The thinker dies, but his thoughts are beyond the reach of destruction. Men are mortal, but ideas are immortal.
quote by William Lippmann
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The thinker dies, but his thoughts are beyond the reach of destruction. Men are mortal; but ideas are immortal.
quote by Richard Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The thinker dies, but his thoughts are beyond the reach of destruction. Men are mortal but ideas are immortal.
quote by Richard Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Romans 5: 6 - 11
we are weak and ungodly
no man dies for a righteous man
God dies for us
sinners
it is death, like anything else
that reconciles
mortal to immortal
divinity bowing low
to save
the mundane and
earthly
think of love again
how you swallowed your ego
how you surrendered
everything
just to love the undeserving
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Every new idea has something of the pain and peril of childbirth about it; ideas are just as mortal and just as immortal as organised beings are.
quote by Samuel Butler
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Song
Who hath his fancy pleased
With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raised
On Nature's sweetest light;
A light which doth dissever
And yet unite the eyes,
A light which, dying never,
Is cause the looker dies.
She never dies, but lasteth
In life of lover's heart;
He ever dies that wasteth
In love his chiefest part:
Thus is her life still guarded
In never-dying faith;
Thus is his death rewarded,
Since she lives in his death.
Look then, and die! The pleasure
Doth answer well the pain:
Small loss of mortal treasure,
Who may immortal gain!
Immortal be her graces,
Immortal is her mind;
They, fit for heavenly places--
This, heaven in it doth bind.
But eyes these beauties see not,
Nor sense that grace descries;
Yet eyes deprived be not
From sight of her fair eyes--
Which, as of inward glory
They are the outward seal,
So may they live still sorry,
Which die not in that weal.
But who hath fancies pleased
With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raised
On Nature's sweetest light!
poem by Philip Sidney
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Mortal Love
mortality does
not ask for love eternal
mortal love
cannot outlive eternity’s edge
to an infinite span
mortal love
does not ask forever
never
mortal love
makes lies, makes changes,
twists and turns
mortal love is simple
like a dimple
one tongue
to one earthly word
nope
may do
may say something else
It is only asking
That you love
One day at a time
With all allowance for change
For a wider space
Leeways
Choices
Mortal love is free
frivolous
this love of mine
Today is just enough
mortal
And so rightly deserved
A mortal like me
Also bleeds
Weeds filled
No promises, just a hug, an embrace
And
A kiss, then could be, goodbye.
Because mortal love
Dies, like a wind passing by
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Life is not A question, But It is an experience!
Life is not a question that to be
solved,
it should be experienced!
Life is that experience of facing
and solving problems,
toughest is to know the one who experience.
The evolution of life itself is story
of trial and error!
life itself is that greatest observer
of itself!
The vision of invisible viewing through mortal eyes,
hearing the silent eloquent by mortal ears,
touching the one beyond touch by mortal skin,
Smelling the one odourfree by mortal nose,
Tasting the one who is tastefree by mortal tongue
Immortal showing up as mortal!
Life is an experience between birth and death,
coming here as nothing,
Learning to love and hate,
Learning to work and expect fruits,
developing skill to use senses and devices,
Learning to use mind and intelligence,
Learning and conveying message,
The message of immortal to mortal,
The truth itself in pursuit of Truth!
Life itself is that truth,
looks like an experience
that constantly puts
its own existence
on trial...
The one who had born has to die,
But one who is eternal continues his eternal play!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Who Is This Mortal
Who is this mortal
Who ventures to-night
To woo an immortal,
Cold, cold the moon's light
For sleep at this portal,
Bold lover of night.
Fair is the mortal
In soft, silken white,
Who seeks an immortal.
Ah, lover of night,
Be warned at the portal,
And save thee in flight!
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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The Thinker Thinks
News a drag…
Pants that sag…
The thief in the nite…
Lovers quarrel that ends in a fight…
The Thinker Thinks…
That life is a pain…
All four seasons of nature…
Surely comes to past…
The bitter with the sweet…
The boastful with the meek…
The Thinker Thinks
Spirit led intentions guides your life…
Keeping joy, love, and smiles during strife…
(e.g.) Martin Luther king…
The Thinker Thinks…
Is life a pain…
That ends in death…or what…
Befell …us…
A conquest…
The Thinker Thinks
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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An Idea
An Idea can change the world, how many
things can be done from an idea, every piece
of object was an idea, sense the beginning of
time idea was the first thought created in the
mind, an idea is what surround’s every being.
