Origami

Ce n'est pas masculine! equates roughly to: It isn't virile (only virile is written as if it were feminine)

 

A man is written in eight folds

 thus the world is without a trice.

A heart becomes willed molds;

wisdom holds no price.

 

The first fold is unto self

annihilation flows like a river.

The second fold is a path of wealth

thence shall come the coldest shiver.

 

A side note on this man is seamed;

halituosity elevating, bearing life.

Adversity is self-demeaned

when truth is cognition’s mercurial wife.

 

The third fold is composed

unlike notes - a scribbled fate.

The fourth fold is a morphosed

Cocoon awaiting a light to elate.

 

Purpre Ode to..

...La primavera

This puppet hangs, a slight twist

in his delectable fable. Now you must

not think in verses; think versatile.

 

Why won't his ink sink like a ship

thunderstricken, aflame in his white sea

of paper? Does it not bleed passion?

 

In this spurious mélange of violet

he shines yellow; of pride? Faugh,

that would be modesty!

 

No, and the others do not see -

purple and gray hues.  The leafs

ebb counter-sense to his pansy petals.

 

His back to a threshold, he faces

nothing, himself.  Here, he becomes

everything by embrace.

 

Open the dam,

and let nothing flood

all.

 

 

The fifth fold has become old;

it too is taken by nature's time,

Which holds the sixth fold, a cold

and desolate truth - a volcano's chime.

 

Alas, this cancerous truth broods within.

This mole of his defines him as saprobial

among all existence on this planet, so thin

that the atmosphere withdraws from the trial.

 

The seventh fold is the last sigh of death

a nihilist bathing in life's philosophy, unity.

The eight fold is after the final breath;

it is a kafkaesque awareness - unforgivable enmity.

 

Did he say...

kavkaesque awareness?

Or Kafka's next affair, isness?

 

I think it not the latter afore the antecedent;

birds of ill omen have flown,

thieves among traders,

their shadows hanging over awareness.

 

Yes, awareness, the abnegation of cecity -

Was this a foreshadowing of inauspicious haps?

Fie on it, faugh on it! they scream;

Orthodoxy has hallowed it unprescient.

 

Ce n'est pas masculine!

Those two faggets walking down the street,

hand in the other's hand.  Aren't they aware?

We don't accept newness - fruitless lewdness.

 

Aye, they do not see it.

Awareness has become the new felony -

'tis thought upon unkindly.

Fie on us, for betraying it.

 

When did being aware become such a lunatic

quality?  The cult of idiolatry is a plague,

an empty, perfunctory idiosyncrasy. 

When did we lose track of how pathetic we've become?

 

Popular lyricism: I am whatever

you say I am, 'cause if I wasn't, then

why would you say I am?

 

Existential rant: You are the definition

of what people see; you may not be guilty,

but they see it otherwise, thus it becomes true.

(You are not innocent, they told me so.)

 

Eyes are lovely focal points, empty thresholds,

connected to your brain through a retina -

in such realities, they are moral majorities,

thus Omniety of Isness.

 

Too bad the Kavka took our shiny

ideas.

Now we're left unaware of

ourselves.

Author's Note

The dragon in that picture is made out of ONE square piece of paper, without being cut or torn.

Also note that pansy petals here is used for its relation to the French name, Pensée. It means thought more commonly, however, I surmised that the French word would just befuddle most of you and nobody would question it or bring it up (like in many of my pieces). I figured, if I wanted to write in English, I should stick to it.

Reviews

[Rick Puetter]

Wow. This is very nice. It takes slow reading, however, but it deserves it.

First, the picture of the origami is fantastic. It's simply amazing.

My favorite part of the poem was the last part after "Or Kafka's next affair, isness?", and my favorite line is "Yes, awareness, the abnegation of cecity". I share your sentiments about awareness in this portion of the poem.

I had some difficulties in understanding where you were going in some (others not) of the "eight folds", even with several reads. I also had difficulty seeing where you were going with the digression "This puppet hangs, a slight twist...". Might you consider adding some notes to the poem? This might help avoid some of the "grasshopper jumping" effects mentioned in "Armada's" review.

Still a very interesting poem.

Kindest of regards,

Rick

[Wildecat]

I truly love orgami, I have seen some beautiful creations, thanks for sharing your poem.

[Gandré]

Or Kafka's next affair, isness? --- isness of kafka is something new. hm. i know isness just in metaphysical world.

you may not be guilty,

but they see it otherwise, thus it becomes true.

You are not innocent, --------oh this very much reminded me on my own quote this is the same re-written. I am glad you feel inspired by it.

[Gandré]

I absolutely love it. such an amazing composition. explosive, imaginative, raffinesse in detail.

[Touché Armada]

