Dedicated to Hesse's Goldmund
The old master sat,
withering like winter’s flowers
as he shrank -
from encroaching onslaught of creeping death.
He had watched many shapes and faces, so held
shimmering vision on virile edge of his mind.
Afterwards thoughts never ceased to plague
in every shape, a certain form repetition of line.
I think matters not what one thought or speaks.
but what we shape with willing hands before time.
So from fetal dream began careful drawing
with loving fingers, clearer its shape defined.
To picture wondrous root of image making; grief transmuted -
seeking to formulate thoughts; the sharper to bind.
Envisaged image was a perfect whole
without flaw, symmetry
sprung from life, from sacrosanct depths,
he held it within his mind.
Then cast it forth like a radiant jewel
many faceted,
even in darkness,
in faintest light it will shine.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Related quotes
Shape Me Like A Man
Spark my body into existence
Breath your life into me
Fill these eyes with temptation
Work your mystery
Make me in the image you desire
Raise me up from the earth
Let me be your creation
Women, give me birth
Take me in your hands
And shape me like a man
Shape me like a man
Put this broken body in motion
With a strong and natural drive
Fill my flesh with sensation
Women let me know Im alive
Take me in your hands
And shape me like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Take me in your hands
And shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Make me like a man
song performed by by Gino Vanelli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shape Shifting Words
without pause
without stopping
poet prose wrote...
entire poem concept
out complete
final finished
perfect form irregular
Michelangelo minds...
scan depths swift
chop away dross edges
swift writ
work revealing
original shape...
image mind
figure seen
into physical
reality speed world
true x-ray artists...
must ever dice work this
clay marble way fast
image craving out
solid marble blocks
from rich mind...
quarry form shape
shifting words
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Gestalt....
is it the shape?
the shape of your face, your heart,
is it just the shape, of your body, the color of your hair,
the kinkiness of your eyes,
is it just the shape of the bowl that matters to you?
what about the contents of the
bowl, or if it is empty, what about the air that fills it somehow?
do you see it? no you don't, so
it is not just the shape, neither just the parts,
or the whole, there is something more in shapes and colors
and
even contents,
there is the will that bends everything
to mercy
there is the decision that convinces us all
to be one, this sympathy,
that empathy, that belief that i cannot live
without you,
that someone dies when someone leaves,
that life is better with us
in all these,
that there is life after our deaths,
there is this
unseen coming, this one that we want to
grasp yet
because we think we failed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Losing Steps
This is an illusion of time-shrinking
With empty time intervals.......
I can feel the cosmic pulse of life shrinking in a reverse spiral.
I try to forget myself, I try to dig deeper and deeper into nothingness..
But your lost steps bring me back.
I find myself in your arms, in your bed, inside of you.
It seems to be evening, but no, the immortal mobile horizons
Immolate themselves
In the hardened surface of the shrinking blob of quartz of the sand..
We are trying to rely their shape on our sense of sight,
Our sense of sight, that seeing-eye, crept into our vision.
Our mental vision, rooted in our mind,
Our physical vision, rooted in our astral nature.
We are trying to make them real,
But we understand that the shape can be cropped only inside of us.
We understand that the dream itself is lost, even it is nevertheless
Still our dream,
It is lost toward the still hot quartz of the soul,
Like an imaginary horizon line of the eye
Or like the bird’s eye view,
Completely off the image....
In the offing.
And we let the time to go on......
Because
Time is an a priori form of inner sense,
It makes possible the cognition of objects qua appearances,
As our friend Kant said.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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ODE TO A PiCtUrE
ODE To A PiCtUrE
Flash-
A Picture
One dimensional in size
Captures an
Image
A moment
in
Time-
A Picture
Works a
Miracle
And makes
Time-
Stand still-
Time-
Moves
As quickly as the
Wind
Is blocked
And made
Frozen
Constant
And
Still-
For One to
Admire a moment,
An Image which
Appears in Different
Shades of
Light…
A Picture
Brings back an
Emotion which
Pumps right through
The Heart-
A sensitive
Delicacy –
Often uncontrolled
And driven on its own
Can be ruled
And triggered
By a Flash-
A speck
Of
Light
With shattering
Colors-
Red,
Blue
And
Green…
A Picture
Not to be measured
In Space but more so
In Time
As it
Sits
Still-
Captured
In
An
Instant
Each
Image
Is
Traced
And
Held
Together
With
Shinny
Little
Sentiments…
Composed
As
Each
Expression
Is made
Visible
At the Palm
Of
One’s
Hand
Held-
Constant
Age less
Memories
Flow
Through
And
Begin to
Sing-
Of
What
Was-
Flash-
A Picture-
Whether it be
Darkness
Or
Lightness
Detections of different states of mind are seen
Emotional sensation in every bodily part
Tell truths of what has been-
A picture
Is cherished
And
Passed down the line-
To take part in the Memories
Once
Lived-
poem by Yvette Nario
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Let The Inner Light Shine!
