Aught
Azriel of Gerona taught
that if you look beyond the yesh
which is the aught you’ll find the naught,
the spirit that’s behind the flesh,
the truth that lies within the kernel,
hidden from the mortal eyes
of man by ayin that’s eternal,
enveloped by man’s lethal lies,
because Reality must be
eclipsed, however hard it’s sought
by I’s that lie between the Thee
which is the Naught beyond the Aught.
In Sacred Attunement: A Jewish Theology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,2008) , Michael Fishbane writes about Azriel of Gerona (36–7) :
R. Azriel pondered the mystery and depth of infinite Being, and even tried to imagine the very borderline between the knowable realm of Absolute Reality and all that might be humanly conceived or known by human minds. In his discourse he calls the first realm Naught (or ayin) , because it is wholly beyond thought and thus virtually Nothing; and the second he deems Aught (or yesh) , because it is the realm where knowable (or discernable) reality becomes and is. But the point of transition is truly neither the one nor the other, but both: it is neither wholly naught, insofar as there is a gathering towards existence (where things are nameable and determinate) , nor is it wholly aught, since this domain is still characterized by the naught (where no thing is named or differentiated.) At this borderline we have something else. What we have is an imaginable sense of aught grounded in naught; that is, a sense that the all-unfolding reality and being of existence, whose source is God, is ultimately effaced in the depths of God’s Godhood. And though we may not follow R. Azriel in his particular mystical ontology of divine emanations, we may nevertheless strain to understand his teaching as a great truth of theology––still pertinent for our lives. For what he conveys through this meditation is that whatever may be humanly sayable about God and existence is ultimately grounded in and a manifestation of the Naught. To bring our minds towards this realization is the tsk of theology. This holds as much for our common view of everyday reality, where the Aught rightly prevails and predominates, as for our sense of God, where the Naught is the ultimate reality wherein all mindfulness is eclipsed.
10/24/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Related quotes
Of The Terrible Doubt Of Apperarances
OF the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after all--that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,
May-be the things I perceive--the animals, plants, men, hills,
shining and flowing waters,
The skies of day and night--colors, densities, forms--May-be these
are, (as doubtless they are,) only apparitions, and the real
something has yet to be known;
(How often they dart out of themselves, as if to confound me and mock
me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them;)
May-be seeming to me what they are, (as doubtless they indeed but
seem,) as from my present point of view--And might prove, (as
of course they would,) naught of what they appear, or naught
any how, from entirely changed points of view;
--To me, these, and the like of these, are curiously answer'd by my
lovers, my dear friends; 10
When he whom I love travels with me, or sits a long while holding me
by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason
hold not, surround us and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom--I am silent--I
require nothing further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances, or that of identity
beyond the grave;
But I walk or sit indifferent--I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Which Is Which
> To beware of the truth.
> Is truth...it, self?
> So, what is truth?
>
> Is truth, true love?
> Or...just a reality?
> To be a man...is that truth?
>
> A man...is reality.
> A woman...is reality.
> To be woman...is that truth?
>
> To have more then one partner
> Is a reality of the world.
>
> Which this world agrees.
> Truth is; in my point of view
> Is what one claims to be truth.
>
> But, the truth is whatever you
> Are doing as I speak.
> A woman is good for the soul.
>
> That truth is very bold.
> A man lives for his manhood
> So I am told.
>
> Is it truth or reality?
> Respect is in the middle of the spectrum.
> Male vs. Female
>
>
> That is truth.
> Man being woman
> A reality.
>
> Woman being man...
> She tries.
> Respect cover both the unreal and the wise.
>
> Truth or reality...we never really
> Give it much thought.
> Maybe it was the way we are taught.
>
> Truth or reality...
> Which is Which?
>
>
> whisperkwane
>
> [email protected]
>
>
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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Dreams
There is naught in the pathless reach
Of the pale, blue sky above,
There is naught that the stars tell, each to each,
As over the heavens they rove;
That I have not felt, or have not seen
Clad in dull earth or fancy's sheen.
There is naught, in the still, mauve twilight
When the dreams come flitting by,
From lands afar of eternal night,
Or lands of the sunswept sky,
For countless spirits within me dwell
With heaven's efflugence or dark hell.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part III: Gods And False Gods: LXXII
FROM THE FRENCH OF ANVERS
My heart has its secret, my soul its mystery,
A love which is eternal begotten in a day.
The ill is long past healing. Why should I speak to--day?
For none have ears to hear, and, least of all, she.
Alas I shall have lived unseen tho' ever near,
For ever at her side, for ever too alone.
