The Mind’s Spinneret


the mind’s spinneret

I. a dream


in dreams, arachnids of imagination

swing back and forth

on silk pendulums of thoughts.

acrobats gyrating in the night

through unspoken words

and unsung melodies,

exuding a constant poetry.


dancing in the mind’s gray spaces,

chemicals transcribe

sensations into thought and motion

where vectors of  being and nothingness

web through the mind-

its vastness not understood

like a star’s proximity to space.


in this secret fortress of the mind

love and fear enter

uninvited like flies

entangled in the mind’s web of intellect

god and darkness are weaved

into cocoons of thought.


the mind, in constant motion,

seeks the contrast of experience

to nourish the constant spinning

of the starlit machine


this is the style of the mind-

poetic and never-ending


great emotions fuel great art

sometimes it is love that motivates one to create -a burning desire for an idea or person; sometimes it is fear-the fear of failure, of being nothing, of being washed away insignificantly by the rain, like a spider’s masterpiece

but, it must be more than the threat of insignificance and annihilation that motivates the creation of art, because the greatest artists create despite lack of recognition


the greatest artists create because it is just what they do- their internal machinery is programmed to create with dials set to art-

it comes as natural to them as it comes to a spider to spin webs

artists are driven by emotion-an emotion that seeks to be transformed into something

like a spiders design

giving the impression of divine order- silk constellations


spiders spin webs

singers sings songs

poets write poetry


it is the cycle of creation, the constant cycle, the cycle of clouds and rain and sky- a cycle orchestrated by the stars

II. a threat

clouds enter spaces of unwinding thought, threats to the perpetual motion

of the machinery.

harbingers of a pause.

when you know time is about to end,

the time you have left

gains importance;

it is the impetus of fading time that makes

even the bees work harder.

a shadow of clouds

precipitates the build.

some of the greatest art was born

out of great despair.


when a dormant chemistry reacts,

in a precise mixture of heated elements

it is the nature of things like clouds

to erupt into raindrops


and everything is washed away

threads cannot find their place in the geometry of the design, ordered story lines in the vaults of the mind, the ones you kept telling yourself to hold it together disintegrate like captured flies


knee deep drenched in puddles wrung from cloud’s a swelling

spider’s do not wait; they always pick up their favorite hobby again-

this magical weaving through air

in the sublime architecture of thought

the mind sees clearer than the eye

faced with the illusion of nothingness,

spiders create


III. an escape


in the mind’s spinneret

words are silk-

they flow out first like fluid from the center then harden-when breath

carries them into a reactivity with the elements of air


I sometimes have the desire to grab them,  words that have already taken form in the air-knowing fleeting forms can’t be retrieved

trying to grab gentle webs only leads to their complete destruction

it’s best to let them get caught in the wind that carries an intention


words are like silk -aligned at certain meeting points in space, they create such miraculous designs that some would call it poetry

even a child can awe in wonder at the delicate woven mystery

like music, there is a moment when its sublime beauty first enters your perception, when one is incapable of feeling any pain


if you try to grasp too tightly at a spider’s web, in lust of possessing its beauty, you risk its destruction-the same is true of attempts to understand poetry

sometimes words are still sticky, fresh from the spin

giving you the childish urge to grab them like cakes just out of a mother’s oven

like the sweet words written by a lover, you save the message in attempts to hold onto the  fleeting feeling of love you felt upon first reading it, secretly knowing it is half in vain


anything that gentle and beautiful in fleeting form can never be fully grasped like love, like music, like butterflies

but like a child I’ve often battled with a strange lust for innocent destruction


IV. a reality


words take their place in the air of things

they form entities

their fluidity hardens into tangibility

sometimes you can feel them go into things


Maya Angelou said she didn’t watch television with offensive language because words were things, matter composed energy; and, energy can neither be created nor destroyed

this matter, energy, she said, seeped into the furniture, into the drapes overhead.