Sometimes in dream
I see only light,
The light that shines,
But Sometimes
play different colour!
Wonderful are these,
life and dreams,
without rhyme or reason,
They swiftly turn,
Change course and colour!
Sometimes only wearer know where the shoe pinches,
And others may laugh on his walk,
may it be relative or friend,
Friend is that one with heart, keep aside his own pain,
May all others smile or laugh,
No one to weep with,
friend full of loving heart,
ready to wipe tears of
crying heart!
May it be life, or it may be a dream!
Dreamer only know
how take dreams him far,
How great or how dreadful dreams are,
One has to face it all alone!
Is one's own mind give,
shape and form to his dreams,
Lest they are play of shadow and light,
Shade and colours mind feels!
What is that making
In my dream or life,
I only enjoy,
Or even I only suffer By unknown fear,
Everyone is busy in his own itch,
Who on this universe, has free hands to help,
Some leisure left is used to poke one's nose into others affairs,
Not to help, only to irritate and laugh?
Let inner light shine bright,
Stop inner turmoil and fight,
Let all useless thoughts die,
let only love shine,
glory of wisdom and knowledge divine,
Beyond horizon of limitations of human mind,
Every heart be true and kind!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Worn By The Heart
The poet’s leavings
each piece like a jewel,
must be seen
through the focus
of its heart’s vibrations.
Present poet’s leavings
each piece a rough jewel,
must be soul defined seen
through refracted focus
of jewel heart’s vibrations.
Arranged in
finely worked setting
which enfolds,
embracing
craft beauties’ purpose.
Too few appreciate
filigree light within
or hidden beauty
defining a fatal flaw.
Thoughts descend from ether
like golden rays of a rich red sun.
A glass jar cannot contain thoughts.
Poems are traced like
illusive flight of butterflies
on a bright summer’s day.
Impossible to hold
imprisoned within mind.
So many danced
on the edge of thought.
If not captured immediately
in the net of pages
poems are gone forever.
Poems cease to flutter
in a fleeting moment
so ephemeral passing
their way in freedom.
At moment poems
touched poet’s soul
poems were mine,
flattened crumpled spirit
rose again to shine.
Life does
not always free
poverty’s poor
time for capture.
Yet true poets
mourn not the fact
thoughts fade,
beyond reach forever.
Thoughts appreciated
for wondrous revelations
above surface symbol,
worn on hearts of gentle souls,
not as bodily adornments.
Displaying coveted wealth.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Master Of Mind Can only be a Master Mind!
Seeing and hearing,
Is it eye that see?
Is it ear that hear?
Eyes are windows of Mind,
Like are ears, eyes have eyelids, ears remain open!
Seeing is not perceiving,
Light passes through the small camera,
Giving picture of world around,
Yet mind is the processor,
Process the data,
Process the colourful image,
Sometime filling with its own colour!
But it is not vision,
mind sees something itself,
Seeing through the mind without the help of eyes
Neither windows opened,
Nor light from open windows affect!
Mind is that faculty sees something within,
And day by day the vision become clear,
When mind learns it is not the seer,
It sees everything clear,
Clearly presented to the master,
And Self is the master of Mind,
When mind is pure and clear,
Without prejudice and suspense traits,
Self perceives self in its true nature,
Nothing goes bad,
processed food for thought remain good for ever!
one who sees eyes as seer,
He is ignorant,
One who sees mind as a seer,
Knows not,
One whose mind sees the seer is different,
Vision get purified, seer can see through the mind,
Scenes seen by mind with eyes closed,
when perceived by seer,
It becomes vision of life,
And that vision when becomes ambition of life,
Ambition becomes aspiration,
Aspiration transforms into mission,
Mission transmits wisdom and genius of self!
