More Butterflies Yet

This is my second post about butterflies.
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

Butterflies

Today I am sticking to a theme: butterflies.

First, an old poem:

A Web Spun By Butterflies
---------------------------------

Why cannot the butterfly
Construct its own web, create
This beautiful prison (an ironic cocoon) which
Embraces each of humanity's souls,
Embraces us among that that is beheld
And referenced as being only love?

Why has this empty containment
Of all matter and energy and
Existence, why has this which is encased inside
What we are aesthetically deriving
(And living upon), why
Has any of its forms been ever capable
Of pretending to be as so magnificent a spider?

For such an entity, although uninspired,
Has already spun
These galaxies and prisms and smoke
From threads still never explained, still
Forgotten, despite

The iridescence of this one, this solitary,
And, as is conclusively implied, this which is (as prior)
A truthfully unseen and unloved butterfly.

Now some pictures:





(Pictures' titles: Butterfly Redeemed, Imprecise Butterfly, As A Butterfly.)

Another poem, a little newer:

Of These Enlightened Wings
-----------------------------

These wings extend beyond their suffocation,
Beyond the shell in which we all are encased.
And in this expanse I am found to be beautiful;
In this blur my ugliness becomes me again.
Oh, within the soul of the amorphous butterfly
Are made such profound fantasies rising
Unto that distance where we transpose our thoughts.

Oh, inside the trajectory of this lepidopteran
Are the atoms of reality's whispers. Inside the song
For which we endure are the molecules of image,
Are the utterances of our flight curving upwards,
Are the asymmetries of these enlightened wings,
Are the patterns of oblivion transformed anew
Into perfection and perception surely actual.


Some more poems:

Poised Upon The Pinnacle
---------------------------

An asymmetric butterfly was poised upon the pinnacle;
It rises up from this curl, it rises to float
In its balance and its incompletion. Oh, underneath
The twine of cosmic distance, this insect is remade.
And in its confusion it too is dim, it too becomes
The silhouette of the eclipse formed by such a sky
In retrograde. Ah, this bug surrenders to the light,
To the voices aglow and fuchsia. And then it
Transcends its stench, transcends its convolutions.
And then it floats above the entirety of all,
Surely to settle onto yet a peculiar point.
Ha, numerous are the arcs, are those crescents spun;
Numerous are the symmetries of ambiguity, of
Impact and isolation, of innocence fluttering but yet
Fulfilled by the conjunctions of our levitation.


Of Butterflies We Detest
-------------------------------

A nonconformist butterfly,
It knew what is its shape
(However clear and glowing).
It knew what is (its) madness --

And so this discernment ever yet
Counted the multiples of 1, of 0,
Of our own selves.

It knew, it flew, it transformed
Despite its cocoon
Into waking, into voices,
Inside itself alone, inside this
Watercolor a solitary knowing,
A knowing of
That which we knew,
Again
Knew of the shapes, of the madness,
Knew of butterflies we detest,...
For they are our aspirations proclaimed.


Of
----

Derived from that
Which was either trivial or wrong
And which was of that which was of
Such derived again of every derivation
Implied by its own subscripts which
Are all themselves
Implied by the definitions defined
In terms of definitions of
Words spoken of mouths
Of virgins quite virtuous and of
Vice so honestly of the inner atoms
Of our souls each
Of a reality remade as its
Own past transforming into
A metamorphosis
Of this unimaginably nimbused
Butterfly always
Aglow and always the very representation
Of the circle of every and all
And infinity and but only one
Dimension not quite understood
Nor uncertain nor
Anything else but again yet
Derived from its own
Originality. (period)

Okay, one more:

Chrysalis
-----------

Awake, my underestimated butterfly,
A winged glowing fuchsia lepidopteran,
A dangerous monster in four dimensions.
Wake into powdered sugar and ash.
Wake, for this dream has already
Gone on too long, gone on eternally.
Break the plaid that encompasses our world,
That ties together this universe.
And fly beyond the singularity
Unto divinity and pleasure.
Wake unto that existence
That we have been woken from.
For our sleep is the Mobius-strip,
An irony defined itself ironically.
Wake, my strange sleeper.
For your dreams are still more weird
Than any possibilities ever conceived,
Conceived among the mannequins and colors,
The colors cast
By the prisms of the mind.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet