Infinity Poems Quotes

But for me the sweetest contact with God has no form. I close my eyes, look within, and enter a deep soft silence. The infinity of God's creation embraces me.

everything/ that ever was still is, somewhere

This rose of pearl-coated infinity transforms the diseased slums of a broken heart into a palace made of psalms and gold.

O Space and Time and stars at strife, How dreadful your infinity! Shrined by your termless trinity, How strange, how terrible, is life! (“The Testimony of the Suns”)

[On Chopin's Preludes:] "His genius was filled with the mysterious sounds of nature, but transformed into sublime equivalents in musical thought, and not through slavish imitation of the actual external sounds. His composition of that night was surely filled with raindrops, resounding clearly on the tiles of the Charterhouse, but it had been transformed in his imagination and in his song into tears falling upon his heart from the sky. ... The gift of Chopin is [the expression of] the deepest and fullest feelings and emotions that have ever existed. He made a single instrument speak a language of infinity. He could often sum up, in ten lines that a child could play, poems of a boundless exaltation, dramas of unequalled power.

The road was so dimly lighted. There we;re no highway signs to guide. But they made up their minds, If all roads were blind, They wouldn't give up 'til they died....

a connotation of infinity sharpens the temporal splendor of this night when souls which have forgot frivolity in lowliness,noting the fatal flight of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream down eager avenues of lifelessness consider for how much themselves shall gleam, in the poised radiance of perpetualness. When what’s in velvet beyond doomed thought is like a woman amorous to be known; and man,whose here is alway worse than naught, feels the tremendous yonder for his own— on such a night the sea through her blind miles of crumbling silence seriously smiles

Each word, as someone once wrote, contains the universe. The visible carries all the invisible on its back. Tonight, in the unconditional, what moves in the long-limbed grasses, what touches me As though I didn’t exist? What is it that keeps on moving, a tiny pillar of smoke Erect on its hind legs, loose in the hollow grasses? A word I don’t know yet, a little word, containing infinity, Noiseless and unrepentant, in sift through the dry grass.

Estranged from Beauty—none can be— For Beauty is Infinity— And power to be finite ceased Before Identity was leased.

Creating art and writing novels and poems are simply different roads I have chosen in my search for truth.

Seulement la terre qui obéit, sait bien qu'elle tourne en rond, tandis que nous vers l'infini nous précipitons. Translation: But the obedient Earth well knows that she moves round and round, whereas we hurtle down toward infinity.

The Poem About Taking out the Trash In the vast emptiness of darkness, Stars are being born and are burning out; Galaxies expand, into what I have no idea, And dark matter fills the infinite space That has no bounds and no limits. In the middle of all this, I stand In a single moment and know how small I am. A group of atoms, the size of nothing in comparison. I am the observer of the play on a tiny stage. The onlooker who watches the painting Of a picture that few stop to see. The listener of a song where I hear only a fraction Of a fraction of a note in a song that will be forever sung And that has been being sung for eternity upon eternity, Before I knew breath and sound. I am but dust, stardust, a breath of a life, smoke Rising into oblivion, here then gone as quickly. Under all of this, I take out the trash.

Parting One is strong, a child now grown The other weak, a parent aged - The strong once feeble The weak once mighty - Time, the infinity has marked them...

To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

There are no barriers to poetry or prophecy; by their nature they are barrier-breakers, bursts of perceptions, lines into infinity. If the poet lies about his vision he lies about himself and in himself; this produces a true barrier.

I saw your sad as if a charity in radiant in night long morphic sheen and tears the tomb of your infinity. — Georges Bataille, from “Je revais de toucher” in “5 poems,” Hyperion: On the Future of Aesthetics, a web publication of The Nietzsche Circle, Volume III, issue 4, December 2008

Our Cross Our little circle hides in the mind, It's difficult to miss but hard to find, It goes unspoken but yet it speaks, From backward years to forward weeks, We can't forget but why even try, Two of a kind doesn't know goodbye, It's a silent question that God won't share, A breeze we feel but seems unfair, Distant, rare but only madness can see, It's something deeper than any infinity, Because we walk this parallel path up and down, There is no circle to hold us circus clowns, So let's give it a symbol and label it a loss, We will remember it always as we carry our cross.

Most often, we walk without understanding this movement, without hearing its step, but knowing that we must go beyond an emptiness in us, and that only then our walk begins. In these moments, I think of the desert, of you. Suddenly the beating of a bird's heart; that alone breaks the air. Behind me, steps I know I made but which the ground did not retain. I wanted to learn thirst. Sand is this infinity that passes through us slowly ever since a beginning that we cannot name. Stripped of itself, the world restores its whiteness which, alone now, upholds the memory I am remaking. Detached, I am still trying to see if there is someone. My flesh melted in the desert.

My infinity would be/ the never-ending light/ you deserve/ every road opening up in front of you

To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour.

