First the pictures.
Picture titles: "Inspire", "Amplitudes Desired", "Another Silhouette Within", "Of Shape And Essence", and "Refraction Concocted".
Now for the poems. Spirals occur quite frequently within my poems. So I will only be posting a small fraction of those poems that mention them.
An old one, first.
The Spiral Was
-------------------
The spiral was unsure of its own shape,
Insecure in its inability to rise up
Out of its own consciousness and gaze
Down upon its true existence, to
Finally be revealed to its own
Dreams and thoughts written long ago
In its lonely and foolish childhood.
And so it slept out of a sense of
Confusion and insight, out of its
Knowledge of the clashing
Of dimensions,
The conflict between lines curved
And straight; it dreamt of its own
Virginity never spoken to, its lust
Never loving, never obsessed by
The inevitability of all mathematics
Coalescing into one single equation,
One function plotted on some strange
And beautiful graph-paper.
Oh, yes. It was indeed the soul
In solitude. But it too was surely
Aware of its own design, its own
Purity never asking any question,
Yet understanding every answer, every
Ultimate and all-encompassing implication.
--------------
Another old poem:
Our Labyrinth
-----------------
But still the spiral did not inspire us.
For in spite of its symbolism, its voices;
Each of us, however distant from each
Other along the line, we are in reality
All enclosed within a much smaller truth,
Within a higher level of time and thought;
But despite this fantastic contortion,
We are but beholden to the gods
Of hatred, bigotry, anger, and war.
We are yet unable to climb the walls
Of our singular dimension, our prison,
Our labyrinth made of our humanity,
And gaze past the sky, beyond the edge
Of horizons made of stone and distrust.
But still the spiral may never inspire us.
For we are forever lost in our belief
That this reality can never be curved,
Never be anything but perfectly straight,
And only so for only us.
====================
Yet another old one:
The Spiral Alone
--------------------
I am the spiral alone,
The single loop within itself,
The circle entwined with every circle,
Entwined with only its own curvature.
I am the reality within reality,
Am the spiral once seen, seen among
The web of worlds cracking into pieces,
Among the nests of every creature,
Among the simplest of spirals
Never reaching their centers, never
Reaching their most ideal of any edges.
++++++++++++++++++
There Were Dreams
-------------------
Once, there were dreams. But now the sleep
Of the mind's clangorous din, it evaporates
Then eviscerates its own metaphors. Ah, but now
The tangles of molecules each ruptured and stale,
They erode the brain's assumptive magnitudes.
They become the shrill spiral without axis
Or intensity. Once, there was the distance,
Was the diameter of forever. But now,
Surely, there is only the horizon under where
I am hidden. Now
There is only midnight endured and angry.
Now there are simply haphazard circumstances
Each forgotten and awkward, each strange
And convoluted, each bent by the curvature
Of macroscopic minutia, by the curl of
Asinine complications, of the satire evoking
My hubris and residue.
.........................................
One more:
Despite The Clockwise Dream
---------------------------------
I am sipping the coil -- for it is its own circumference.
It is the vaporous point expanded into loops,
Into a directional spin overtly surrounded
By its own existence both planar and
Enclosed. I suckle the spiral round, suckle
The tangents unexpressed (but drawn). For into the center
Of each middle of every point converging we see
The complexity of vision known, see the simplicity
Of sight uncertain. We become the edge
Of each edge, despite our indefinite shape,
Despite the clockwise dream that we too
Possess so as to implode, so as to evaporate
Into the nothingness beyond us, so as to
Sip and suckle the perfume of beauty's diagonality,
Of beauty's madness alternatingly above and between.
Thanks,
Leroy Quet
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