12 April 05

On Seeing More Butterflies

Spaghetti-strapped, I see them flutter by
Their nasal twangs submerged in pony tails
They yearn for depth, these quiet butterflies.

They clutch their tomes, where passion’s in supply
An exercise routine beyond the pale
Spaghetti-strapped, I see them flutter by.

From Donne to Plath, they read, they sink, they sigh
The bell jar beckons with its lonely veil.
They long for depth, these quiet butterflies.

They see the book. They smile. They pay. They buy.
The vortex draws them louder than a gale:
Spaghetti-strapped, I see them long to die.

Profundity ensnares them: mirror, spy.
The oven-abyss calls – it’s so female.
They whisper “death,” these quiet butterflies.

I rail, unheard, against the sylvan lie
Whose petulance bores into wings so frail
This yen for depth will kill my butterflies:
Protruding ribs, preparing soon to die.

Posted by at 07:48 PM in Miscellaneous | Link |
  1. How exquisite, how beautiful.

    This one really sings, especially read out loud.

    — Abdul-Walid    13. April 2005, 08:19    Link
  2. As Abdul-Walid said, when you read this sestina-like (or should it be tristina?) poem out loud, you not only see and hear the flutter of butterfly wings, but you feel it all, in the pacing of your breath!

    — maria    13. April 2005, 08:45    Link
  3. Yes it’s a beauty.
    ”...their nasal twangs submerged in pony tails…”
    Fabulous.
    And true.
    Why are those butterflies so drawn to death? Are their lives so empty, so dull, so lacking in their own poetry and passion?
    Why are they so eager to worship others rather than become objects of worship?

    — Natalie    13. April 2005, 11:46    Link
  4. That’s beautiful.

    We’re all drawn to it, aren’t we? A deeper, more real story, no matter what the cost—

    If this isn’t the story, (“here, now, quick, always!”)—nothing is, but the clever people who write books are so good at making it seem like the real story is somewhere else—

    Lovely, lovely poem, Pica

    — dale    13. April 2005, 13:26    Link
  5. Amen to what the others said. But why spring? Plath always strikes me as more a winter poet…but then again, I guess that’s when butterflies are underground. :-)

    — Lorianne    14. April 2005, 03:24    Link
  6. Thank you, everyone, for your comments, and for your link, Abdul-Walid.

    Natalie: I’m not sure why they’re so drawn to death. This is a tiny minority of students, but they’re quite easy to spot (there are LOTS of students with eating disorders but the Plath groupies are a very small subset). What’s almost more alarming than this is the proportion of students taking antidepressants… Lorianne must know all about this, she actually teaches them. I just live around them. Thirty thousand of them. We shop in the same bookstores.

    Dale—yes, I think we are all drawn to it in some ways, though I find I have come to appreciate my butterfly qualities and have stopped trying to compete with the Drumbeats of Depth. I’m disturbed, however, that these kids find it necessary to obliterate themselves in order to feel “real,” though to be fair to them the culture’s not helping them a lot—at least they see through the doublespeak. I just wish they’d read Woolf—I suppose what I mean is that I think they mistake sticking your head in the oven for being the Real Thing Whatever That Is.

    Lorianne—I don’t know why spring, though I suspect it is, like you say, because that’s when they emerge.

    — Pica    14. April 2005, 04:47    Link
  7. Late comment here – but it’s a wonderful poem, Pica, especially when read/thought aloud.

    — beth    14. April 2005, 05:11    Link
  8. What is so strange is that butterflies, too, always seem to associate especially closely with death. Perhaps because they live so dangerously close to life, to the point of allowing their bodies to develop into utterly fragile things that cannot hope to last? I’ve always wondered about the evolutionary interpretation of the harshness of survival that such creatures as butterflies, dragonflies, daddy longlegs, or adult antlions have… why create yourself in such a way that you are made of cellophane and threads? It seems all too easy to get yourself crushed by a mere brush of wind.

    — miguel    14. April 2005, 17:42    Link
  9. Just another voice in the chorus, Pica. I like this poem a great deal. Working on a college campus myself, I am all too conscious of those spaghetti straps (and bare tummies) these spring days. But I’ve not noticed an overt fascination with death…only the color pink. And the short pleated skirt. Perhaps it’s because another school year is already, in a sense, dying.

    — kurt    17. April 2005, 17:42    Link

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