The eye of the spirit can nowhere find more dazzling brilliance and more shadow than in man; it can fix itself on no other thing which is more formidable, more complicated, more mysterious, and more infinite. There is a spectacle more grand than the sea; it is heaven: there is a spectacle more grand than heaven; it is the inmost recesses of the soul. To make the poem of the human conscience, were it only with reference to a single man, were it only in connection with the basest of men, would be to blend all epics into one superior and definitive epic. Conscience is the chaos of chimeras, of lusts, and of temptations; the furnace of dreams; the lair of ideas of which we are ashamed; it is the pandemonium of sophisms; it is the battlefield of the passions. Penetrate, at certain hours, past the livid face of a human being who is engaged in reflection, and look behind, gaze into that soul, gaze into that obscurity. There, beneath that external silence, battles of giants, like those recorded in Homer, are in progress; skirmishes of dragons and hydras and swarms of phantoms, as in Milton; visionary circles, as in Dante. What a solemn thing is this infinity which every man bears within him, and which he measures with despair against the caprices of his brain and the actions of his life!

I love you to infinity Yet sometimes If you ask me how much I may not be able to answer If you ask me why I may not be able to show But I know I will keep on loving you Till my heart beats

Memories are better than life. Nothing I'm part of is good until later. I love what time does. I make decisions on the basis of sensing what will produce the best memory. They're my finest works: all that multidimensional and liquid maze of experience minus the fear and uncertainty, or with the fear and uncertainty changed to something else. Because they're already finished. I made them up and they comprise me. It's as if experience is only the dark, chaotic factory where these little infinity jewels are pressed into being. Everyone is the poet of their memories. Usually it's better to get things over with so you have the memory. But like the best poems, they're also never really finished because they gain new meaning as time reveals them in different lights. Maybe every memory is inside you from the beginning; they erupt and branch and merge in fantastic patterns, but if you really tried you could trace any one of them back to the same original. Maybe the best ones are all the same: of being born. Or dying, or whatever it is.

Then we sallied forth into the streets arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford.

Blake poem that opens with “To see a World in a Grain of Sand / And a Heaven in a Wild Flower / Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand / And Eternity in an hour.” That’s what we’re after here. That’s the transcendental experience that makes our petty ego impossible.

In the grand tapestry of life, every thread has a purpose. Believe that amidst the infinite possibilities, the Universe aligns in your favor. Be intentional yet relaxed, humble but daring, and embrace life's events with an open heart. Suddenly, life becomes a beautiful dance.

Out of nothingness arises the sign of infinity; beneath the ever-rising spirals slowly sinks the gaping hole. The land and the water make numbers joined, a poem written with flesh and stronger than steel or granite. Through endless night the earth whirls toward a creation unknown…

You resting your head tenderly on my shoulders while we sit below the old Oak tree. And we smile at each other and gaze lovingly at the fascinating sunset over the hills. This moment makes me feel completely alive as if we have reached not just cloud nine or ten but also cloud infinity!

Twelfth House Poem: Merging into Oneness floating weightless in the Sea We cannot tell the difference, "what is you, what is me?" All becomes the One; One becomes the All Back to Source we merge again, and in Silence we recall Our connection to Infinity that reminds us we are free In life, in death, and in between Throughout Eternity

Something must be very wrong,' it said, and I agreed, although it turned out the author meant that 'no theory of physics should produce infinities with impunity.' I’d point out that every theory of the heart produces infinities with impunity if I were the kind of jerk who uses the heart to mean the human tendency to make others suffer just because we hate to suffer alone. I’m sorry I brought a fitted sheet to the beach. I’m sorry I’m selfish and determined to make the worst of everything. I’m sorry language is a ship that goes down while you’re building it. The Hesychasts of Byzantium stripped their prayers of words. It’s been tried with poems too. But insofar as I am a disappointment to myself and others, it seems fitting to set up shop in almost and not quite and that’s not what I meant. I draw the line at the heart, though, with its infinities.

Because all such things are aspects of the holomovement, he feels it has no meaning to speak of consciousness and matter as interacting. In a sense, the observer is the observed. The observer is also the measuring device, the experimental results, the laboratory, and the breeze that blows outside the laboratory. In fact, Bohm believes that consciousness is a more subtle form of matter, and the basis for any relationship between the two lies not in our own level of reality, but deep in the implicate order. Consciousness is present in various degrees of enfoldment and unfoldment in all matter, which is perhaps why plasmas possess some of the traits of living things. As Bohm puts it, "The ability of form to be active is the most characteristic feature of mind, and we have something that is mindlike already with the electron. "11 Similarly, he believes that dividing the universe up into living and nonliving things also has no meaning. Animate and inanimate matter are inseparably interwoven, and life, too, is enfolded throughout the totality of the universe. Even a rock is in some way alive, says Bohm, for life and intelligence are present not only in all of matter, but in "energy, " "space, " "time, " "the fabric of the entire universe, " and everything else we abstract out of the holomovement and mistakenly view as separate things. The idea that consciousness and life (and indeed all things) are ensembles enfolded throughout the universe has an equally dazzling flip side. Just as every portion of a hologram contains the image of the whole, every portion of the universe enfolds the whole. This means that if we knew how to access it we could find the Andromeda galaxy in the thumbnail of our left hand. We could also find Cleopatra meeting Caesar for the first time, for in principle the whole past and implications for the whole future are also enfolded in each small region of space and time. Every cell in our body enfolds the entire cosmos. So does every leaf, every raindrop, and every dust mote, which gives new meaning to William Blake's famous poem: To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour.