Self becomes master Of mind
Self becomes master Mind,
Master and mind becomes one,
Master Of Mind Can only be a Master Mind
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Sestina/Creation
When all supply was in the hands of Cause,
Effect was molten primal chaos, held
Within a universal cauldren, rest
Was given to consider what the blend
Would yield. What distillation might there come
When left to steep upon the flame of time?
What essence to be poured or spooned, when time
Had separated dross from grime; When Cause
Congealed Effect as form? What shape would come?
Omniscience knew the liqued luster held
Within an orbed mold to cool, would blend
A tear so pure, that Genesis could rest.
An orb within the plumbless steep, no rest
Was had as crystal creep began. In time
A metamorphic stress; a grinding blend
Of blasting heaves had splayed the plates to cause
The core to spill its viscous blaze. Not held,
A spew and fall of flaming rock had come.
As fluid land had ceased to flow, then come
Awaking, as purpose changed the rest
Of earth's most fragil face. Creation held
Expressive mind as conscious force, with time,
Embraced the law of Cosmic Will to cause
The 'Seeds of Season' to sprout forth and blend.
Profound, prestine, profusion was its blend
Of manifest raw beauty. Light had come,
Divine desire had found demension. Cause
Became the tangible of thought. The rest
Of thought, the fractured Self of God, In time,
As Souls, would pierce the veil of flesh then held.
Within the folded fist of night dawn held
Ignited eastern skies, until the blend
Of feathered morning light with time.
Through Holy Emulation, life would come
As reasoning pushed out, first breath, then rest,
Effect emerged as man, awakened Cause.
Creative Reason held the souls to come.
His law combined with Will, would blend the rest
Of mortal clay, with time, to temple Cause.
poem by Lynn W. Petty
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The Shape of the Wind...
The arctic blasts turn men into plaster casts,
They take the shape of the wind.
The ragged sails lashed by the gales,
Are full of the the shape of the wind.
The shrewd and wise, with half closed eyes,
Can guess the way of the wind.
They bend and bow, and go with the flow,
They take the shape of the wind.
The evening fires make crooked spires,
As they give way to the shape of the wind.
My ice cold breath meets it’s sudden death,
As it takes the shape of the wind.
And all our life, with all it’s strife,
Is nought but the shape of the wind.
So no longer resist, just desist,
And accept the shape of the wind.
poem by John Coldwell
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Mono No Aware
I see the silhouette of my body
Standing in front of me in the mirror.
I polish the glass, so that I may see
That part of myself reflecting clearer.
I want the depths of my vision to grow
Sharper and more focused in the clear light,
Though, in it, my imperfections will show
As the illumination becomes bright.
Still, I fear one day a dust may settle
To dull the shine my young hands have made.
I wonder why I impede my mettle
To worry for what the future may fade
Since now's temporary image is here,
And destiny is made to disappear.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Silence
When I see you I am voiceless. I cannot speak. The moment goes by too fast for what I want to say, by the time it's out of my mouth your ears would be too distant. So I remain. Silent. I speak to you with my eyes instead. Eye contacts risky business. But I take the chance. I stare. I stare. And I stare. Hoping you'll notice me. With all the noise around us, my silence speaks loudest. You see me. Our gaze meets. Sudden death. Look away or meet the challenge. It's a draw. Why is he staring at me, what's he up to, what now, I'm sure are things your asking yourself. I am friend not foe. We are silent but our conversation carries on, in a cosmic wavelength. Thoughts travel faster than any light ever could. Light speed, the light traveling, itself started out as an idea. We have millions of ideas. As we evolve we find our voices are not necessary. Thoughts are deeper than science, deeper than religion, deeper than the undiscovered depths in the sea. in our minds we can escape. We can create anything we wish. And with those ideas we can change the world. If the world truly exists. Maybe it's just a thought.Perhaps we are just thought.. A character in someone's mind where all our decisions are not our own. Just a doodle on drawing pad. There is so much our minds can do for humanity, good or bad.In my mind I can commit perfect crimes in silence all without making a sound. My soundless Utopia, where poverty doesn't exist and death is not feared. Because death is silent. He is welcomed. A master in the arts of silentology. Politicians could Learn a thing or two from him. Your campaign may be the most heard but it doesn't mean your popular. No one wants a talkative leader. I'd vote for a deaf man. Then at least I'd know he would never sell a promise and not deliver. He would only be heard through action. Helen Keller for president. The streets speak a language of its own. A silent lingo. The ones most fluent are the ones that walk them. And the way they are is the way they are dealt with by the big wigs. Silently. My thoughts surge through my mind. And this all happened in your eyes. A split second and I've invented a silent society. Then it's over. You look away the bond that held us has broken into thousands of invisible pieces that crashes to the floor without a sound. You get up. You walk away and I stay silent. I can't ask for you to stay and I won't. You talked to much anyways.