I shall have lived my life unknowing and unknown,
Asking naught, daring naught, receiving naught from her.
And she, whom Heaven made kind and chaste and fair,
Shall go undoubting on, the while upon her way
The murmur of my love shall fill the land,
Till, reading here perchance severe and unaware
These lines so full of her, she shall look up and say
``Who was this woman then?'' and shall not understand.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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In this world of change naught which comes stays and naught which goes is lost.
quote by Madame Swetchine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Comrade
We naught six yet never four
compact at times of fall or soar
could penetrate aloft than core
yes! the bond none could bore
To step on fire or over planks
fear; we hath none-as gathered all
To leave the tracks on river banks
on deep waters, through that shoal!
How naught apart the heart and souls.
why back the faded track we go?
Unnoticed naught the far set goals
though aloft, yet live earthy-low
Moments as people dreamed to Luna;
paths were often lead to point.
all sought so much lithe persona;
His, Her prejudice has joint
The sobbing of the sun on parting,
the grinning of the stars at night.
The pain on back of pretty smiling,
was not joker's but Donald's fright.
To unjust sight, sought merely waste
to weary eyes 'twas gold
The chemical bond abides no caste
Afore them, We stand Bold.
The freezing period of Dark eclipse
Bothers not our dwell-
-them, Whose lives were in ellipse,
to ransom them from hell.
His avid tongue to destroy
to delet the barely known existence
His tricky motions on decoy
To burgeon all of our hindrance!
Seldom not, we entice unite
seldom not, the great escapades
naught even destiny could fight
The longing laughter of comrades.
poem by Ellirie Aviles
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At the close of the day when the hamlet is still, and mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, when naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, and naught but the nightingale's song in the grove.
quote by James Beattie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nothing
Pain
All consuming
Like a fire
I can't breathe
There's nothing left
What have you done?
My hands are shaking
I can't sit still
My mind is racing
My heart is breaking
Strangled gasps
Heart races
It's all a blur
Where am I?
What happened?
Who are you?
You stole my breath
My mind
My heart
My body
Are you a thief?
Are you a liar?
Who is it that can do something so small,
Yet so large
That I have nothing left
Only pain
Only rage
Only hurt
Only tears
Only blood
Only fears
Only death
Have you stolen everything?
Or is my life still left?
I hear naught
I see naught
I feel naught
I smell naught
I taste naught
Am I nothing?
Are you nothing?
There's nothing left
I sense nothing
I know nothing
This must mean I am nothing
It must mean you are nothing
Am I nobody?
Like a myth
Like a legend
Like a story
Does this make everything I've said
And done
And felt
Unreal
Like a dream
Or a story
Or a thought
So it never happened?
You didn't make me love you?
You didn't hurt me?
You didn't make me cry?
Make me bleed?
Make me suffer?
You didn't leave me there
On the street
On a sidewalk
So I could bleed out?
You didn't hold a knife?
You didn't violate me?
You didn't kill me?
You didn't walk away?
You didn't lie?
I didn't exist meaning
You didn't exist so
You must not have
Meaning
I am not dead because
I just never existed
And you are not alive
Because you never existed
We are just nothing
poem by Gwenevere Cornwell
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Love Is...
Love is the abiding heart, willing to wait forever
For the time when it may be together
With its counterpoint in that of another;
Love is a bond that neither time nor
Distance may cause to alter,
Nor manner of travail, cause to falter.
Love is a patience, derived through faith and hope;
Love is the hidden strength, which allows you to cope
With all that life may choose to render;
Love is a warm embrace, reassuring and tender;
Love is courage, in the face of immense fear;
Love is pure beauty, sans compeer.
Love teaches, learns, builds, and shares;
Love is singular-yet when true, binds perfect pairs;
Love is selfless, humble, and ceaseless-
It is omniscient, omnipresent, and ubiquitous;
Love self-perpetuates-it begets more of the same;
Love is the imagined fire that you may never tame;
Love is the commanding General in my positivity's army-
This benevolent brigade ensures naught may harm me;
Love empowers, enables, and inspires-
It creates, betters, dotes, and admires;
Love fashions reality, from the scape of dreams-
Love is all you ever need, or so it seems.
There is naught that may be placed above-
'The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.'*
Without love, you may do naught-
With love, you have all that for which you sought!
* Galatians 5: 6
-Maurice Harris,18 March 2011
poem by Maurice Harris
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Esplumoir
Before birth we lay as nothing, alas sweet nothing at all,
We are as the one, dedicated to naught but our Love of unison.