To My Mother First published : 1849     A heartful sonnet written to Poe’s mother-in-law and aunt Maria Clemm, “To My Mother” says that the mother of the woman he loved is more important than his own mother. It was first published on July 7, 1849 in Flag of Our Union. It has alternately been published as “Sonnet to My Mother.”     Because I feel that, in the Heavens above, The angels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of “Mother,” Therefore by that dear name I long have called you — You who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you In setting my Virginia’s spirit free. My mother — my own mother, who died early, Was but the mother of myself; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that infinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

Stand before my eyes, and let thy glance touch my songs into a flame. Stand among thy stars and let me find kindled in their lights my own fir of worship. The earth is waiting at the world’s wayside; Stand upon the green mantle she has flung upon thy path; and let me feel in her grass and meadow flowers the spread of my own salutation. Stand in my lonely evening where my heart watches alone; fill her cup of solitude, and let me feel in me the infinity of thy love.

…she made a poem on it at once, the lines singing themselves through her consciousness without effort. With one side of her nature she liked writing prose best– with the other she liked writing poetry. This side was uppermost tonight and her very thoughts ran into rhyme. A great, pulsating star hung low in the sky over Indian Head. Emily gazed on it and recalled Teddy’s old fancy of his previous existence on a star. The idea seized on her imagination and she spun a dream life, lived on some happy planet circling around that mighty, far-off sun. Then came the northern lights–drifts of pale fire over the sky– spears of light, as of empyrean armies– pale, elusive hosts retreating and advancing. Emily lay and watched them in rapture. Her soul was washed pure in that great bath of splendour…Such moments come rarely into any life, but when they do come they are inexpressibly wonderful– as if the finite were for a second infinity– as if humanity were for a space uplifted into divinity– as if all ugliness had vanished, leaving only flawless beauty. Oh–beauty–Emily shivered with the pure ecstasy of it. She loved it– it filled her being tonight as never before. She was afraid to move or breathe lest she break the current of beauty that was flowing through her…”Oh, God, make me worthy of it– oh, make me worthy of it,” she prayed. Could she ever be worthy of such a message– could she dare try to carry some of the loveliness of that “dialogue divine” back to the everyday world of sordid market-place and clamorous street? She must give it– she could not keep it to herself. Would the world listen– understand– feel?…

The Lingerer by Stewart Stafford Another lonely start, O shadow companion, My twin bereft of heart, On grief’s stormy galleon. Each step disbelief, Strangers pass in proximity, In motion an artist’s relief, Abstract as infinity. The quickening pulse of streets, Tears on cheeks reflective, This scarred heart missing beats, Damaged and defective. Home now just where memory sits, Perspective greatly shifted, This shapeless form no longer fits, The body it was gifted. And if, my love, you see me now, I beg you, look away, Love’s blush departed with a bow, Then withered and decayed. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Kashmir...' She laughed a little in disbelief. That's... what love looks like. 'But is it only a trick?' I ask pleading. ' And if so, what is truly mine?' ' I am. ' Her words took me by surprise. She said it so simply- so simply - so quiet, so true. Only two words, three letters, one breath, but never had a promise held more meaning. She turned to me then, and in her eyes, I saw not oblivion, but infinity, and the stars were not as bright as her smile. 'Nix.' I said. And her name was a poem. She tilted her face up to the dawn; my lips met hers. She pressed close to me, and then there was no past, no future- only now. No her. No me. Only us.

The sun was gone, and the moon was coming Over the blue Connecticut hills; The west was rosy, the east was flushed, And over my head the swallows rushed This way and that, with changeful wills. I heard them twitter and watched them dart Now together now apart Like dark petals blown from a tree; The maples stamped against the west Were black and stately and full of rest, And the hazy orange moon grew up And slowly changed to yellow gold While the hills were darkened, fold on fold To a deeper blue than a flower could hold. Down the hill I went, and then I forgot the ways of men, For night-scents, heady, and damp and cool Wakened ecstasy in me On the brink of a shining pool. O Beauty, out of many a cup You have made me drunk and wild Ever since I was a child, But when have I been sure as now That no bitterness can bend And no sorrow wholly bow One who loves you to the end? And though I must give my breath And my laughter all to death, And my eyes through which joy came, And my heart, a wavering flame; If all must leave me and go back Along a blind and fearful track So that you can make anew, Fusing with intenser fire, Something nearer you desire; If my soul must go alone Through a cold infinity, Or even if it vanish, too, Beauty, I have worshipped you. Let this single hour atone For the theft of all of me