poem by Jeremy Rascon
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Images-Perfection Ever Flames, An Endless Supply of Moths
As I am,
I'm perceived Perfection
upon my ivory pedestal
in brilliant light
crystalline.
But these are my prison walls
Uniques Glow
is Perfection's Pall
which exiles me from that outer world
of reality.
I cannot mingle there.
My existence is constrained.
As bright as my Radiant Glow,
upon approach
to your world
I would dim
and be destroyed.
We can talk you and I
in Perfection's Harmony
but the moment you gain
my speaking voice,
my thoughts,
all is taken from Perfection's Shelf
and another less perfect me appears.
Nothing will compare
to me as I was.
Should I
in coming to you
destroy that Perfection which is now so dear?
Conundrum.
Corporeal life
is Kryptonite
yet mental isolation is too numbing.
I am Beauty in the light
but unavailable;
forever Uncoming.
Sometimes
Beauty is torture
we ourselves inflict
to escape our worldly life.
But since its shape
is mental most
it cannot ever be.
Pity the person
whose countenance
is corporeal beauty
realized;
they will have the sterner test
of not living up to hearts image most.
Each prince
whom we have constructed
alas, can only live with us
til that moment first,
the single word;
then the dream slips.
Honeymoons and marriages
might last longer I think
if we did not first wed
our Perfect Prince beforehand.
Is it not truth plain
that love itself is only grown
when 1st Prince Born
is laid to rest
and Prince Now
is allowed to live?
How better ground is it
to love the flower in the garden now
than those ones first grown
in Furrows of Gold
in Dream World
where Perfection's Hoe
was Loves Seeder
and Instigator
of the visions
we now hold
of what ought to be?
How can we in flesh and blood
compete with perfect diamond visions
which never fade or rust?
Whose hand is warmer still
than the Princely hand held in our dreams?
Who is sadder than
those who loved us;
yet whose faces are shadowed
by cold, Perfection's Glow?
How to dream
our destiny
yet still
love those
'round us;
remembering these ones
are the ones who will
when we, in time, tomorrow
are no longer our Own Prince
or Princess Image;
no longer Perfection's Darling.
Rest you better in Human Arms;
while they grow old and leather
they'll not in the end
take your pride and sell it away
to Dream Land Barons
and Rock Star Princes
who all live in Hollywood.
What to do?
abandon Vision
goals and Prince;
leave aside Destiny?
No, we must grapple with
this conundrum sent:
wrapped up
Perfection and Beauty;
living along side
uneasily,
with what is merely Human,
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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God
THOUGHT of the Infinite--the All!
Be thou my God.
Lover Divine, and Perfect Comrade!
Waiting, content, invisible yet, but certain,
Be thou my God.
Thou--thou, the Ideal Man!
Fair, able, beautiful, content, and loving,
Complete in Body, and dilate in Spirit,
Be thou my God.
O Death--(for Life has served its turn;) 10
Opener and usher to the heavenly mansion!
Be thou my God.
Aught, aught, of mightiest, best, I see, conceive, or know,
(To break the stagnant tie--thee, thee to free, O Soul,)
Be thou my God.
Or thee, Old Cause, when'er advancing;
All great Ideas, the races' aspirations,
All that exalts, releases thee, my Soul!
