The Breathing
An absolute
patience.
Trees stand
up to their knees in
fog. The fog
slowly flows
uphill.
White
cobwebs, the grass
leaning where deer
have looked for apples.
The woods
from brook to where
the top of the hill looks
over the fog, send up
not one bird.
So absolute, it is
no other than
happiness itself, a breathing
too quiet to hear.
poem by Denise Levertov
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Fundamental of Liar Chapter XCVIII: Absolutely Relative
Expensive is absolute, cheap is relative
Far is absolute, near is relative
Ugly is absolute, beauty is relative
Weird is absolute, crazy is relative
Stubborn is absolute, brave is relative
Stupid is absolute, smart is relative
Weak is absolute, strong is relative
Old is absolute, mature is relative
Lose is absolute, win is relative
Rich is absolute, poor is relative
Sad is absolute, happy is relative
Misfortune is absolute, lucky is relative
Safe is absolute, fear is relative
Love is absolute, hate is relative
Important is absolute, forgotten is relative
Easy is absolute, difficult is relative
Wrong is absolute, right is relative
Bad is absolute, good is relative
Lie is absolute, truth is relative
poem by Maria Sudibyo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Solitude
How still it is here in the woods. The trees
Stand motionless, as if they did not dare
To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air
Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.
Even this little brook, that runs at ease,
Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed,
Seems but to deepen with its curling thread
Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.
Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpecker
Startles the stillness from its fixed mood
With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear
The dreamy white-throat from some far-off tree
Pipe slowly on the listening solitude
His five pure notes succeeding pensively.
poem by Archibald Lampman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In passing, we should note this curious mark of our own age: the only absolute allowed is the absolute insistence that there is no absolute.
quote by Francis Schaeffer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The humorous man recognizes that absolute purity, absolute justice, absolute logic and perfection are beyond human achievement and that men have been able to live happily for thousands of years in a state of genial frailty.
quote by Brooks Atkinson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Absolute Zero
Can we begin at the end?
To Save Some time
Bags and our War Planes are Gathered
The Clock is ticking you have no authority
Float like a dead man down the river
And there are no streets in this air.....
Etcetera is my worst enemy
Its wrong and I know
And I will go
To the Big Hand of the God Damned
The Middle Ground is Absolute Zero
What Can be found at Absolute Zero?
Can We Begin at the end?
To Save some time
Etcetera is my worst enemy
Its wrong and I know
And I will go
To the big hand of the God Damned
The Big Hand of the Small Man
The Middle Gorund is Absolute Zero
What can be found at Absolute Zero?
A Happy End is Absolute Zero
Nobody Wins at absolute Zero......
What's That?
Nothing
What's That?
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
song performed by by Faith No More
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
If Hitler had had the talents and the temperament of a genuine artist, if Stalin had had the capacity to become a first-rate theoretician, if Napoleon had had the makings of a great poet or philosopher they would hardly have developed the all-consuming lust for absolute power. Freedom gives us a chance to realize our human and individual uniqueness. Absolute power can also bestow uniqueness: to have absolute power is to have the power to reduce all the people around us to puppets, robots, toys, or animals, and be the only man in sight. Absolute power achieves uniqueness by dehumanizing others.
quote by Eric Hoffer
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Declaring
Find them a conscience declared in
an absolute casual
sun, find them a feat
declared by the happy
things
Absolute windows, absolute little lives
Always tell a wall, letter throne
stone desk-life, as it may
That which through
a cautious power dwells, accidental and passing
poem by Federico García Lorca
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To say a poem is absolute is saying nothing, because an ink blot can be absolute. Yet you put into it what you like. So it becomes totally relative.
quote by Nicholas Mosley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Absolute faith corrupts as absolutely as absolute power.
quote by Eric Hoffer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
If absolute power corrupts absolutely, does absolute powerlessness make you pure?
quote by Harry Shearer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian
I think there's some connection between absolute discipline and absolute freedom.
quote by Alan Rickman
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Little Bird
Little bird up in a tree
Looked down and sang a song to me
Of how it began
Na na na na na na
Na na na na na na
Na na na na na na
The trout in the shiny brook
Gave the worm another look
And told me not to worry
About my life
Na na na na na na
Na na na na na na
Na na na na na na
Tree in my own backyard
Stands all alone
Bears fruit for me
And it tastes so good
Wheres my pretty bird
He must have flown away
If I keep singing
Hell come back someday
Dawn, birds still gone
Guess Ill go mow the lawn
What a day, what a day
Oooo, what a beautiful day this is
Ooooooooo
Little bird up in a tree
Looked down a sang a song to me
The trout in a shiny brook
Gave the worm another look
And told me not to worry about my life
Little bird looked down
And sang a song to me
Little bird looked down
And sang a songto me
Little bird looked down
And sang a song to me
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Dont Ya Tell Henry
Dont ya tell henry,
Apples got your fly.