Sonnet XII Full woman, fleshly apple, hot moon, thick smell of seaweed, crushed mud and light, what obscure brilliance opens between your columns? What ancient night does a man touch with his senses? Loving is a journey with water and with stars, with smothered air and abrupt storms of flour: loving is a clash of lightning-bolts and two bodies defeated by a single drop of honey. Kiss by kiss I move across your small infinity, your borders, your rivers, your tiny villages, and the genital fire transformed into delight runs through the narrow pathways of the blood until it plunges down, like a dark carnation, until it is and is no more than a flash in the night.

We have to actively seek out this cosmic sympathy. There’s the famous Blake poem that opens with “To see a World in a Grain of Sand / And a Heaven in a Wild Flower / Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand / And Eternity in an hour.” That’s what we’re after here. That’s the transcendental experience that makes our petty ego impossible. Feel unprotected against the elements or forces or surroundings. Remind yourself how pointless it is to rage and fight and try to one-up those around you. Go and put yourself in touch with the infinite, and end your conscious separation from the world. Reconcile yourself a bit better with the realities of life. Realize how much came before you, and how only wisps of it remain.

it appears various ancient Mystics had a hard time explaining with their archaic languages lacking the words for detailing “the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost” the Trinity concept being misunderstood by a good host the Father is the immutable unmoving Godhead from whence the Holy Ghost flows to all widespread the Son, a physical expression in those whose self is dead God can't be received fully if the “me” occupies space the sense of individual selfhood disappears without a trace the higher nature of God is formless unmanifested from it, this changing world of form is emanated everything is God, in God, all-inclusively unending ungraspable by brain-mind and its inferior comprehending people wonder, “okay, but what created God?” contemplate “Eternal” or “Infinite” to see the query flawed All is the Mind of God without exception including your Mind prior to conception formless No-Thing, yet Infinitely Everything yet both, yet neither, for it's beyond expounding

How to live (forty pieces of advice I feel to be helpful but which I don’t always follow) 1. Appreciate happiness when it is there 2. Sip, don’t gulp. 3. Be gentle with yourself. Work less. Sleep more. 4. There is absolutely nothing in the past that you can change. That’s basic physics. 5. Beware of Tuesdays. And Octobers. 6. Kurt Vonnegut was right. “Reading and writing are the most nourishing forms of meditation anyone has so far found.” 7. Listen more than you talk. 8. Don’t feel guilty about being idle. More harm is probably done to the world through work than idleness. But perfect your idleness. Make it mindful. 9. Be aware that you are breathing. 10. Wherever you are, at any moment, try to find something beautiful. A face, a line out of a poem, the clouds out of a window, some graffiti, a wind farm. Beauty cleans the mind. 11. Hate is a pointless emotion to have inside you. It is like eating a scorpion to punish it for stinging you. 12. Go for a run. Then do some yoga. 13. Shower before noon. 14. Look at the sky. Remind yourself of the cosmos. Seek vastness at every opportunity, in order to see the smallness of yourself. 15. Be kind. 16. Understand that thoughts are thoughts. If they are unreasonable, reason with them, even if you have no reason left. You are the observer of your mind, not its victim. 17. Do not watch TV aimlessly. Do not go on social media aimlessly. Always be aware of what you are doing and why you are doing it. Don’t value TV less. Value it more. Then you will watch it less. Unchecked distractions will lead you to distraction. 18. Sit down. Lie down. Be still. Do nothing. Observe. Listen to your mind. Let it do what it does without judging it. Let it go, like Snow Queen in Frozen. 19. Don’t’ worry about things that probably won’t happen. 20. Look at trees. Be near trees. Plant trees. (Trees are great.) 21. Listen to that yoga instructor on YouTube, and “walk as if you are kissing the earth with your feet”. 22. Live. Love. Let go. The three Ls. 23. Alcohol maths. Wine multiplies itself by itself. The more you have, the more you are likely to have. And if it is hard to stop at one glass, it will be impossible at three. Addition is multiplication. 24. Beware of the gap. The gap between where you are and where you want to be. Simply thinking of the gap widens it. And you end up falling through. 25. Read a book without thinking about finishing it. Just read it. Enjoy every word, sentence, and paragraph. Don’t wish for it to end, or for it to never end. 26. No drug in the universe will make you feel better, at the deepest level, than being kind to other people. 27. Listen to what Hamlet – literature’s most famous depressive – told Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” 28. If someone loves you, let them. Believe in that love. Live for them, even when you feel there is no point. 29. You don’t need the world to understand you. It’s fine. Some people will never really understand things they haven’t experienced. Some will. Be grateful. 30. Jules Verne wrote of the “Living Infinite”. This is the world of love and emotion that is like a “sea”. If we can submerge ourselves in it, we find infinity in ourselves, and the space we need to survive. 31. Three in the morning is never the time to try and sort out your life. 32. Remember that there is nothing weird about you. You are just a human, and everything you do and feel is a natural thing, because we are natural animals. You are nature. You are a hominid ape. You are in the world and the world is in you. Everything connects. 33. Don’t believe in good or bad, or winning and losing, or victory and defeat, or ups and down. At your lowest and your highest, whether you are happy or despairing or calm or angry, there is a kernel of you that stays the same. That is the you that matters.