All heroisms, deeds of rapt enthusiasts,
Be ye my Gods! 20
Or Time and Space!
Or shape of Earth, divine and wondrous!
Or shape in I myself--or some fair shape, I, viewing, worship,
Or lustrous orb of Sun, or star by night:
Be ye my Gods.
poem by Walt Whitman
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The Sublime
I stay awake in empty darkness
Thinking thoughts that shape me so
A recompense of all the harshness
That my life has come to know
The sanctity of dreams and worry
Weigh me down and cloud my soul
The thoughts across my mind they scurry
Looking for their lifelong goal
Seldom as I lie there thinking
Could such actions ever find
Doomed as sure the ship thats sinking
Playing stories in my mind.
I have no answer to this haunting
Safe but sure I can survive
Though life itself alone is daunting
Thoughts may keep my dreams alive.
Let the darkness sooth your senses
Take its presence by the hand
While building bridges not just fences
Drifting to your promised land...
poem by Dave James
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Shape In A Drape
There's a guy going round the town
You got to check what he is puttin' down
Just one look you know the story is great
He's the guy the chicks love
And the cats can't hate
He's a shape in a drape
A shape in a drape
He's a shape in a drape
And you can dig that he is stookin'
Now some say he's a clipster and a tailor's toad
And he could hype a miserman for all his gold
Some say he's a hipster and some say nix
But everyone's solid when he gets his kicks
He's a shape in a drape
A shape in a drape
He's a shape in a drape
And he is sure alive and kickin'
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What's That
Before it came inside
I had watched it from my kitchen window,
watched it swell like a new balloon,
watched it slump and then divide,
like something I know I know -
a broken pear or two halves of the moon,
or round white plates floating nowhere
or fat hands waving in the summer air
until they fold together like a fist or a knee.
After that it came to my door. Now it lives here.
And of course: it is a soft sound, soft as a seal's ear
that was caught between a shape and a shape and then returned to me.
You know how parents call
from sweet beaches anywhere,
come in come in
,
and how you sank under water to put out
the sound, or how one of them touched in the hall
at night: the rustle and the skin
you couldn't know, but heard, the stout
slap of tides and the dog snoring. It's here
now, caught back from time in my adult year -
the image we did forget: the cranking shells on our feet
or the swing of the spoon in soup. It is real
as splinters stuck in your ear. The noise we steal
is half a bell. And outside cars whisk by on the suburban street
and are there and are true.
What else is this, this intricate shape of air?
calling me, calling you.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Untitled 18
it is within my power
to change my shape
and be what pleasure
is there to give me
but i cannot, i won't.
the shape you see
when we first met,
shall be the same
when i will finally
leave you. It was
not pleasure that
was the reason.
It was also something
beyond shapes
In fact, the shape
does not matter anymore.
It is temporary.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Dream
A queer dream it was that punctured my sleep
Thought forms everywhere, all that my eyes can take
Then, I dreamt that I rose up, wide awake
'Are you real? ' I asked the forms that creep
'Yes, we are, ' they said. 'You're the one that's fake.'
'How is that so? ' I asked in disbelief
But I recalled my readings a year back
About the soul, and my mind went back on track
I'm spirit, with the body its relief
That's some light I saw, now as dawn would crack
'Here, everything is real, ' the form added,
'Your world is but illusion of its soul.'
Strange that I've held what is there, to be all
Perception now seems, somewhat beclouded
How else will truth in seeking minds install?
'Even you is in disguise, ' said the form,
'Just taking on the shape you've been meant to be.'
What revelation! That, I sure, could say
If to this wise, my logic would conform
It must follow that I'm disguised as me
I woke up thinking what should 'me' now mean
If it's not the 'self, ' then I'll rack my brain
Someone said, 'Know Thyself, ' and not in vain
For I'll search, so to have it answered clean
Come the time that I dream of it again.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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Sound of fire
The animal in you takes shape
and transforms,
the body into animal form.
The teeth extend
out of the mouth.
The fingers cripple
backwards into claws
and the back arches upward.
The beast is formed
and is set free,
to run about
and fly forward
on the ground.
The beast is light
as a feather
and gravity is no more,
and the eyes
focus in shape
to see distances far and wide.
poem by Kristy Winter
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