I went down to the river on a saturday morn,
A-lookin around just to see whos born.
I found a little chicken down on his knees,
I went up and yelled to him,
Please, please, please!
He said, dont ya tell henry,
Dont ya tell henry,
Dont ya tell henry,
Apples got your fly.
I went down to the corner at a-half past ten,
Is lookin around, I wouldnt say when.
I looked down low, I looked above,
And who did I see but the one I love.
She said, dont ya tell henry,
Dont ya tell henry,
Dont ya tell henry,
Apples got your fly.
Now, I went down to the beanery at half past twelve,
A-lookin around just to see myself.
I spotted a horse and a donkey, too,
I looked for a cow and I saw me a few.
They said, dont ya tell henry,
Dont ya tell henry,
Dont ya tell henry,
Apples got your fly.
Now, I went down to the pumphouse the other night,
A-lookin around, it was outa sight.
I looked high and low for that big ol tree,
I did go upstairs but I didnt see nobody but me.
I said, dont ya tell henry,
Dont ya tell henry,
Dont ya tell henry,
Apples got your fly.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Turns and Movies: The Cornet
When she came out, that white little Russian dancer,
With her bright hair, and her eyes, so young, so young,
He suddenly lost his leader, and all the players,
And only heard an immortal music sung,--
Of dryads flashing in the green woods of April,
On cobwebs trembing over the deep, wet grass:
Fleeing their shadows with laughter, with hands uplifted,
Through the whirled sinister sun he saw them pass,--
Lovely immortals gone, yet existing somewhere,
Still somewhere laughing in woods of immortal green,
Young he had lived among fires, or dreamed of living,
Lovers in youth once seen, or dreamed he had seen. . .
And watched her knees flash up, and her young hands beckon,
And the hair that streamed behind, and the taunting eyes.
He felt this place dissolving in living darkness,
And through the darkness he felt his childhood rise.
Soft, and shining, and sweet, hands filled with petals. . .
And watching her dance, he was grateful to forget
The fiddlers, leaning and drawing their bows together,
And the tired fingers on the stops of his cornet.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Cornet
When she came out, that white little Russian dancer,
With her bright hair, and her eyes, so young, so young,
He suddenly lost his leader, and all the players,
And only heard an immortal music sung,-
Of dryads flashing in the green woods of April,
On cobwebs trembling over the deep, wet grass:
Fleeing their shadows with laughter, with hands uplifted,
Through the whirled sinister sun he saw them pass,-
Lovely immortals gone, yet existing somewhere,
Still somewhere laughing in woods of immortal green,
Young he had lived among fires, or dreamed of living,
Lovers in youth once seen, or dreamed he had seen. . .
And watched her knees flash up, and her young hands beckon,
And the hair that streamed behind, and the taunting eyes.
He felt this place dissolving in living darkness,
And through the darkness he felt his childhood rise.
Soft, and shining, and sweet, hands filled with petals. . .
And watching her dance, he was grateful to forget
The fiddlers, leaning and drawing their bows together,
And the tired fingers on the stops of his cornet.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
With Absolute Joy
With absolute joy, I sing thebr ahman!
But those encaptivated by theirk ar ma speak ill of me!
Even the great religious heads cannot fathom you,
They can't even make out priceless jewels from mere beads!
With absolute joy, I sing thebr ahman!
But those encaptivated by theirk ar ma speak ill of me!
What is arcane even for the scriptures is pretty clear for the gopis,
Rare are the ones who can fathom this!
The beloved of Rama lusts not after women,
But these confounded mortals spread base lies!
With absolute joy, I sing thebr ahman!
But those encaptivated by theirk ar ma speak ill of me!
