Intimations
INTIMATIONS
Intimations of God
In I see
In whatever we be;
When I look
With eyes of Love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Related quotes
We are beginning to see intimations of this in the implantation of computer devices into the human body.
quote by Ray Kurzweil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In television, everything is gone with the speed of light, literally. It is no field for anybody with intimations of immortality.
quote by Charles Kuralt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Another Choice
Intimations of mortality
with the irrevocable
passage of time
and the lemming like march
to the finite line.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
William Wordsworth in Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood, 1803
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We All Feel Too Much To Say
WE ALL FEEL TOO MUCH TO SAY
We all feel too much to say-
We do not have words for all the intuitions and intimations-
Our lives are richer than we can define-
They have nuances we with difficulty sense-
All we are is more than we are-
And when we define ourselves
We make a shorthand which misses almost everything.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Are The Days That The Silence Need Not Hear Itself
There are days that the Silence need not hear itself-
It rests calmly where no one is
And waits wholly alone for nothing to disturb it-
It knows what it knows and it does not know anything
But it is calm as peace as rest after satisfying love-
It knows it need not hear itself
It knows it is not
Silence waits and calls
Listens and answers
Pretends to be
And pretends not to be-
What it is really can be heard only
By those who have at one time or another have known
The infinite intimations given by the musics of Sound
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I have far more confidence in the one man who works mentally and bodily at a matter than in the six who merely talk about it … Nature is our kindest friend and best critic in experimental science if we only allow her intimations to fall unbiased on our minds. Nothing is so good as an experiment which, whilst it sets an error right, gives us (as a reward for our humility in being reproved) an absolute advancement in knowledge.
quote by Michael Faraday
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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My Dreamhouse
first it must have a path
of polished flat stones
leading to the door of
strong wood from the
deep forest locked with
a golden knob and the
windows are made of
glass where i can see
the moon and sun when
i lay my head on a pillow
the living room must
be not so big to keep
us in whispers just the
two of us in intimations
and then the bed must
not be so warm so we
can be there to make
it warmer and even
hotter a little bit to
accommodate our
hidden passions
and then there is
this secret room where
my heart and soul shall
stay, that even you my
love shall never know
this is my dreamhouse
you are always free to leave
when your love finally burns out
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Poem Should Have Been Written Long Ago By Someone Else
This poem should have been written long ago by someone else
They should have said what needs to be said
Clearly and yet beautifully
They should have known what to do with their words and their intimations -
But instead I old I tired old I I with the I I I always I’ing
Have to write it again-
This poem should have been written by someone else
The way I was when I was young
But even then probably it should have been written by someone else
Younger happier stronger wiser more courageous able to give and inspire others to love life more and make it more good and more beautiful
A real poet a great poet should have written this poem
And then it would be one
Even I would try not to forget.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Statements About
Vulgar youngsters have bright approximations,
Approaching the hazards of animations,
Bring about older versions and intimations.
Volumes of literature arrive at proclamations,
Giving a sentience to the humans with exclamations,
Folding information to correct the estimations.
Understanding a goodness may be underestimations,
But less than proud are those with inflammations,
Acts are committed always as defamations.
poem by Naveed Akram
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After The Funeral
The Past departed with the last forced mourners, whose facial expressions, with their tremolo of tics, - tell-tale suppressions, - told of fear. Tension in tightened corners of mouth and eyes. terror, surprise, trembling, cries, each would disguise anguish masked, questions unanswered here, unwelcome intimations of mortality.
The Past departed, partly of its own accord, parts, shut out, ignored, roles played out as few could yet afford to flout morality. Time’s uncertainties by Time itself underscored. Departure leaving absence of feeling, - absence of feeling hermetically sealing from mind and face all trace of childhood innocence.
In place of innocence and grace, - Loss, emptiness! Emptiness here an imperfect vacuum open unto wilderness of self-delusion of strength, which, all the more fragile for its brave face, is self-defeating. A vacuum is strong, can do no wrong, being internally self sufficient.
The Past departed; at first sight seeming to ease out emotion. threat squeezing, freezing, unappeasingly diseasing. The surface calm afforded no balm, no outlet for the lotion that soothes the spirit, dowsing suffering and pain, incorporating the magic potion which to love and light restores the soul through tears. Tears, in childhood and advancing years, cleanse fears.
