going outside nowadays is just a game of who can hold their breath the longest and of looking for reasons to pass the time in your own backyard but the gardens i see are only for the literary muses haunting writers into submission and for digging up holes with plastic shovels and for wishing that i could pick up the daisies and place them in your hair
i was in the middle of drawing a circle when my arm quivered and now the line shoots way past the paper and it's currently undulating over my desk and zooming past a caterpillar that's contemplating whether the process of becoming beautiful would actually make him beautiful when he already knows that he is beautiful
i hope the god i pray to forgives me for making all the lines i write be about you
this poem makes me picture a certain someone title inspired by a certain somewhere
Does that make sense? I’m not sure. Do I mean that we tend not to see the ‘beauty’ in ourselves? Definitely. Do I mean that what is considered ‘beautiful’ by the majority nullifies the minority’s perspective? Probably. Do I mean that ‘beauty’ does not always demonstrate generosity or humility? Maybe. And why have I used inverted commas? No idea. It appears that B-E-A-U-T-Y is easier to appreciate than it is to define.
‘When she transformed into a butterfly, the caterpillars spoke not of her beauty, but of her weirdness. They wanted her to change back into what she always had been. But she had wings.’ - Dean Jackson
At the valley Of butterflies In Rhodes, Greece I encountered Nature's love affair Feisty flowers Rainbow colors Flying gorgeously everywhere Beyond anybody's reach Fluttering here and there Once the caterpillars Magically turned into animated fairies Gently hugging the trees With their soft and fragile wings Their inexplicable performance Has fully mesmerized Thousands of travelers Enjoying the splendors Of this world And to be one of them I am so gratified
Several years ago I got a chance to visit Rhodes, Greece and I was inspired by their Valley Of Butterflies. Here is my poem.
She walks a path with one eye open She follows a path with one eye closed Connecting the strings that float around Like caterpillars Dangling From trees Squirming on their silk She crawls underneath them Un-wanting to not disturb the dance Until she smells the wildflowers. The other eye closes Still crawling the path Luckily, The bugs have warn it down enough To follow with her hands and nose. When she felt the wildflowers on her face She opened that eye Excitedly she pealed open the other. When she heard nothing She was amazed In the distance she could see waves crashing through the wildflowers Once again her world was absent of light. This time she held her breath. She laid in those wildflowers For a long time. So long her fingers and toes sprouted roots pulling her deep inside the soil, Grounding her.
Inspired by Wild Flower, this is Fiona's re-imagined version, 1 of 2.
you will thrive in your own cocoon— legless arthropod wriggling out of its leaved shell, crunching on the stem of a marigold’s shrivel. you crawl up the leaves like they’re the steps of a winding staircase, circling and circling to one day step out of your cocoon.
you are your own skin— a wing ripped in figure eights of formative tearing. at the bottom of a wind-leaned green tower, you are torn down as if starting all over again, away from the pace of a hundred other caterpillar’d creatures.
you are not quite a monarch butterfly, not yet the zebra-patterned black and white, but you bloom in the form of a familiar marigold, a daisy’d curve— thriving as a flower, swaying and alive. you must visit the filial leaves and trace their veins gently.
soon you will thrive in your own cocoon; as those plant’d seeds will soon leave legless arthropods wriggling— for how would a caterpillar’s cocoon wither without your leaves crinkling beneath it?
Two monarchs cross paths dancing around eachother. With words so airy, one should know to be wary of what will be said next.
"How does your son fair?" "Fairs as well as yours I presume." "Yours always had a knack for flair." "Yours always could wow a room."
Disguised insults spoken. Each compliment flapped away with wings that carry the monarch to their next test. Where they'll see which flowers they like best. To gather in support of their queens.
"You know what would be tragic?" "Why do you continue to speak?" "If a son were to fall to magic, before his heart could take a beat."
The two monarchs parted ways. Promises rolling off their tongues as sweet as the nectar they drank. But were designed to attack the other's rank. Their success depends on the other's defeat.
Conversation stalls as the monarchs fly home. On wings decorated so finely. Each of their thoughts seem to turn towards their sons Just caterpillars before their transformations. Weaving their chrysalis with determination.
Though they're far apart the monarchs speak the same words
"I fear for you, my son, in this great world, Our reign can never last for long. But I wish for you to have your chance To encapture the world in a trance With a grace bestowed upon your wings I wish for you to make others sing. For I've seen the tragedy of the other king Just before transformation I saw a caterpillar die in its chrysalis."