Spirals Again Converging

Today's theme: Spirals.
Yes, I already had a post about spirals. But there are so many poems and pictures of mine that use that theme.
See the original spiral post here:
http://prism-of-spirals.blogspot.com/2008/08/blog-post_1465.html


First picture: "Concave Spiral". Second picture: "Solid Space". Middle picture: "Shapelessness Designed". Fourth picture: "The Taste Of Glass". And last picture: "Focus-0".







Upright Was The Spiral
------------------------

Upon the edge of this forgotten circle,
Upon the perimeter of an uncurving whirlpool,
Upright was the spiral, a voiceless loop
Turning into its surrealness obtained. Upright
Was the final convergence; in this we are
Darker than our epitomes. And we sleep
Above the wonder we imply by our dreams.
Yes,
Upright is the magnification of those conjectures,
For, we equate them we extreme intermediacy.
We equate truth with imagination. And we
Evaluate these mangled theorems once again.
We calculate the verticality of such spirals,
Each placed at the circumference of ambivalence,
Each placed within imprecise exactness, within
A paradigm of certainty decidedly confusing.



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

Mangled Apparition Of Righteousness
---------------------------------------

Profoundly the globule suspended above its floor,
Profoundly it is pressed into the clarity within.
Against the coil is formed that exoskeleton, is
Made the shadows glistening, for they are magnificent.

And I tell you of this sphere, because it descends
And replenishes an adjacent spiral. Yes, outward
And inward the spiral diverges. But yet in this glass
Is known the fire, is known the callousness of
Stone and bone and flesh contained but yet drawn,
But yet sketched with a sickening pen. Ah, I,
Perhaps, will transfuse that prism with what
Is saddened by my darkness. Ah, I will perceive
The final helix to be its own occlusion, to
Be its own elongation and enslavement. But
Thus, thus we distract our focus now astray;
Thus we covet such spirals as they diffuse, as
They concur with the grasp curled abruptly
Into our mangled apparition of righteousness.

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

(I might have posted the following poem already.)

Not Yet A Spiral
------------------

In a cobweb levitating within what is beneath
The flattened pinnacle, destiny hung inside its
Spherical rot. And in that globe was drawn
This surface not yet a spiral. But, still, it
Turned, concentrating, converging into a
Hollow center. Although it rose again outward,
And completed itself in such intermediacy.

And between the shell and the cocoon, this coil
Became its transparent colors. Then, in these
Encased aesthetics, that helix flew up,
Flew under the crumpled sky. And it
Rested in the cobweb it will imagine.
And it was moist and worthy of its shape.
It was epitomized by its metaphors. And
Therefore it forgot its space; it foresaw
Its truth. It restrained its containment,
Thirsting for its hunger, for its existence
Coiled beyond all such deja vu.

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

Regarding Spirals
-----------------------

If I had invented spirals, ha,
I would have become the very rotation
Obscured by my circumference,
Would have remained this mandala
Of ellipsoids and imagery, of
The horizon exploding -- transmuting
Into specks, into sparks -- of what
Has grasped at certainty, only to
Ask of subdivided grids the question
Regarding spirals returning to their centers,
To their lines and abstraction
Too perfect to be envisioned.

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

Its Ascension Vaguely Flat
----------------------------

Curled about this globule, a prism, is all that is
Adjoining and complete. Surrounding that spiral
Is a spiral, within is again such a coil of isolation.
Curled, yet vaporous despite its loop, despite its
Mathematics, curled and curved are these whispers,
Are these voices of oblique amazement. Yes,
Curled anew is each assumption of awareness,
Is each atom of cognition made ashen, made
Wet and fluid and viscous; as it too is mud.

..And I wrap the circumference of trapezoids
..Within its epitome redeemed. Ah, it is enclosed,
..Then it surrounds our lemicons, it surrounds
..Every suffix of elongation -- for it is indeed
..Clockwise, is indeed its ascension vaguely flat.

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


Overt Shape
---------------

Curve around the spiral itself curved
Through and surrounding what was once
Its one center remaining absurd yet beautiful
-- Misplaced inspiration, inspiration misplaced --
Diagonal then flat then vertical until
Again the shape becomes overt -- atoms
Of loops withheld, of turpentine and bread
Filtering through our skin so as to return to
Simply tragedy's milk -- Oh, the spirals love
Their pompous light, love their
Silhouetted truncation, have loved their truth
And purpose within us -- curve around
The spiral itself curved -- and then explode
Into lemniscates rotated, forming our horizon,
Forming our mandala just at, obviously, what is
Our grasp's farthest reach.

ooooooooooooooooo


As A Spiral Dreamt
--------------------

Inside these molecules of rotation, I enclose
Myself in what is somewhat the spiral dreamt.
Horizontally, vertically, into the depths of ascension
It curves, remaining not quite flat, but yet
It obtains these rings of distant dimensions.

Inside such convex crescents enumerated surely
Via their radii oblong and considerate, there
I finalize the ultimate vertex oddly sought,
There I fill the coil with its own axis strangely
Diagonal, strangely unimagined. Inside these
Droplets bisected and duplicated, within I return
To the flatness, I retreat to the pinnacle of
This vacuous truth defined as but a definition,
Defined as a spiral dreamt -- but it soon becomes
Its own collapse, becomes its expansion into a
Structure obvious, into a substance profoundly of
Such conclusion.


Leroy

Spirals Converging

Today my theme is spirals.
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