the words, she said, got into things

and if she had a visitor who spoke something offensive at the table, she asked them to leave,

to take with them, the entities that threatened to contaminate the purity of her space


as new vectors of being and sense

extend through the

consciousness that is not conscious,

vast as space, the galactic mind

flies through stars in the darkness

taking a piece of their light


they meet in the deepest places

within, the center of the soul where all

the radii of the creation meet


a poem

suspended in space

upheld by the deepest artistry

an imagination

a real mystery

a web opening into a starlit sky


with all those others stars

out there suspended together

because they got into the same kind of trouble

they’re way out there hanging-together

like Anne Sexton and Vincent Van Gough

in the starry night

when they both went out a

to paint the stars looking for religion

he was driven by the fury of colors

she was swept away by waves of sound


wisdom always returns you to the center

like the spider in her web

extending knowledge she built like ages

rippling out from her like water

hypnotized by a stone


memories etched in the trees

like words that to Plath’s center

were strong as axes

the wood ring echoes in

the foundation, the entire

forest depends on the wisdom

from where she extends


because without trees there would be no breath

it’s all in nature’s design-leaves and branches like tiny lungs

mimicking bronchi


they say walnuts are good for your

brain so they are shaped like tiny ones

in shells as hard craniums

and there is always such a pleasure in the cracking


out from the center of things,

floating and fading into the scenery

exuding a sonar like music

the mind picks up signals

like nerves


in the very fibers of her being

they are strings on a magic guitar

played by the gentle night wind

almost a lullaby, this web of silk

swinging in the breeze


out towards the periphery

of the night

the stars, on hearing it, position themselves to her music like dancers


she knows they are

made of the same thing as her

she knows everything in the night is made of the same stars

the architecture resembles her own,

its all in the physics of things, “she sings”

making patterns, like the stars

creating constellations out of nothing,

spreading out her weaving legs

and swinging and rocking

under the stars to gravity’s delight.


it is all in the music

in the night

the notes from nowhere are everywhere

I hear them and I dance to them

without dancing

and rock myself as I roll

through the night


she knows everything from the center

aware her radii aligned

vectors spreading through the air

detecting it all


anyone who enters is entirely hers and

entirely dead like these elusive emotions


V. a vision

words like silk forms webs in the passion of a spinning heart, self-actualizing,

trying to get closer to the stars

knowing the rain might come in tomorrow

without another chance to autopoeise


connecting all those rough edges-of experience into the design of a spiritual architect,

the universe wants to evolve

it wants to vibrate like molecules to the silent music of a blind DJ that spins all through the night from the heavens


like hipsters dancing out their youth

in a nightclub under the stars

forever drunk forever young

will one day age like us all

because even the stars get old

because nothing beautiful lasts very long

beauty is just a thought

words that made you feel something once

like light, like love, like the music that spun all night,

like the stars above that the web opened towards,

beauty is a feeling if nothing else

but like legends beauty is always remembered

like the songs you felt so deeply

the songs you danced to all night

slightly drunken- forever gorgeous


can you feel the silent music?

it is felt by the eyes

that see a certain arrangements

of notes in the sky,

like constellations of another plane

of being-these remnants of the highest

order of angels, stardust


to see them you must  

look up out at the sky

at the right time of night

like when looking from the right angles you can see the light hit the spiders web

where it glistens like sun dancing diamonds upon water


sometimes this happens when you are growing old

when the music is fading

sometimes it happens in the ripeness of your youth

sometimes it is always happening

like spiders spinning

and the music is forever playing

by the DJ in the sky


sometimes it takes years before you can hear it

the most clearly, sometimes aging ears hear more

as bright eyes to blind eyes can see


poets make webs

to rock emotions back and forth

birds on a hammock-rocking and rolling

comforting them in the gentle air

flowing through the threads

that come from within,

strings on a magic guitar of stars


emotions dissipate and fly away

deep rollers after the rocking

like the birds, almost frightened away

of the lullaby, naturally when nurtured

or embraced too tightly for space


it is often by welcoming something

simply cradling it or embracing it

that we set it free

for the thing you resist always persists


so make webs with the silky threads of your thoughts

as the mind spins,  spin it brightly

to rock your emotions, like on hammocks

and the ones that are hard like stones,

will turn into birds when leaned into a cradle of hands

frightened into a flight’s divination of tomorrow


do not make poetry unless it comes naturally

it has been said like

a blind spinner under the twilight

it can dangerous too get so high

but I say do it anyways and always

despite the rain.

SPIDERS WEB Photographed by Meena Sarine


© 2014 Monica Torres

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