Superficial calm masks the rampant tiger of repression whose fire eyes prowl through the layers of sensation to plough the deep recesses of the mind, exploding the barriers which we, in our blindness, instinctively erect. Too soon we lose the key to unlock them, thus we restrain Love’s passage to the world.
Yet, although fears increase, prevent release, distort the soul, fragment the whole, there too are feeling forces, secret sources which well up and chart twin courses down the cheeks from which the heart’s resources spring, may bring relief, sing peace.
The Past departed with the last forced mourners, Their dark impressions cold and drear, conscience unclear. Unwelcome intimations of mortality pervasively intruded, could not disappear. Release was a luxury few could afford. Terror, surprise, tension in tightened corners of mouth and eyes. The dreaded shadow loomed as surface distress, masking primal self-pity, angrily welled up, and, for the living, shed a tear.
Part of its own accord, part shut out, ignored, the Past departed with the last forced mourners. Their drawn expressions, torn by tics, told of fear. Unwelcome intimations of mortality suddenly intruded, and would not disappear. Release was a luxury few could afford. Terror, surprise, tension in tightened corners of mouth and eyes. The dreaded shadow loomed near, as surface distress, masking primal self-pity, angrily welled up, and, for the living, shed a tear.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 XIV. Fly, Some Kind Haringer, To Grasmere-Dale
FLY, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale!
Say that we come, and come by this day's light;
Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height,
But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;
There let a mystery of joy prevail,
The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,
And Rover whine, as at a second sight
Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:
And from that Infant's face let joy appear;
Yea, let our Mary's one companion child--
That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled
With intimations manifold and dear,
While we have wandered over wood and wild--
Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Failed Mystic
When I was young, the wind in the trees
Brought intimations of the Great Spirit.
Later, I suffered from a grey disease
And my soul was like an apple, rotten to the core.
I used to try to freeze Eternity
Into one single Moment,
Stand on a hill-top and try to transfix
The Beauty of Nature like a
Final Butterfly captured Forever.
It was a hopeless task.
Later, I wrote down my Vision
In poems of no merit
And dreamed of Immortality.
Now I cannot say You were always there,
Knocking at my door,
Beckoning me to a life of Love through Action.
It isn't true.
I was fumbling about in the darkness,
Trying to be sure,
To find my Vocation in the dullest chore,
Like saints do.
I always wanted to be special,
The centre, not on the periphery,
To be loved.......
But tell me, Great Spirit, is there no cure?
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Wreathe Your Arms
That red-bowed Christmas wreath, signal of cheer,
announces irrepressible gladness
with happy rotundity of green joy!
Projecting circular intimations,
it circulates an aura of good will.
We hope that joy will not come to an end,
an inspirational thought-remedy
for despondency and general gloom
amid cloud-filled, abbreviated days
when we need to be reminded of when
the circle gleams with sunnier aspect.
Memorialize the green, give warm wreath hugs,
let not the circle of joy be broken—
give everyone you meet the gift of joy!
poem by Kevin T McEneaney
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After the Funeral II - 0208
The Past departed with the last forced mourners, whose facial expressions, with their tremolo of tics, tell-tale suppressions, told of fear. Tension in tightened corners of mouth and eyes. terror, surprise, trembling, cries, each would disguise anguish masked, questions unanswered here, unwelcome intimations of mortality.
The Past departed, partly of its own accord, parts, shut out, ignored, roles played out as few could yet afford to flout morality. Time's uncertainties by Time itself underscored. Departure leaving absence of feeling, absence of feeling hermetically sealing from mind and face all trace of childhood innocence.
In place of innocence and grace, Loss, emptiness! Emptiness here an imperfect vacuum open unto wilderness of self-delusion of strength, which, all the more fragile for its brave face, is self-defeating. A vacuum is strong, can do no wrong, being internally self sufficient.
The Past departed; at first sight seeming to ease out emotion. threat squeezing, freezing, unappeasingly diseasing. The surface calm afforded no balm, no outlet for the lotion that soothes the spirit, dowsing suffering and pain, incorporating the magic potion which to love and light restores the soul through tears. Tears, in childhood and advancing years, cleanse fears.