How are our souls ever to learn if we are forever earning
Our dues through celestial favours?
How are our souls ever to grow if all we ever know are the
Tastes of terrestrial flavours?
Through the gift of mortal tenancy we are thrown
Into the chaos that surrounds us throughout the day realm.
How are we ever to remain steady at the helm
If we are never given a vessel within which we may sail?
How are we to succeed in our Endeavour if we are never given
The ability to fail?
How are we ever to learn if we are never given the chance
To earn the respect of fellow earthen dancers?
Do not wish away your time upon this earth but know
That your birth was a blessing, a dressing of the soul.
Know that we can never be anything more than a whole
Complete if we are given no separation from unity.
Within our hearts lay a throne for the queen of appreciation.
She knows her place, she knows her face and she is proud
She proclaims her love aloud for every cloud that graces
Her skyline. She’s doing fine without transcendence for she knows
That one day the soul of the world will embrace her once more.
Her awareness of herself she sees a gift with which she may lift spirit
For it is only when we are taken from our existence eternal and given
The gift of mortality that we realise it is the Gods who envy we,
Those adrift amongst a sea of souls. Some practice non thought
Denying there existence as an illusion, yet are they not confused towards
The fact that it is an appreciation of life that they are lacking.
For we hath been born without good warning of the world that tears
Itself apart outside, yet we are not to hide and wish away the clouds of
Grey, we are to love our existence and know that death is our only assurance.
Each will one day become one with the whole, each will loose sense of their
Soul, so embrace the day whist you may and know the search for truth is the
Most honourable of all, yet no truth is there to be found in hiding away
From the world outside your window blurring. Ground. Center. Earth yourself
And know that even though you may perceive all we hath received as nothing
More than an illusion, you will do naught but confuse yourself in trying to attain
A state of un-being before death, for we hath an eternity to enjoy the void.
poem by David Lacey
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Ugly Duckling of QCPU
Ugly, she ain't fit nor fair
Gimpy heart she hath
Lone of her none do care
Yellow asked her wrath
Grudge she kept; not to hurt
Ephemeral was her hold
Mad gone her in midst of blurt
Monster chicks had told.
Amplified her voice had gone
Lucks of her shone in place
Yonder lake swam she, set sun
Not a single peck never daze
Imbricated feathers appeared
Simultaneous alteration abound
Sick those sought naught beauty here
O 'Lin made naught much sound
Pretty allurement was set in no time
Redolent scent filled the place
Exceptional glamor has finally shined
Tintinabulations whilst i gaze.
Totally mesmerized to her juvenility
Our eyes were filled with the beauty
Brood she'd gone long and lame
Epiphany afore hath come in game
Felicity of hers hidden yonder
Aloft the ugliness of human nature
Truth! that is reality's wonder
~~Yes! there is no constant matter.
poem by Ellirie Aviles
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An Immorality
Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having.
Though I have been in many a land,
There is naught else in living.
And I would rather have my sweet,
Though rose-leaves die of grieving,
Than do high deeds in Hungary
To pass all men's believing.
poem by Ezra Pound
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He was, when it was aught
He was, when it was aught
He would still be, even if it might have been naught
Drowned I am in my ego
What would have happened if 'I' was not
Laden with distraught and feeling apathetic
do I have to worry about the head being severed
If it did not severe from the body
The head would have simply reposed on the lap
It has been ages that 'Ghalib' died
Yet the memories linger on
His saying this on every occasion
If it was 'like this' then what it would be!
poem by Mirza Ghalib
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Wishing -- Or Fate And I
Wise men tell me thou, O Fate,
Art invincible and great.
Well, I own thy prowess; still
Dare I flount thee, with my will.
Thou canst shatter in a span
All the earthly pride of man.
Outward things thou canst control
But stand back - I rule my soul!
Death? 'Tis such a little thing -
Scarcely worth the mentioning.
What has death to do with me,
Save to set my spirit free?
Something in me dwells, O Fate,
That can rise and dominate.
Loss, and sorrow, and disaster,
How, then, Fate, art thou my master?
In the great primeval morn
My immortal will was born.
Part of the stupendous Cause
Which conceived the Solar Laws.
Lit the suns and filled the seas,
Royalest of pedigrees.
That great Cause was Love, the Source,
Who most loves has most of Force.
He who harbors hate one hour
Saps the soul of Peace and Power.
He who will not hate his foe
Need not dread life's hardest blow.
In the realm of brotherhood
Wishing no man aught but good.
Naught but good can come to me.
This is love's supreme decree.