The perfect one is full of the perfect bliss, others worship elsewhere,
But Narsaiyyo sings the attributes of the absolute
And not carnal craving as the lustful think!
With absolute joy, I sing thebr ahman!
But those encaptivated by theirk ar ma speak ill of me!
poem by Narsinh Mehta
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Threads Of Truth
Threads what are gossamer threads of truth?
Where do they lead among all those entangled byways?
Who can separate all the knots all the strings
to find that one straight path to an elusive absolute truth?
Is there ever only one ultimate truth that outshines
all others amist the crowds of unending misconceptions?
Does God ever leave a thread of truth that might
speak for him as a guiding symbol of absolute fact?
A thread that represents his divine absolute authority?
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
10-10=0
If we could combine
the perfectly good and the perfectly evil,
we would obtain the imperfection.
If we could take
a piece of paradise
and a piece of hell
and we could gather them in us,
our souls would become less beautiful.
Because the truth of inside would swallow
the lie of inside and, indeed,
the absolute truth would be relative.
And if our love could swallow
our hatred,
than we would love less.
If me and you together,
we could form an amphora,
by trying to find the absolute truths
in a new and perfect love for Him,
we would need all our faith
to remove
all the lies and all our hatred from us.
If our lie and our hatred
could become two trenchant
weapons
and if we could choose Lucifer for hitting
our relative truths,
in terms of mathematics,
than they would fall, by becoming
downright uncertainties.
The wounded love would disappear in us
and we would turn into salt stones,
as Lot's wife, by seeing Sodom burning..
And if the truth of us
could rather be equal to the lie, inside,
as love and hate
could be equal,
we would become
absolutely nil,
by dying slowly and and by melting ourselves
in nothingness..
So, the reason for saving every second of us,
by looking for purity,
while the absolute truth and the absolute lie
are in no touching,
is that their arguments are always perfect....
poem by Marieta Maglas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Revulsion
Revulsion -
That is what I feel for you
The look of you,
The sight of you,
The thought of you
Injects in me –
Absolute Revulsion.
It is a feeling so Deep
I cannot puke it out
Even if I wish to…
So I keep taking it in
Nausea-ridden
All over my body,
Mind and heart…
That wretched feeling of
Absolute Revulsion.
It seeps in me
Soaks me in
Like blood-stained clothes
On a wounded body
And I lie there
Writhing in pain
Bleeding in agony
Almost anaemic…
With that sordid feeling of
Absolute Revulsion.
Living it everyday
Is like re-living death
In a lifeless body
Yet when death pities me
And comes to relieve me
Snuffing out the life
With its stroke of eternity
That day I die,
My dejected soul
Would bid you adieu,
With that lifetime feeling of
Absolute Revulsion.
Yes – that very Revulsion
Which eats into me
Like gnawing termites
With every memory of you
I have within me
It reminds me of my
Haunting past…
And I feel empty and hollow
Like rotting wood
And the stench of it
Makes me feel all the more
Sick and tired with
Absolute Revulsion –
For you, and you and only you.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Heat
From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half-way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.
By his cart's side the wagoner
Is slouching slowly at his ease,
Half-hidden in the windless blur
Of white dust puffiing to his knees.
This wagon on the height above,
From sky to sky on either hand,
Is the sole thing that seems to move
In all the heat-held land.
Beyond me in the fields the sun
Soaks in the grass and hath his will;
I count the marguerites one by one;
Even the buttercups are still.
On the brook yonder not a breath
Disturbs the spider or the midge.
The water-bugs draw close beneath
The cool gloom of the bridge.
Where the far elm-tree shadows flood
Dark patches in the burning grass,
The cows, each with her peaceful cud,
Lie waiting for the heat to pass.
From somewhere on the slope near by
Into the pale depth of the noon
A wandering thrush slides leisurely
His thin revolving tune.
In intervals of dreams I hear
The cricket from the droughty ground;
The grasshoppers spin into mine ear
A small innumerable sound.
I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze:
The burning sky-line blinds my sight:
The woods far off are blue with haze:
The hills are drenched in light.
And yet to me not this or that
Is always sharp or always sweet;
In the sloped shadow of my hat
I lean at rest, and drain the heat;
Nay more, I think some blessèd power
Hath brought me wandering idly here:
In the full furnace of this hour
My thoughts grow keen and clear.
poem by Archibald Lampman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!