Winds Gusting Breezily

The theme is wind and air.

No pictures today. After all, wind is invisible.

--

I just wrote this poem yesterday:

Indescribable Pinwheel
-----------------------

We grasp at the indescribable pinwheel.
Yes, it is spinning despite our thoughts.
Yes, it intertwines with our hands, and we
Become the rotation within us. Yes, we are
Surreal and vague. We are rectangular, yet
We perceive ourselves to be round, to be
Circular in our vanishing. Ah, we grasp
The spiral surrounded by glass. Ah, we gaze
Into such refraction. And the shadows
Tilt in their resolution. They turn too,
As the pinwheel, about our aesthetics.
We curl and bend and reiterate the breeze.
For, we are ambidextrous and androgynous.
We are created from our motion immersed
In those trapezoids of curvature and
Its impending wings, in its eddies, in
Its whirlpools truncated but somehow frail.

+++++++++++

The Bending Breeze
--------------------

Oh, the bending breeze triumphed against this
Stagnant wind within us. And I woke to be
Afraid and putrid. I woke to sleep anew.
And I forgot the gusts, for they despised me.
I remembered the bizarre placement of air upon air,
Of voices heard inside that crescendo. Ah,
The turbulence beyond my ceiling, it was roused
By my motion. And I exhaled, hoping for exactness.
For, in this dire earth I am saddened,
Am angered by the hideous opaqueness. But I
Will breathe upon all magic, will ascend as
My face, ascend above us each, and mutate
Into the simple conclusion, into reality made
Of its consequences, made of all triteness
Now evoked, now placid and emerging.

...................

Not about wind per se, but about the turbulence of the universe, which wind epitomizes.

Convection
---------------

And this fluid, our universe, boils.
It churns itself through its own eruption,
Via its single collapse out of
Thoughtless thorns, from out of the depths
Of convection, of each mantra spun.
For unsightly helixes tear at space
And at its vacuous yet solid yet incestuous
Topology. For it serves this mundaneness.
It serves only lust and our souls' ambitions
To be simply stone, to be simply blood,
To be but scrawled epitomes each wondering
If gradients scraped from reality can
Resist this skin.
And beauty's windchimes
Talk of that reality, sing of worlds
Enduring yet subtle, enduring but
Flatter still than any ellipse,
Than any fluid containing
Such relics as our own, as those among
The silt, among the void we have captured as if,
As if it bubbled, as if it too was boiling.

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

This Windmill
---------------

The wheel spun around and away from its
Horizontality. And above it fell the air,
Turning this windmill within such gusts, within
The echoes of elaborate spheres and awkward
Concentricity. And the propeller remained
Among its counterpoint. And it grasped its
Flight; and it concealed its equations. And
It spun, spinning as each neuron's dream,
Spinning as every abstraction of symmetry
Confused. Those blades tore at my thoughts.
And I was grateful. I touched the axis
Of this circle. Then I fell back, back into
The unimagined wind. Then I was flung,
As such gaseous reality, along with those
Turbulent breezes. Oh, I now know the triumph
Of our exploitation, know of the transmutation
Of simple kinetics drawn through the spindle,
Through the clockwise invocation of a mundane assembly.


****************

That Gust Belongs
------------------

A cusp above it, almost a cusp below it, this blob
Of fuchsia liquor drips onto the air. And that
Wind is telling in such a cosmic weathervane. Oh,
That gust belongs within a prism of uncertainty
And shape. So, pressing my fist upon that point,
I cut into my anger. But still it denies me.
Still, it swirls and gurgles among the light.
And I drink the potion's droplets. But they
Are not a salve for my thirst. Yes,
I am moist again against the stone screams.
I am distant but somehow near within
The indirect angles seen, within the cusp above
And slightly below us. For, there the emptiness
Is replenished, is overflowing in its satiation.


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^


Tornado
---------

I knew that the wind upset my dream. And in this
Dark sky I saw the shape, I saw the epitome
Of death, of hellish agony. In the blackish clouds
I saw all reality spinning. And I knew I was dreaming;
Therefore, inevitable was the storm.

Ah, protruding downward was the proboscis of a
Ravenous god. This fear within us descended until
It became the filth it upheaved. And towards us
Came the thunder, came the ghost of darkness.
Towards that truth I held sacred came this apocalypse.
And the roar was opaque. And the night overcame us.
And we hid beneath ourselves. Oh, the passage
Of the wind, of that explosive breath of Satan,
It, I knew, was always impending. Oh, it is never
To be beyond our dream awakened or vicious or
Exaggerated. Yet it is surely to be again such a prong
Evoked by air and its assertive superstitions.

ooooooooooooooooo


And Then These Currents
--------------------------

The elegant sands of this fluid's emergence
Swirl and oscillate and transform into again
This superposition, translate into the froth of
Spectacular grit. Oh, withered and wisping are
The crevices that become the smoke that becomes
This uttered silt within us each. And then
These hues of auras gasping, they subdivide yet
Into transparent rain, into the wind made flat.
And then these currents in the midst of our dreams
Release themselves so as to conjure this
Which is their continuity, which is surely
The inspired convolutions of such parallel air.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally, an old one.

Intertwined Gusts
----------------------

The intertwined gusts of this convoluted air
Aspire to rectify, to become their laughter,
To become the scrawl upon such an abacus.
The intermingled gasps of these extroverted gods,
They amplify and beckon unto that topology.
They retract and extend unto that shallowness,
Unto an astigmatic image surely alluring,
Surely blown throughout by particles of concern.

And the invisible wind overtakes us, becoming
The darkness beneath these clouds. And then
The evaporation exploits us, transforming into such
Exalted whispers, into exaggeration only imprecise.


Leroy Quet