I almost feel bad for subjecting you to my um clowningness.. Almost tehehehe but not quite, if I can't subject my clowning toward your work.. Then who's? You're the only one who would roll their eyes and mutter "man, she's such a clown" which is nicer than some utterances. So
I like this Mr Outlaw its confuddleing to me of coarse as usual because the way you jump between a possible train of thought and the next has me riding a grasshopper in a busy garden, I'm never quite sure what I'm landing on before the next leap. But anyhow that doesn't matter, not really, its the fun of the journey that counts, and who wouldn't want it to be colourful. There can be no issness without awareness, thats a fair enough comment. You go into quite the conflict in the dialogue that follows that statement. You know I think ravens and crows and the like get a bad rap, funny that anything black gets a bad rap (did I ever tell you I had a pet raven? Yeah for a while, it was hurt and the kids at school were going to stone it to death, seriously they were, so I walked over picked it up put it under my arm and took it home, it was quite the character, I let it go about 12 weeks later, despite its reputation, it was a beautiful bird, and in the right sunlight at the right angle its feathers were purple and green, not totally black at all. I'd take a raven home again any old day, much more friendly than a cockatoo thats for sure. But I guess their reputation sticks, like hyenas and jackals, vultures and currawong, I guess it's always been seen better that a creature kills its prey rather than tidy up someone else's mess or over estimated gluttony. The poor creature that winds up with bad omens attached to it, yet all it ever does is watch the real predators, I guess in that sense they are thieves, but they do clean up at least. But I'm not so sure you're talking about birds, at least not entirely. Fie oh faugh they scream, I did giggle because at this point your choice of carefully chosen words throws me out in two directions whole worlds away from each other.. One way makes me think the obvious over current of homosexuality and the second makes me think of the subjugated female, I guess they can be seen as highly related in a way in that women in the past have become so worthless perhaps a same sex partner is more appealing. Basically this reminds me of popular arcane dogma where women were all but discarded even to the point that it's almost amazing procreation continued, hardly human next to man.. Oh woe the goddess murdered over and over =P, spits to the side tehehehehe. Sooo when did becoming aware become such a lunatic quality? Hrmm I'd say as soon as many generations ago we were chocked through a strangling birth canal that amputated our wings my friend, and flightless we stood in despair and said "now what? We have all lost our god status we better create some, because how awful the crow should keep his" how terrible we were all demoted! But... We can be whatever it is we want to be based on what we are said to be.. 1 part lowly whatever and one part perfection I guess, seen as we are mostly called one or the other or in between. You know we cant help the way in which we are defined by others, either in bitterness or fondness, it's impossible to change the way anyone thinks of you, it's unfortunate sometimes but thats life in a social society that likes definition. Eyes are lovely focal points, empty thresholds.. It sounds so clinically cold removed and unmysterious simple organs carrying simple messages through one the most complex vehicles there is, complex is the reality, perception on the other hand? I think I'll leave that well alone, maybe you're right, Kavka took our shiny ideas, Now we're left unaware of ourselves. But smile, that means you can create a whole new meaning?
Wow was that incoherent or what? tehehehehehe =D

[Touché Armada]

Tap tap tap taptaptaptap tehehehehehe

[Tomás Ó C..]

Cool poem... love the rhymes!!!

[Touché Armada]

BAHHHHH!!!!!! Now you edit!!!! LOL... Ok thoughts of Purpre and yellow... unless the yellow changes from my perception to something golden... Oh ... I DONT KNOW Outlaw.. I never seem to have clue... Boo hoooooo... lololololol .... HUGS (*)'s

[Keith]

The simplicity yet intrinsic necessity of structure within origami makes for an interesting metaphor. The first fold, annihilation flows like a river; bold. delivers a gracious destruction of that placed at face value into a revealing of all but half that behind. Enjoyed this one, destruction through the dismissing from perception. Chi from the power of self realization. .... just a good one.

The purple ode... nice little sunset meditation but my estimates... seemed enlightening or at least creative.

Enjoyed both, but am searching for more folds of perception...
hmmm... perhaps I will search further.

[Touché Armada]

Eight folds, thats always a good start, restart, continuation. Three is so uneven, a heart becomes willed molds (I'm not sure if molds is an intentional typo, so I don't know if it means a willed decay or a willed fit, if I skip to your ode to Purpre the sping I think it means fit, versatility has a clever way of fitting. Wisdom cant be bought, some people are just plain wise, you're just plain wise.

Self annihilation, most spend quite some time on this task in life, breaking ourselfves down to build our selves back up, like we have to prune in order to grow a little more full, the harder the prune the lass dead areas perhaps? The path of wealth, or in the least independence, yes thats a cold shiver, who knew it could be so long and lonely a task. Ironic that we seek wealth for comfort, yet in the pursuit there is n o comfort or at least little comfort.


Side note... in the mean time, breathing elevating living, Adversity is self degrading? Because we let it be? When in truth its perception and perception changes almost continually like partners do over time.


Unlike melodious music ordered with a count, rhythm and harmony, more like that death metal, scribbled and screaming... Ouch to the ears (sorry).. then the forth the wonderful blue winged butterfly in transition from a puppy fat caterpillar, well and truly ready to stretch it's wings.
...

Why wont the poppits ink sink like a ship thunderstricken, would you want to sink? Aflame in his white sea of paper, Does it not bleed passion? White paper bleeds white noise, sometimes it's a terrifying void like a black hole only white, and it seems to suck away inspiration, rather than transform static into transmission. Even then, there are no guarantees you will wind up with what you want, unless its a conscious thought process, rather than manifestation.

Violet is a passionate colour, a colour of love, but he shines yellow? A colour of cowardice? There is no lack of pride in that lake of pride, you say so yourself, so it must be cowardice, just what do you fear in your passions and dullness?

Is no one seeing, your passions your decadence and the mundane? Always seeing something different, green rather than violet and yellow? Someone getting all jealous of something there is no need to be jealous of perhaps. Or is it you feel invisible sometimes, nothing, that your passions are nothing, and that no one sees them, which makes you feel like nothing because your passions are your everything defining they are you, and if they are ignored or invisible or miss understood, it makes you feel void? Becoming everything by embrace.. Does that mean you feel you need to be defined by another? Or that that other is just as much nothing and by nothing embracing nothing when the dam walls open there is a flood of nothing? Because there has to be nothing with something for anything to flood at all.
I hope you find your something to add to your something or if you have... wishing you a flood.