But an idea is still only an idea and it can't be
felt, you cannot touch an idea or kiss it, or hold it,
ideas do not bleed or feel pain or love, an idea
cannot be seen or heard, its created in our thoughts,
but then again an idea can become real. An idea
can be what ever you which it to be, an idea can
be destructive, an idea can be brilliant, I've seen
people get killed in the name of ideas, ideas,
we walk around with a little
light bulb blinking in our thoughts, ideas.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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Ideas, unlike solid structures, do not perish. They remain immortal, immaterial and everywhere, like all Divine things. Ideas are a golden, savage landscape that we wander unaware, without a map. Be careful: in the last analysis, reality may be exactly what we think it is.
quote by Alan Moore
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Rodin’s, ‘The Thinker- Poet’
Auguste Rodin’s bronze-man sits,
(A muscled-body, nude to core) ,
In stooping posture, chin on fist,
Neck-flexed, a worried, smile-less face,
- Reflecting mind in thoughts, all deep.
The sculptor’s impeccable craft
Is evident in all details:
A haunting depth of vision cast,
Precisely –made contours and lines,
Revealing skill par excellence.
An example to art-lovers;
A master-piece that’s almost live;
A glorious work that’s immortal;
A metal fashioned so real-
Inviting crowds that never cease!
Who was the Thinker, Rodin made?
-Plato, Brando, Nietzsche or else?
Undeciphered, it yet remains;
A dejected, French lad’s effort,
That brought him luck in later times,
To build monuments of import.
The haunted mind of poor Rodin,
Thus resurrected sculpting art,
That almost dead lay, at that time,
Inspiring artists of new class,
That saw sculpturing techniques great.
Perhaps, the Thinker was Dante,
In front of Hell’s Gates pondering-
A naked man, upon a rock,
His mind engrossed in vivid dreams,
Creating poetry superb.
The Thinker was a Poet then!
A Poet’s mind must think a lot;
Imagining things those never seen;
A mind inspired from within,
Triggered by Nature’s glorious forms.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 4-18-2008
poem by John Celes
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Thoughts and ideas - (Talking through my hat)
Break and husk
thoughts and ideas that,
without reason,
I smashing them like nuts
into my head – mortar with pig iron pestle.
Lay and hatch
thoughts and ideas,
and younglings,
instead of fly,
I keep them under latch
in my head – cage of neurons,
dendrites and axons.
Knead and raise
thoughts and ideas
but let me tempted,
and without reason,
instead of bake them, I play
“of thieves and bobbies”
with bullets of dough
shot from my head – automatic gun.
Pull kernels out of
thoughts and ideas
but I put not them to spring
and hundredfold harvest to bring,
I chain them necklace
that my poor mind
who walks nomad
through my head – ballad
to put it neck
in a night with moon
and than to catch
in a fairies dance
and hungry of blue
to soar in the stars.
***
Thoughts and ideas
are shrieking through my mind
as lost migratory birds
in an autumn of rains.
Thoughts and ideas
- arrow-shaped cranes with wet wings -
fall all at once
in my head – moorland
of thistle and mud.
Bevies of ideas
and useless thoughts
surround my mind
how ravens give wheel
carrions to be
through my head - waste land
by boiling and winds.
Thoughts and ideas
go round
like a pack of wolves
with empty bellies
through my head – winter of frost,
winter of sleet
with my mind
thoroughly frozen
by fright and a biting wind.
Pick
bunches of thoughts and ideas
caressed by the sun of mind
in bacchanal vineyards
planted on encephalic hills.
I squish them
and expect to get wine
and get drunk
in my head – tavern where the smoke
knife just cut it
and air is sourbitter.
Fog of thoughts and ideas
rises from my mind
as darkness on swamps
in late autumn.
Nothing to see
not hear anything
all still is,
just the small brain
flickers in my head – gray curtain
between movement and inertia.