Since I bar my door to hate,
What have I to fear, O Fate?
Since I fear not - Fate, I vow,
I the ruler am, not thou!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Song
I
Nay but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her?
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,
And this last fairest tress of all,
So fair, see, ere I let it fall?
II
Because, you spend your lives in praising;
To praise, you search the wide world over:
Then why not witness, calmly gazing,
If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her?
Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much!
poem by Robert Browning from Dramatic Romances and Lyrics (1845)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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All For Naught, I Do Not Believe
Naught did I possess any seer, for my abject fear,
Naught are there any here-to see, as I tear!
My best friend has been corrupted,
My entire life, completely, tragically interrupted!
For what reason might be this the case?
Pain has been caused, ne'er to be erased
Drunketh was I, from the cup of my life-
Joined at my festival, by the one who was to be my Wife!
Severed from my family, as though something wrong, I had done!
Falsity was causal to this pain, known to all, but for the one!
Wheresoever she may wander, back to reason,
So too may she allow for the changing of her pain's season!
All for naught, I do not believe-part of His plan-
Each day which passes, I grow more, to understand!
Maurice Harris,23 December 2007
poem by Maurice Harris
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Happy New Year ’09
Happy New Year naught nine!
Let’s hope things will be fine;
Let’s work harder and shine;
Let’s dance, sing and drink wine.
Let peace come to all towns;
Let love dwell in all homes;
Let wars never happen;
Let’s fight terrorism.
Happy New Year naught nine!
May God bless all nations!
May love fill hearts and minds;
May earth turn paradise!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-31-2008
poem by John Celes
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Book I - Part 04 - Nothing Exists Per Se Except Atoms And The Void
But, now again to weave the tale begun,
All nature, then, as self-sustained, consists
Of twain of things: of bodies and of void
In which they're set, and where they're moved around.
For common instinct of our race declares
That body of itself exists: unless
This primal faith, deep-founded, fail us not,
Naught will there be whereunto to appeal
On things occult when seeking aught to prove
By reasonings of mind. Again, without
That place and room, which we do call the inane,
Nowhere could bodies then be set, nor go
Hither or thither at all- as shown before.
Besides, there's naught of which thou canst declare
It lives disjoined from body, shut from void-
A kind of third in nature. For whatever
Exists must be a somewhat; and the same,
If tangible, however fight and slight,
Will yet increase the count of body's sum,
With its own augmentation big or small;
But, if intangible and powerless ever
To keep a thing from passing through itself
On any side, 'twill be naught else but that
Which we do call the empty, the inane.
Again, whate'er exists, as of itself,
Must either act or suffer action on it.
Or else be that wherein things move and be:
Naught, saving body, acts, is acted on;
Naught but the inane can furnish room. And thus,
Beside the inane and bodies, is no third
Nature amid the number of all things-
Remainder none to fall at any time
Under our senses, nor be seized and seen
By any man through reasonings of mind.
Name o'er creation with what names thou wilt,
Thou'lt find but properties of those first twain,
Or see but accidents those twain produce.
A property is that which not at all
Can be disjoined and severed from a thing
Without a fatal dissolution: such,
Weight to the rocks, heat to the fire, and flow
To the wide waters, touch to corporal things,
Intangibility to the viewless void.
But state of slavery, pauperhood, and wealth,
Freedom, and war, and concord, and all else
Which come and go whilst Nature stands the same,
We're wont, and rightly, to call accidents.
Even time exists not of itself; but sense
Reads out of things what happened long ago,
What presses now, and what shall follow after:
No man, we must admit, feels time itself,
Disjoined from motion and repose of things.
Thus, when they say there "is" the ravishment
Of Princess Helen, "is" the siege and sack
Of Trojan Town, look out, they force us not
To admit these acts existent by themselves,
Merely because those races of mankind
(Of whom these acts were accidents) long since
Irrevocable age has borne away:
For all past actions may be said to be
But accidents, in one way, of mankind,-
In other, of some region of the world.
Add, too, had been no matter, and no room
Wherein all things go on, the fire of love
Upblown by that fair form, the glowing coal
Under the Phrygian Alexander's breast,
Had ne'er enkindled that renowned strife
Of savage war, nor had the wooden horse
Involved in flames old Pergama, by a birth
At midnight of a brood of the Hellenes.
And thus thou canst remark that every act
At bottom exists not of itself, nor is
As body is, nor has like name with void;
But rather of sort more fitly to be called
An accident of body, and of place
Wherein all things go on.
Naught's a naught and figger's a figger - all for the white man and none for the nigger.