Drawing That Circle

This is the second post I am making today. This post's theme: Compasses and scribes (the kind that one draws circles with).

First picture: "Compass For Arachnids". Second picture: "Scribe".



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Here is a poem that rhymes. (I don't remember writing this.)

Of A Path Unfollowed
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Where within nowhere sought,
This path follows then follows not.
This vision dark seeks no beauty known
As to where within has this path shown.

As to where I draw upon a polygon
A maze, a clock, a compass wrong,
And wrongly pointing but to nowhere sought,
This path is unfollowed, and then ever not.

So the segments hued bounce and intersect;
They scrawl the web in which to connect,
They circle inward into a point
Of a path unfollowed and now disjoint.

================

Deconstruct, Reconstruct
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I deconstruct, reconstruct the compass. For its
Circles are complicated. For they intersect
The ellipses of inflection, intersect obtusely
These arctangents of equilibrium and sugar.
I deconstruct, reconstruct the prism. For its
Oblique refraction envisions itself to be both
Answer and hallucination, to be both a dream
And a cardioid turning inwardly, I am sure.
I deconstruct, reconstruct the spiral. For its
Causality is its enclosure. Oh, its center
Is its radius. But yet I recede
Into this crescendo; yet we dare to gaze
At that crescent, at the edges cutting.

Ah, I deconstruct, reconstruct all that is beauty.
And it therefore speaks into its shape, speaks
Into the circles drawn by such a compass, by
Such a scribe strange in its asymmetry
Thanklessly desired.

++++++++++++++++

Resilient Megaphone
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Upon the turntable -- a compass, a lathe -- spun
Hollowness' arcs converging. For heard were
The sounds of the firmament within this tautology. Heard
Were the pulses and static of all truth eviscerated
By our own collapse. Spinning was each radius, was
Each circumference once diagonal. Spun was purpose,
Was the spiral carved into spheres, carved into
Entropy now surely obvious. Epitomized was
The voice of my calligraphy, of my thoughtful prism.
Epitomized was the machine underneath which is
The needle, the wires, the gears, underneath where
Reality succumbs to damp profanity, where I
Yell throughout the equilibrium of my dreams, where
I define the polyhedrons that we have endured, where
I describe without exaggeration such
A resilient megaphone.

/////////////////////////////////

Then Such A Semicircle
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The arc of thoughts drawn by that multilateral compass
Achieves its distance via its direction, achieves its hue
Translucent and elliptical yet dark. And then such
A semicircle hinders its own truncation. And
Therefore the curve equals the trigonometry of ourselves,
Of magnitudes made from only inertia, yes.

The chord meandered upon this subdivided paper,
Becoming both abbreviated and abrupt, becoming again
Either luminescent or dim. Ah, surely, it is seen
And converges as a retrograde coil, as the orbit
Of a moonless world wondering just what has been sketched
Into the stone sky. What, I too wonder, is this
Profound oneness within a timid cosmos, is this finitude
Dissected into infinity, dissected into arcs and lines
Each arriving beyond our perceptions of extraction?

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A Compass Drawing
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A compass drawing
Always-converging
And always-fantastically-colored spirals,
It is alone within its resistance
To circles too simple and beloved
(And complete and conformist). It is
A compass which draws twine tangled
And equal to only itself. It is
An idea unseen, unimagined,
An idea returning to its center
To again its circumference to again
Its existence
As simply this scriber, this instrument,
Written of but never revealing
Upon any page its purpose,
Its unexpected genesis,
A genesis of this encirclement,
Of this
Any reality symbolic or formed.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet