Hot from New Jersey, Merril’s broth-musing challenge at dVerse Poets’ Pub tonight is an opportunity to make soup – or to heat up one I made earlier. I had been pondering the suspended animation of butterflies’ pupal state, and my own. The poem Chrysalis soup follows on from some existential and self-absorbing angst, from my journal in June 2023, when I was in a Troubled Place.
Glad to say I have emerged from that now.
When I had realised that I couldn't stay, I entered into a slime soup, chrysalis state I called it.
If this was ever emptiness, sunyata (Buddhism), curious uncertainty (therapy), or chaos-into-lyrical (5-rhythm dance transition à la Gabrielle Roth), then so be.
As the joke goes: what was Beethoven doing in his grave? De-composing.
And I rotted, from the outside in (skin, hair: ectoderm) and the inside out (guts, lungs - endoderm), waiting to be re-made, to let the disgust and the shame and the humiliation self-liberate.
Self, liberate!
Even though seven years ago I had said: I'm not up for liberation; integration would be enough;
even though six years ago I'd applied for a residency and didn't reach the bar;
even though five I'd curled up at her ample breast and was comforted;
even though at four had vowed: I'll share the gift of my hands;
three: hereby let it go lightly, and insightly;
two: to hold them close against my wounded womb;
one: forgive us our debtors, reconcile the debt!
and now lost for words, except these few silent ones, about what ensues for the chrysalis..
Chrysalis soup
Chrysalis-es don't talk; they twitch, flick
as if a strange sick-
ness inhabits their distress
in the midst of all that mess.
Silent too the Brimstone Butterfly,
yet fuelled by joy and levity
be-lying its larval munching, lunching
on purging buckthorn, cathartic
to generations of shamans
The speechless prayer of nature invites the
blessing of addressing the spirit teacher
unwordly, absurdly, as if a bird
had broken into voice with laughter, had
awoken our liquid soul hereafter
and the bat, warm and alert,
was mobile on the rafter.
© Kathy Labrum McVittie 2 June 2023
You can read more about British butterflies, and perhaps donate to support Butterfly Conservation on their brilliant website, which has great advice on distinguishing these distinctive insects. Brimstone caterpillars feed on leaves of the UK-native bush Purging Buckthorn, Rhamnus cathartica.

Chrysalis soup was certainly not something I anticipated with the prompt. Thank you for surprising me. I can see how watching the chrysalis could be soothing and lead to self-reflection. “the speechless prayer of nature”
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Yes, I was the soothed watcher, and have also experienced the uncertainty of metamorphosis myself at times, during the soupy unknowning of the pupal stage.
Not that I am yet fully emerged as butterfly – that goes on through and beyond time …
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I don’t know that anyone is ever fully emerged.
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Truly said 🐛 🙏 🦋
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To be in a Chrysalis state sounds a lot like being in limbo… that day when you will butterfly (yes a verb) you can only dream of (and rightly fear)
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Re-reading your perceptve comment today, Bjorn, I am moved to send you an appreciative { hug }
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Exquisitely beautiful piece!
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Ah thank you kindly, Reena! I was taking liberties with the prompt, and now I’m glad I did.
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You did it masterfully.
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thank you x
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Fantastic. I love the extended metaphor of chrysalis soup to describe a dormant state awaiting a new beginning!
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Ah dora, you have beautifully described my experience of this awaiting!
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This is gorgeous, gorgeous writing here, Kathy! 😍😍
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What a delicious encouraging response on a murky soupy dampy day, thank you so much!
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