Superficial calm masks the rampant tiger of repression whose fire eyes prowl through the layers of sensation to plough the deep recesses of the mind, exploding the barriers which we, in our blindness, instinctively erect. Too soon we lose the key to unlock them, thus we restrain Love's passage to the world.
Yet, although fears increase, prevent release, distort the soul, fragment the whole, there too are feeling forces, secret sources which well up and chart twin courses down the cheeks from which the heart's resources spring, may bring relief, sing peace.
The Past departed with the last forced mourners, Their dark impressions cold and drear, conscience unclear. Unwelcome intimations of mortality pervasively intruded, could not disappear. Release was a luxury few could afford. Terror, surprise, tension in tightened corners of mouth and eyes. The dreaded shadow loomed as surface distress, masking primal self-pity, angrily welled up, and, for the living, shed a tear.
(10 January 2010)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Contrary Theses (II)
One chemical afternoon in mid-autumn,
When the grand mechanics of earth and sky were near;
Even the leaves of the locust were yellow then,
He walked with his year-old boy on his shoulder.
The sun shone and the dog barked and the baby slept.
The leaves, even of the locust, the green locust.
He wanted and looked for a final refuge,
From the bombastic intimations of winter
And the martyrs a la mode. He walked toward
An abstract, of which the sun, the dog, the boy
Were contours. Cold was chilling the wide-moving swans.
The leaves were falling like notes from a piano.
The abstract was suddenly there and gone again.
The negroes were playing football in the park.
The abstract that he saw, like the locust-leaves, plainly:
The premiss from which all things were conclusions,
The noble, Alexandrine verve. The flies
And the bees still sought the chrysanthemums’ odor.
poem by Wallace Stevens
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A Sunset of the City
Already I am no longer looked at with lechery or love.
My daughters and sons have put me away with marbles and dolls,
Are gone from the house.
My husband and lovers are pleasant or somewhat polite
And night is night.
It is a real chill out,
The genuine thing.
I am not deceived, I do not think it is still summer
Because sun stays and birds continue to sing.
It is summer-gone that I see, it is summer-gone.
The sweet flowers indrying and dying down,
The grasses forgetting their blaze and consenting to brown.
It is a real chill out. The fall crisp comes
I am aware there is winter to heed.
There is no warm house
That is fitted with my need.
I am cold in this cold house this house
Whose washed echoes are tremulous down lost halls.
I am a woman, and dusty, standing among new affairs.
I am a woman who hurries through her prayers.
Tin intimations of a quiet core to be my
Desert and my dear relief
Come: there shall be such islanding from grief,
And small communion with the master shore.
Twang they. And I incline this ear to tin,
Consult a dual dilemma. Whether to dry
In humming pallor or to leap and die.
Somebody muffed it?? Somebody wanted to joke.
poem by Gwendolyn Brooks
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Intimations Of Immortality (In Answer To William Wordsworth)
I
Love is something that we see
in a eternal light
with a own illumination in the darkest night
and its goodness is more than mere charity
as if immortality comes to it
when it is true and sincere,
when we really hold someone dear
and it fills our souls bit by tiny bit
and where our lives are only fleeting
we long for some perfection,
something more to our affection,
something that goes beyond each meeting
of the human kind
something of the divine,
something rare past fine,
that we try to define in the human mind.
II
We notice the sun that hides during the night
but returns daily with a kind of celestial light
and view it as necessary to maintain life,
we notice the ocean stretching beyond mere sight
and even at times the hills seems eternal,
the seasons that comes and go
the falling rain, the winter snow,
volcanoes that seem infernal
holds to us a special place
are all things that we view as being constant
and for life on some of them we are dependant
but we only live by amazing grace.
Yet everything is fleeting and transitory,
stars explode; their energy at a time is spent
and it is this earth’s story
that all things are evanescent.
III
Only God is eternal and immortal,
and His power with which He sustains things
while to us who are merely mortal
by His grace there are daily awakenings
and with every new birth
His unconditional love is expressed
as involvement from the divine on this earth
and continually we are blessed
while rainbows hold a own secret message,
while there is life in every meadow, grove, and stream
and His power and presence isn’t just a dream
but is expressed from eternity and still acts in this age.
