Metamorphosis.
Nov. 11th, 2005 12:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
matt_doyle"Once I, Zhuang Zhou, dreamt that I was a butterfly. The butterfly did not know that it was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly I awoke with a start and was Zhuang Zhou again. But I do not know whether I am Zhuang Zhou, who dreamed that he was a butterfly, or whether I am a butterfly dreaming that he is Zhuang Zhou. Between Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly there must be some distinction. This is what is called 'the transformation of things'." -Zhuangzi, Chapter 2.
From cocoon to cocoon the butterfly changes,
and dreams he's a dream in the mind of a boy.
Each time he crawls out, he fancies he's faded,
been sewn up a little tighter by the lines of his scars.
Dreams shrink; strangeness gets bled out;
and every memory is just another discarded chrysalis.
They lie in rows like gravestones, broken shapes
he crawls into sometimes as though trying to wear them,
to get back what he once dreamed he was.
Every skin he sheds, every time some dead part of him sloughs off, he wonders
if one day his innermost self will open, like a matryoshka doll,
and he will be empty. Vanished.
When he's the boy and not the butterfly, he feels differently.
It isn't as though those things he loses in molt are anything
he wanted to keep. He collects regrets like scars. He doesn't want them,
wants to lose them, to have pure, unblemished skin again,
but that doesn't stop him from picking at the scabs, because
he wants to remember, and he knows that memories leave marks.
If there was a way to change and stay beautiful, to not make the mistakes
of the past, he'd take it. He goes out into thunderstorms like he believes
the rain will wash his sins away. So what if the years make the butterfly smaller, uglier?
It's better than bloating, retaining the past too long, holding onto it until
you're held down by its weight. You leave the mistakes behind you. You don't
forget them. That's the path to take, he's sure of it.
In that moment between waking and sleep, when dreams melt like cotton candy or dry ice,
when it doesn't really matter whether he's boy or butterfly, whether he's destroying himself one piece at a time or pruning off the dry and dead in favor of new life,
he's at peace to stop wondering. There's something he knows in that moment. When his eyes open, he'll forget.
I got some of the ideas from what I said here.
From cocoon to cocoon the butterfly changes,
and dreams he's a dream in the mind of a boy.
Each time he crawls out, he fancies he's faded,
been sewn up a little tighter by the lines of his scars.
Dreams shrink; strangeness gets bled out;
and every memory is just another discarded chrysalis.
They lie in rows like gravestones, broken shapes
he crawls into sometimes as though trying to wear them,
to get back what he once dreamed he was.
Every skin he sheds, every time some dead part of him sloughs off, he wonders
if one day his innermost self will open, like a matryoshka doll,
and he will be empty. Vanished.
When he's the boy and not the butterfly, he feels differently.
It isn't as though those things he loses in molt are anything
he wanted to keep. He collects regrets like scars. He doesn't want them,
wants to lose them, to have pure, unblemished skin again,
but that doesn't stop him from picking at the scabs, because
he wants to remember, and he knows that memories leave marks.
If there was a way to change and stay beautiful, to not make the mistakes
of the past, he'd take it. He goes out into thunderstorms like he believes
the rain will wash his sins away. So what if the years make the butterfly smaller, uglier?
It's better than bloating, retaining the past too long, holding onto it until
you're held down by its weight. You leave the mistakes behind you. You don't
forget them. That's the path to take, he's sure of it.
In that moment between waking and sleep, when dreams melt like cotton candy or dry ice,
when it doesn't really matter whether he's boy or butterfly, whether he's destroying himself one piece at a time or pruning off the dry and dead in favor of new life,
he's at peace to stop wondering. There's something he knows in that moment. When his eyes open, he'll forget.
I got some of the ideas from what I said here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-11-11 07:03 pm (UTC)and every memory is just another discarded chrysalis.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-11 07:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-11 08:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-11 08:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-11 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-11 08:40 pm (UTC)Literature is words in the best order. Poetry is the best words in the best order.
Date: 2005-11-11 10:14 pm (UTC)Focus: pattern
Comment: Probably I just feel wrong about this because my journal title and subtitle were, for a long time:
From world to world the metaphors leap
Haunted encircling in unending sleep
And I think the reason this line feels awkward could be because it is precisely the structure of my longtime journal title. But I dunno.
Suggestion: If there's something wrong with it in minds other than my own, it'd be pretty much solved by the insertion of a comma between the second "cocoon" and "the"
Problem: I don't know...
Line Four: been sewn up a little tighter by the lines of his scars
Focus: rhythm
Comment: It breaks it. It's too long. There feel to be extraneous words.
Suggestion: cut either "a little", "the", or both.
Problem: Well, I like it the way it is on its own. It just doesn't quite fit around the rest.
Line Five: Dreams shrink, strangeness gets bled out;
Focus: "gets"
Comment: Meh. The word is so ordinary and consonantful.
Suggestion: "strangeness is bled out", "strangeness bleeds out"
Line Seven: They lie in rows like gravestones
Focus: the simile
Comment: it seems strange...and again, I don't know why...
Suggestion: "rows, like"? Or...maybe add "solemn" before "rows"?
Problem: It might just be me...
Line Eight: he crawls into sometimes as thought trying to wear them
Focus: first bit
Comment: Well, in my thorough revision, I've read this poem three or four times, and ever time I cease to remember that this line is directly connected to "broken shapes" so that I keep thinking it's supposed to say, "into them sometimes" and be capital H on he...I know that it's not, but it keeps seeming that way.
Suggestion: just add "which" at the beginning of the line.
Line Nine: to get back to what he once dreamed he was
Focus: ?? actually, kind of line eight...
Comment: this seems wrong after the last line's comma
Suggestion: replace line eight's comma with a semicolon or a hyphen
Problem: Does a semicolon belong there? I can't remember
Line Ten: every skin he sheds
Focus: assumptive phrasing
Comment: the "which" is assumed between the "skin" and "he"
Suggestion: put it in there. "every skin which he sheds"
Line Eleven: like a kachina doll
Focus: oooh, simile and imagery and metaphorical oooooh
Comment: yes. I like.
Suggestion: maybe add an adjective for the kachina?
Problem: Meh. I don't know if one belongs there or not.
Lines fourteen and fifteen: When he's the boy and not the butterfly, he feels differently./It isn't as though those things he loses in molt are anything
Focus: he feels differently
Comment: the structuring seems wrong, though the words are right
Suggestion:
He feels differently when he's the boy
and not the butterfly. It isn't as though those things he loses in molt are anything
Problem: the lining is VERY uneven that way, but the second line feels right ending with "anything"
Line Nineteen: and he knows that memories leave marks
Focus: application
Comment: this metaphor/simile/whatever applies evenly to both regrets and scars, whereas all the ones previous imply a stronger correspondence to one or the other. (pure, unblemished skin is scars, losing them is more towards regrets)
Suggestion: I might even suggest making this the end of a second stanza. I'd like to separate that thought from the next, even though they're connected, I think this is profound. Even if not by making a new stanza, then in some other way.
Problem: The stanzas are very even as they are.
Line Twenty: not to make the mistakes
Focus: not to make
Comment: I had to read this a couple times before I could get what I think it is.
Suggestion: change "not make" to "unmake"
Problem: might be a bit cliche.
Line Twenty-five: That's the path to take, he's sure of it.
Focus: transition
Comment: ??
Suggestion: Separate sentences?
Problem: They'd both be really short.
Re: Literature is words in the best order. Poetry is the best words in the best order.
Date: 2005-11-11 10:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-12 01:14 pm (UTC)