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 spider’s 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,
spider’s 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.
© 2014 Monica Torres
Miami Chronicles 