[Reference: “Intimations of Immortality” by William Wordsworth.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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An open invitation
“You come to my fold, I shall take care”
I am omni present and can be seen anywhere
What does it matter if you cage me and confine?
Can anyone come forward and authoriatively define?
How can you do it when I am all the time present?
The sun, moon, air, water have my approval and consent
No one can withdraw from stated position and resent
Show me single place where you feel I am absent?
Whenever there was need I have come down and stayed
Won over people from doing any harm and swayed
I have been all over and different parts of universe
Different names and in different forms with essence
I have suffered on count of merciless behavior
I had to act against odds and act as savior
Who knows where from assailant will come and inflict wounds?
You may have no intimations or slight hint or sound
Have not been imprisoned and tortured to death?
Who were all they for not knowing what they were worth?
Did they not scare away disciples and abused divinity?
Were they going to remain for ever in infinity?
Love and peace is my last message to be followed
No deviation from it in any case be tolerated or allowed
It is my dictate and has to be understood in Toto
Whether it has been pursued with wrong or honest motto
I shall visit whenever it becomes necessary to descend
There is still enough time to think over and mend
What if you are not following realm of life and mission
Nothing may prevent you from doomsday even with admission
I shall grant you amnesty and forgive for all curse
Who shall come forward to heal the wounds and nurse?
Can you see the reason to live in peace with diversity?
I may be there in different forms but always show you divinity
Come to me for any of your problems and surrender
I shall act as protector even if you are pretender
You may come to me amidst crisis and trouble
Still it is not late before your life finishes as bubble
Come to me o, sons and daughters for simple salvation
It is humble mixed feeling with an open invitation
I shall forgive you for commitment of number of sins
You shall still have chance to repent and all missing
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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By the Window
STILL deep into the West I gazed; the light
Clear, spiritual, tranquil as a bird
Wide-winged that soars on the smooth gale and sleeps,
Was it from sun far-set or moon unrisen?
Whether from moon, or sun, or angel’s face
It held my heart from motion, stayed my blood,
Betrayed each rising thought to quiet death
Along the blind charm’d way to nothingness,
Lull’d the last nerve that ached. It was a sky
Made for a man to waste his will upon,
To be received as wiser than all toil,
And much more fair. And what was strife of men?
And what was time?
Then came a certain thing.
Are intimations for the elected soul
Dubious, obscure, of unauthentic power
Since ghostly to the intellectual eye,
Shapeless to thinking? Nay, but are not we
Servile to words and an usurping brain,
Infidels of our own high mysteries,
Until the senses thicken and lose the world,
Until the imprisoned soul forgets to see,
And spreads blind fingers forth to reach the day,
Which once drank light, and fed on angels’ food?
It happened swiftly, came and straight was gone.
One standing on some aery balcony
And looking down upon a swarming crowd
Sees one man beckon to him with finger-tip
While eyes meet eyes; he turns and looks again—
The man is lost, and the crowd sways and swarms.
Shall such an one say, ‘Thus ’tis proved a dream,
And no hand beckoned, no eyes met my own?’
Neither can I say this. There was a hint,
A thrill, a summons faint yet absolute,
Which ran across the West; the sky was touch’d,
And failed not to respond. Does a hand pass
Lightly across your hair? you feel it pass
Not half so heavy as a cobweb’s weight,
Although you never stir; so felt the sky
Not unaware of the Presence, so my soul
Scarce less aware. And if I cannot say
The meaning and monition, words are weak
Which will not paint the small wing of a moth,
Nor bear a subtile odour to the brain,
And much less serve the soul in her large needs.
I cannot tell the meaning, but a change
Was wrought in me; it was not the one man
Who came to the luminous window to gaze forth,
And who moved back into the darkened room
With awe upon his heart and tender hope;
From some deep well of life tears rose; the throng
Of dusty cares, hopes, pleasures, prides fell off,
And from a sacred solitude I gazed
Deep, deep into the liquid eyes of Life.
poem by Edward Dowden
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