietly. Butterfly blood, tell me of our truth.
Butterfly blood, it is told amongst continuation,
Continuing to evoke enlightenment. Glowing,
Glowing, it transforms. Dripping, dripping as
Our sadness. Butterfly blood, it turns clear,
Remaking itself into this conclusion. See us,
See us fly. Fly. Butterfly blood, see the riddles
Tell us why. Bye.
+++++++++
My Cocoon
---------------
My inspiration has died and become cold.
But I seek still the release of the bonds
Which constrain me as a butterfly, a butterfly
Held tightly within its cocoon just prior
To its emergence, the release of all
Human divinity, the spectacular escape
Unto a world otherwise gray and dark.
For this insect is iridescent and irradiant.
And it has achieved its fantastic longing.
But now (and possibly always, it seems)
I am encased deeply within my vapid
And paranoid imagination, my cocoon.
For I may indeed die here, never
To realize my grandiose possibilities.
Yes, I am snug. Yes, I am embraced.
But that embrace belongs only to my prison.
For no love finds me nor is searching
For my saddened soul. I am contained
Here and always within this eternal
And vacuous trance, this illusion that
I might someday express my wings
Upon this world which awaits them,
And finally fly free, beautifully,
Yet content in my inevitable loneliness.
oooooooooo
Meaningless Butterflies
-----------------------------
Into the flight of bizarre butterflies
Is the collapse within circumferences, is
The abandonment of design, of this shell,
Is the veil of fire, is what is beheld:
Every fleck of odd snow, every atom alone;
Is the forgiveness dripping off our chins,
Is light and crystal shunning our nihilism,
Shunning the meaningless butterflies,
Shunning
The meaningless sparks falling through the center
Of what is only that madness which remains.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of Butterflies Circled
---------------------------
I would still write of butterflies circled
By each sky
Of viscous and vicious uncertainty.
I would still speak of rain destroying
The idea of wretched thirst
Not quenched but before longing.
I would still dream
Of my travels through passageways,
Through windows seen then known
Then again understood.
And again, I would still write
Of the butterflies bright, aglow,
And multi-hued,
And solidly their essences
And too unreal but ever so
Only contemplated.
"""""""""""""""
(Here is a poem related to the center picture above.)
Someday
-----------
I will someday draw butterflies
Constructed completed out of circles,
As some ancient geometric proof
Which may have only seemed to trisect
Angles, yet instead just barely doubled
The area of the square placed
On the edge of my mind’s concrete floor.
I will someday find inspiration
In beauty never understood, in ugliness
Known only for its beauty, in emptiness
Known just because it represents everything.
I will someday find that passageway
Which leads to my awakening, to
The maze becoming flat no more,
To all the colors I have told you
About so many times prior, told you
That I swore I saw them glowing
On the wings of butterflies made
Entirely out of circles, circles somehow shaped
Into whatever I have wanted them to be.
,,,,,,,,,,,
Thanks,
Leroy Quet
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