Elephanta caves, Mumbai-- I entered a world made of shadows and sudden brightness. The play of the light, the vastness of the space and its irregular form, the figures carved on the walls: all of it gave the place a sacred character, sacred in the deepest meaning of the word. In the shadows were the powerful reliefs and statues, many of them mutilated by the fanaticism of the Portuguese and the Muslims, but all of them majestic, solid, made of a solar material. Corporeal beauty, turned into living stone. Divinities of the earth, sexual incarnations of the most abstract thought, gods that were simultaneously intellectual and carnal, terrible and peaceful. ............................................................................ Gothic architecture is the music turned to stone; one could say that Hindu architecture is sculpted dance. The Absolute, the principle in whose matrix all contradictions dissolve (Brahma), is “neither this nor this nor this.” It is the way in which the great temples at Ellora, Ajanta, Karli, and other sites were built, carved out of mountains. In Islamic architecture, nothing is sculptural—exactly the opposite of the Hindu. The Red Fort, on the bank of the wide Jamuna River, is as powerful as a fort and as graceful as a palace. It is difficult to think of another tower that combines the height, solidity, and slender elegance of the Qutab Minar. The reddish stone, contrasting with the transparency of the air and the blue of the sky, gives the monument a vertical dynamism, like a huge rocket aimed at the stars. The mausoleum is like a poem made not of words but of trees, pools, avenues of sand and flowers: strict meters that cross and recross in angles that are obvious but no less surprising rhymes. Everything has been transformed into a construction made of cubes, hemispheres, and arcs: the universe reduced to its essential geometric elements. The abolition of time turned into space, space turned into a collection of shapes that are simultaneously solid and light, creations of another space, made of air. There is nothing terrifying in these tombs: they give the sensation of infinity and pacify the soul. The simplicity and harmony of their forms satisfy one of the most profound necessities of the spirit: the longing for order, the love of proportion. At the same time they arouse our fantasies. These monuments and gardens incite us to dream and to fly. They are magic carpets. Compare Ellora with the Taj Mahal, or the frescoes of Ajanta with Mughal miniatures. These are not distinct artistic styles, but rather two different visions of the world.

All finite things reveal infinitude: The mountain with its singular bright shade Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, The after-light upon ice-burdened pines; Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope, A scent beloved of bees; Silence of water above a sunken tree: The pure serene of memory in one man, – A ripple widening from a single stone Winding around the waters of the world.

Art You are The mystery philosophiæ The principia quotient of Music's quantum mathematics You are Unto yourself (Art) You are The rhythmic meter, compelling me To move and dance in symphony With numbers set to infinity You are Unto yourself (Art) You are The vertical measuring bar That causes my poetic heart To beat in the "now-now" time signature You are Unto yourself (Art) Excerpt from: 'Jacob's Ascent, New Collected poems by Mekael' © Mekael Shane 2019

In the word vast, the vowel a retains all the virtues of an enlarging vocal agent. Considered vocally, therefore, this word is no longer merely dimensional. Like some soft substance, it receives the balsamic powers of infinite calm. With it, we take infinity into our lungs, and through it, we breathe, cosmically, far from human anguish. Some may find these minor considerations. But no factor, however slight, should be neglected in the estimation of poetic values. And indeed, everything that contributes to giving poetry its decisive psychic action should be included in a philosophy of the dynamic imagination. Sometimes, the most varied, most delicate perceptive values relay one another, in order to dynamize and expand a poem. Long research devoted to Baudelaire's correspondences should elucidate the correspondence of each sense with the spoken word.

i long for the infinity of my childhood where everything was possible

But is it only pleading. "And if so, what is truly mine?" "I am" Her words took me by surprise, She said it so simply . Only two words, three letters, one breath, but never had a promise held more meaning. She turned to me then, and in her eyes , I saw not oblivion, but infinity, and the stars were not as bright as her smile. "Nix,” I said, and her name was a poem. She tilted her face up to the dawn; my lips met hers. She pressed close to me, and then there was no past, no future-only now. No her, no me. Only us.