Slacked thoughts and ideas
are resting on benches of mind,
nothing pulling them
with hands and teeth,
I can’t them gather
at work to bring
to get something good
from my head – chaos
where it lacks a poleax
and a stump of elm.
poem by Viorel Petru Trifan
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Poet's Heart
A poem is like a wild rose
Your ideas bloom into something as it grows
Some your ideas flow clear and beautiful like a song
And sometimes those thoughts turn into sadness about things that go wrong
But the most important things to remember is where those ideas start.
And that is from a Poet's Heart
poem by Frank Pulver
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Follow the path of the unsafe, independent thinker. Expose your ideas to the danger of controversy. Speak your mind and fear less the label of ""crackpot"" than the stigma of conformity.
quote by Thomas John Watson, Sr.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poem Composed On The Toilet
what great gifts may come
from but a brief sit down
ideas illuminating are not
bound in time and space
limited to places of import
or limited to auspicious occasions
ideas are conceived even in
stolen moments insignificant spaces
no this poem was got you not
composed on the needed toilet
process of attending to details
dots required mental facilities
a classical statute the thinker
an example of muddled thought
boxing through aged difficulties
toilet was red herring time out
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Our Thoughts Extend From Us To Reach
Our thoughts.
Actions.
And our deeds from us released...
Reflect,
Not only our expectations...
But express as an investment,
None of us should perceive...
Decreases in value.
Our thoughts,
Whether believed faithfully or not...
To be shared as spoken,
Instills...
Significant influence.
As if a seed implanted,
Within a mind open and listening.
Evaluating content.
What was said.
Who said what.
And how what was said to whom...
Has its effectiveness.
Like the Sun coming to rise upon the horizon.
That same Sun sets.
Like a leaf attached to the branch of a tree.
That tree provides all connected to it with nourishment.
And it is rooted...
Grounded,
To the Earth.
This Earth.
Our Earth.
Much like our thoughts...
Extend from us to reach!
Much like our thoughts...
Extend from us to reach!
Much like our thoughts...
Extend from us to reach!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A - 10t
A Thinker Tells
That The Tall Teacher
Take The Thick Thoughts.
A Trainer Tells
That The Tall Teacher
Take The Thick Training.
A Teacher Teaches
The Trainer'n The Thinker,
Take The Thick Teaching!
poem by Riki Duana Putra
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Im-Mortal
Dead and rotting like man
Immortal I am
An Eagles eye as far as i can see
destroyed by the masses
immortal to be
A sea of pain flushes over me
a nervous breakdown in me
The knowing of what to say
and the sun's rays
play two roles in my amends
Above a sea of fire and chaos
pain the only sound
my halo falls
falls to the ground
Dead and rotting like man
Immortal I am
The eagles eye can see farther than me
destroyed by masses
Immortal to be
And fire will rain and fill the sea
fire will rain...
reign over me
My skin feels like a suit
rip out my tongue
Making me mute
This fire is my master
making me see like a boy
a crippling disaster
No drug can numb this pain
no faith can break this grasp
but immortal i am.
dead and rotting like man
Immortal I am
Blinded at last
overpowered by fire
i cant...
The truth is, i am-Mortal
poem by Marley Magic
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The Cry of the Dreamer
I am tired of planning and toiling
In the crowded hives of men;
Heart-weary of building and spoiling,
And spoiling and building again.
And I long for the dear old river,
Where I dreamed my youth away;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a toiler dies in a day.
I am sick of the showy seeming
Of a life that is half a lie;
Of the faces lined with scheming
In the throng that hurries by.
From the sleepless thoughts' endeavour,
I would go where the children play;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a thinker dies in a day.
I can feel no pride, but pity
For the burdens the rich endure;
There is nothing sweet in the city
But the patient lives of the poor.
Oh, the little hands too skillful,
And the child-mind choked with weeds!
The daughter's heart grown willful,
And the father's heart that bleeds!
No, no! from the street's rude bustle,
From the trophies of mart and stage,
I would fly to the woods' low rustle
And the meadows' kindly page.
Let me dream as of old by the river,
And be loved for the dream alway;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a toiler dies in a day.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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