Be warned. This is pure drivel. Be warned again. There’s no driven snow within these pages. Or flowery meadows. There’s not a snowflake. Or a petal. Forget the flowers. Don’t even dare dream of meadows. The snowy peaks are far, far away.
Here there’re just bugs. And imaginary conjoined insects. With imaginary names. But first. There’s the caterpillar. As we all know. And there’s also the butterfly. As we all know. Some say the caterpillar does all the work, and that the butterfly takes all the glory. Perhaps true from the point of view of beauty and flight. But if we dare to go there, then we are denying the caterpillar his own labor of love.
Any comparisons seems needless. Fruitless. And ultimately futile.
I’d like to think the caterpillar is the butterfly. Without the wings. And the butterfly is the caterpillar. With wings. The two can only be separated on a divisive scale. Which is an imbalanced tension, anyways.
One grounds, and the other skies. Both seem to touch heaven and earth. In a brief lifetime. Of change. Impermanence. And metamorphosis.
I’ve been trying to see the one within the other. Often at the cost of forgetfulness. Because that is what forgetfulness does; makes you take things for granted.
These poems are an effort to remember the forgetfulness, and see what lies hidden in there. In plain sight.
The attempt to grasp the ungraspable, no matter how feeble, is the expression itself. Using what we have. Words. Obviously using the mind.
In the end, there’s no such thing as a butterfly or a caterpillar, let alone the mishmash I’ve come up with; as in Butterpillars, and Caterflies. On a fantastical level, anything can come alive. Even Butterpillars and Caterflies.
So, what, then, is a Butterpillar or a Catterfly?
It is the presence of one in the other. Or the absence of each. My poetry is an attempt to paint the vagueness of it all. Using words as colors. Trying to capture the inscrutable nature of the very thing that’s beyond any deciphering. The inexpressible qualities of the very thing I’m trying to quantify, is the Butterpillar or the Catterfly.
Very badly unquantified.
In other words, this is a poem of traps; trying to entrap elusiveness.
Through poetry, about things that don’t exist, in a seemingly materially existing world. It’s a vainglorious attempt, made out of all the things that bind us and free us.
It has also been an ongoing process of endless conundrums; so magical, and yet so mundane; that really, there have more occasions than I care to remember, far too many to nitpick, where I’ve gone, ‘what’s the point of it all!?’
The resultant feeling has been one of exasperation and ecstasy. And as with all things, pointless. And that is the point. That in the end, all I’m trying to do with these words are to find some ways and means to see how best a man can describe that which throbs and beats within himself, and does so without; in the wider world.
The butterfly and the caterpillar, in that symbolic changing, and merging, seems to undergo a metamorphosis, after all. And in some imaginary way, to my mind, become this metaphysical Butterpillar, singing its songs; crying it's Catterfly cries, in a most relative world.