Infinity of your thoughts Time does not seem to pass, As moments appear to be frozen in an unknown thought, I try hard to bypass, This eerie feeling and the war always lost yet often fought, And I wonder what is this feeling, This enigmatic state of endless time, With which I have now been for very long dealing, A state where time no longer remembers it is time, Then in this moment, Where infinity is cast in a battle with finity, Time remains suspended in an uncertain moment, Where every virtue exists except for certainty, As the war rages and both lose, Infinity retreats to its zone while finity retains its domain, And time that had been held trapped in this noose, Now attains its lost state and claims its lost domain, That spreads across infinity in the subsets of finity, Then my darling Irma, I love you infinitely, Because now there is certainty, And I want you to know, you are my only joy, my moment in time, my eternity, As time resumes its pace, I think of you in the lanes of my mind, And within it I discover our space, Where time still lies trapped, and it does not mind, This existence in a moment where infinity lies everywhere, The infinity of your feelings, your memories and your beauty, And there I lie thinking of you always somewhere, To feed the appetite of our love and its eternity, So if you ever talk to me my love, Maybe I am thinking in this corner feeding the infinity, Of your beauty and our love, To steal from time, from fate, from the Universe, our destiny, Where you lie within me, And we lie in this space of infinity, You loving me and I loving thee, Discovering the charms of your beauty, That is where my love I shall be, If you ever talk to me and you still need to find me, Walk into my mind, but tread softly for you shall be treading over infinity, Where I have spread my feelings just for thee, only thee, And as you behold me, Do not hesitate to wake me up, There in the corner of my mind where I shall always be, Kiss me and wake me up, Then let me cast you into the infinity of my mind and its thoughts, And reveal your own beauty to you, And as you wake up in the infinity of my thoughts, Allow me to cast the veil of infinity bearing your beauty and you, Then let time stop forever, Because now there shall be no need of new thoughts or new feelings, And we shall now exist forever, and forever, In infinities impenetrable ceilings, Where everything is just you and me, Nothing else, and where nothing exists, You and I lying in an eternally amorous state and what a wonder it shall be, Because now there is no identity, I am you and you are me, And both of us surrounded by eternity, In the universe where we have created our own space beyond every scalable limit, And we have become the masters of our own destiny, With nothing to include and nothing to omit, Because there is only one need, Your love for me and my love for you, And there is nothing to worry about or heed, Just your beauty and you, only you, in an endless existence where it is only you, Everywhere, here and there and even that space that time refers to as somewhere, There we lie wound on every loop of infinity, To spread with it everywhere, And believe in the beauty of our singular destiny!

Poetry to Wordsworth was the "spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings". He believed that it could not be composed under duress. It was a matter of feeling and mood. It flowed out naturally from the poet's heart. He further added that it could not be made to flow through artificially laid pipes. It is essentially a matter of expressing powerful feelings. felt in the heart and not generated in the mind. It is connected with feelings. A poet is not an ordinary man speaking to man. He thinks long and deeply. He differs from his fellowmen only in degree. He communicates his experience and communicates in such a way as to give pleasure. The function of poetry is to ennoble and edify. The poet is a teacher and through the medium of poetry he imparts moral lessons for the betterment of human life. Poetry, in this sense, is an instrument for the propagation of moral thoughts. It discovers truth-a truth not to be attained by any sort of intellectual elaboration, but by a purging of the eye, an intense and rare simplicity of outlook. Modern poetry, on the other hand, deals with new thoughts and new forms. There are the new values of modern art and its new ways. There is new vitality, for modern poetry has the rhythm of life its throb of joy, its hush of pain, its infinity of experience. The modern poet does not take us on a perpetual joy, because that gets on our nerves. Instead we are welcome to walk with him on the more human roads, stony and dismal like asphalt and tediously endless like life. This collection of poems is a colourful presentation of the various facets of life. It draws vivid pictures of the beauties of nature, men and women, joys and sorrows, life and its reflections and fun and laughter. It is confidently hoped that the reading of the poems will have a positive bearing on the minds of the young readers. They will begin to understand the full meaning of life.

No one can rob infinity. For when Something is taken, angels join their wings And close the space so rapidly it seems To be illusion; unoccurred, undone.

he no longer dreams of flight but of a fall that draws like lightning a profile of infinity

Then you enter at exact 12:45, Who are you and what's with this vibe? I stuck stood for a moment in infinity Amid a sudden stroke of serendipity.

Love exists outside of space. So fill yourself up and reach towards the outer edges. Like an undetectable extension charm. There will always be more room to spread.

I don’t think she’s really gone…’ Robert hesitates. ‘I just think we can’t see her any more.’ ‘What do you mean?’ He straightens up, then hunches forward on his knees. ‘I was reading this thing by St Augustine…’ ‘I didn’t know you’re religious.’ ‘I’m not, really. But he wrote some pretty good stuff. There’s this bit where he’s talking about time, and how it’s just an illusion.’ Ella frowns. ‘Then what are clocks doing?’ ‘They’re measuring the teeth on a cog, or the number of times a pendulum has gone back and forth…’ He looks at Ella’s frown. ‘I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. But what he’s saying is, there’s no such thing as the past or the future, just this big, eternal now.’ Ella tries to get her head around this, craning her neck so she’s looking right up through the gaps in the clouds. The stars flicker. ‘Nope, I don’t get it.’ ‘Well, he compares it to a poem…but you could imagine it like a record.’ ‘A record?’ ‘Yeah, imagine a seventy-eight.’ Ella closes her eyes and pictures the record. ‘So, you put it on the turntable and listen to the first verse of the song, then there’s a chorus, then another verse. While you’re listening to the second verse, the first verse is still there, spinning around on the record, but you’re not listening to it any more. St Augustine said that the record is like a human life, or all of human history.’ Ella thinks for a moment. The idea is starting to take shape in her head as she imagines the shiny black disc, spinning on its axis. She’s not sure if it makes sense or not, but the idea is attractive. She thinks of all the people who have gone before them, their lives still spinning through infinity like silent songs. ‘So where’s Rene, in this metaphor?’ ‘She’s like…’ Robert thinks for a moment. ‘She’s like a clarinet solo in the first verse. A beautiful solo, harmonizing with the melody. And then she stops, and she doesn’t repeat again for the rest of the song…but she’s still there, on the record.

Galaxies never say to the Sun : You are not enough! Pearl never asks the great Ocean: Why have you made me feel so small? Lovers turn to each other while never turning into each other, Their purpose is not comparison. How much space can one lover hold for the other? What kind of refined delicacy can one become in an offering? When we grow, we grow together - always greater, always brighter. Always like a pull into infinity. You are yours to love and to hold. What is the waiting for? Love and hold. Love and hold. When your heart is in growing pains, let it. Be careful of that fine line between being held and lost - Of that fine line between protecting and overpowering. Fine lines are for finer love, that like a wave foam yields gently.

Bent with infinity my soul swoops high, But body drags forever down from grace, Too far the falsely flattened star Too wild the winds of space. [poem by Mrs. Leonard]

Timelessly, that flame flickered. Unquenchable upon its undying wick. Fluctuating, pulsating, Dimming to near darkness at moments only to spark the clearer. Endlessly, that fire wickered. Ubiquitous in its guiding light. Permeating, coalescing, All-encompassing of the smallest point and grandest of spheres. Boundlessly, that blaze bickered. Ultimate in its infinite valour. Contesting, challenging, And settling with the edge of infinity, that ultimate bound severe.

Amazing beauty After a while, that seemed longer than the longest moment of time, There she stood in her shy beauty, but now in its prime, It seemed sun beams bathed her soul, To make her a true personification of beauty whole, That is as beautiful inside as it is outside, And between these facts her true personality did somewhere reside, And I wanted to locate it and end my predicament, To seek for myself a new realisation, a new sense of fulfillment, That of loving someone who exists beyond the palpable dimensions, Even beyond the known scale of human sensations, Because whenever I look at her, whether it is day or night, I wish to touch her part of beauty that FEELS differently bright, because it is always out of sight, And today when she stands right in front of me, By diving into her eyes I wish to find her true source of glee, And when I dived in them with my closed eyes but an open heart, I realised, it is beautiful feelings and pure thoughts that to her their beauty impart, Now I live in them, with them, and maybe for them too, Because only then I manage to love her invisible beauty, her reality, her beauty true, So, I have a new address of existence now, her eyes, her thoughts and her dreams, Where I lie covered in beauty’s imagination and its beautiful beams, And this moment that I have been experiencing for infinity now, Is our well preserved secret of our feelings of love!

The heist of feelings Everything appeared older than it was, Time seemed to end sooner than it should have ended, A moment that was here just now, I wondered, now where it was, It felt like a desire, that before a wish could find it, always ended, A feeling of strangeness where every sense failed to feel anything, Because time ended sooner than before, And you only felt a feeling that was made of everything but you could not feel anything, Because it led to incomplete sensations that felt, only partially, like before, They bore no true shades of complete feelings, Because before the heart could feel them time ended their reign, And being caught in this ever flowing stream of incomplete feelings, Made you a victim of this strange reign, Where time no more ruled, but something that controlled it now manifested itself, Time rushed with an unknown pace, witnessing the premature death of its every moment, It was as if time was fleeing from its own interlooping moments, and confounding itself, And a sensation that visited the heart, left before it could be felt in that climactic moment, And in this trench of strangeness everything vanished, finally to be lost forever, Every incomplete feeling struggled to witness its completion, Before it was destroyed and lost forever, And moments of time too appeared desperate to realise their own completion, But every moment of time was dissected into two halves, One that felt a feeling and the other that carried its unfelt parts, And thus every feeling, every sensation was cut into halves, One that belonged to the mind and the one that only bore heart’s parts, For a feeling that enters the heart through the mind is incomplete unless it reaches the heart, And this force somehow stole the moments of time that entered the mind, Ending them before they could meet their waiting part in the heart, And as the moment left alone in the heart ended without feeling the sensation of the mind, The trench was filled with moments of heart and moments of mind, never together, And finally time realised it could undo this continuous heist of feelings and sensations, And keep its separated moments together, It dived into this trench with infinity and retrieved all feelings and sensations, While this strange force is now riding ripples of infinity, Time has rearranged sensations and feelings and paired them with their respective moments, While the evil force is caught in the loops of infinity, Time now flows as it always used to, in the form of complete moments, Where a feeling beginning in the mind grows as a sensation in the heart, And my love Irma, that is what time should be doing forever now, Letting the thoughts of mind sink into the sensations of my heart, To be our infinity of known feelings and sensations, always as fresh as now, always like now!

Anyway! Like a memory she does not travel, She just stays in the mind of everything, A feeling that is abysmal and at the same time makes you feel well, Almost like experiencing everything but feeling nothing, But her thoughts and her memories remain intact, A love affair of a different kind maybe, Where infinity is the witness and love that lasts for eternity is the pact, There is no other way for it to exist maybe, Or it could be my predilection towards her memories, That makes everything else less preeminent, And gradually one loses interest in all worldly stories, Because her thought is still fresh and omnipresent, Like a flower that you come to admire in Summer, And you wait for the seasons to pass by, To witness this flower again in the new Summer, There, anticipating and waiting you lie, Not for the Summer, but for the flower, And how unnecessary everything else seems, Almost like a desperate lover, Whose heart often her name screams, But the yearnings of heart are silent, And no matter how much it cries or screams everyday, It has no audience, except the helpless firmament, Where it is heard, but it can't do anything to help it anyway!

You and my destiny! When was the last time I tried something for the first time? I thought about it for sometime, Then something reminded me of you, And I recalled the days spent together with you, The mornings were smooth, the days passed by without the unnecessary care, Everything seemed beautiful and fair, just because you were with me everywhere, And we did things silly and wise as well, and there were many acts we tried for the first time, I remember that, for example climbing a mountain and staring at the forest in silence as we lost every sense of time, It surely was first time, when I felt time was such an unwanted invention of the Universe, Because it loses its every existential value when two hearts learn how to converse, It was first time that I felt this when I was with you, Hearts in conversation, when everything was silent, even I, and even you, Yes, it was first time when I attempted many things for the first time, The sky looked clearer and truly blue, you stared into my eyes for hours and ah the beauty of the stillness of time, It was something I experienced first time then, but since you have left, it never happened again, Now the time is permanently still, and for me it is like the tired pendulum of the clock oscillating to and fro again and again, But nothing else except the pendulum moves, nothing else except the transition of days into nights takes place, Because everything is the same, the same days, the same nights, the same pendulum and the same place, Where nothing new happens and nothing at all for the first time happens either, Like a flower that is frozen in time, experiences no change in seasons and it hangs there in pain, longing to wither, So that new could seize its opportunity and seasons could render everything fresh, Alas it is a wish that exists forever as an imagination because time is strangely still and there is nothing alive and fresh, And when people ask me when was the last time you did something for the first time, I simply look at them, smile at their curiosity, and I tell them, well it was when I was with her, because that was a beautiful time, Where time hung as moments over everything, even our wishes and desires, And the world seemed a huge projection of our wishes and our beautiful desires. Maybe you would not understand because for you the moving pendulum represents time, But to me the spontaneous germination of feelings, the rhythmic movement of two conversing hearts is the actual signature of time, So you keep gazing at the oscillating pendulum of the clock on the wall, While I dwell with her, our memories, in the time’s eternal hall, Where it weaves moments of infinity around both of us as our hearts resume their conversation, Because two lovers are interested in destiny and not the destination!

It is not a lover's job to make sense, Lover's role is to humanize all senses. Role of animal senses is to stay contained, Role of human senses is to extend themselves. To sense the sense is nonsense, To sense nonsense is ultimate sense of all. This is possible only when you are lost, This is possible only when you are in love. All five senses are of no worth, If you don't have that one sense, the sense of love. Sense yourself till you sense nothing but love. Break yourself till each crack reflects the infinity of the heart. Each of us is an explorer of infinity, Yet we are trapped in vain by insecurity. Wake up to love and you'll see, all cages are fiction, cooked up by knee-deep sanity.

To speak a thing one can’t conceive. To live in the instant before this instant is. To feel infinities going dark for this one light along your thigh. — Christian Wiman, from “After a Lecture with my Love,” Survival is a Style: Poems (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2020)

What equals infinity?' The girl asked. The boy grabbed her hand. 'You and me.

To see a World in a Grain of Sand  And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand  And Eternity in an hour

Time and space keep me here, but I am everywhere all at once. Take me away to the infinite spaces. Let me see more light, the layers and dimensions of me. Infinity is the frozen frame exploding into infinite frames...