C ☤ 𓂀 ༀ

Wallace Stevens, ‘Credences of Summer’ VI — …The rock cannot be broken. It is the truth. It rises from land and sea and covers them. It is a mountain half way green and then, The other immeasurable half, such rock As placid air becomes. But it is not A hermit’s truth nor symbol in hermitage. It is the visible rock, the audible, The brilliant mercy of a sure repose, On this present ground, the vividest repose, Things certain sustaining us in certainty. It is the rock of summer, the extreme, A mountain luminous half way in bloom And then half way in the extremest light Of sapphires flashing from the central sky, As if twelve princes sat before a king. Dainichi Nyorai (“Great Sun Buddha”), Nara 🗻🌞

@HolisticHypnot2 💚

Najm al-Din Kubra, 13th-century Persian Sufi describes the opening of the Blue (mercury) and Green (moon) stations of Ascent, known more commonly as the Ajna and the Sahasrara; while the symbology differs the effects mentioned point to the perenial truth underlying any one system

@jmarieali 💛 ^^

✨🎶❤️‍🔥🎶✨

Coleridge, Dejection: An Ode V 💛 O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be! What, and wherein it doth exist, This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, This beautiful and beauty-making power. Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower A new Earth and new Heaven, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud— Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud— We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colours a suffusion from that light. 🖼️ From Klimt’s Beethoven Frieze, ‘The Longing for Happiness Finds Repose in Poetry’

Woke up from kissing dream

@mysticinthemoon 💜

Every one has psychic abilities. Yes, even you. While there are different degrees (and kinds) of spiritual abilities, everyone has intuition. For the most part, people’s intuition operates as a protective instinct. It is the feeling in your gut that tells you to take another route to work, or the strange dream that draws your attention to an unhealthy relationship in your life. Our Spirit is always guiding us. What differs between a mystic, or working psychic, and the average person is that the psychic lives more fully immersed in the spiritual world. This immersion happens by more direct development techniques, or by birth. After teaching psychic development for over 15 years, the biggest roadblock I encounter with beginners and veterans alike is trusting what is an actual message from Spirit, and what is their own inner voice. And, why this is so difficult is because your intuition uses your mind, or your inner world, as its tool, as its medium. In this way spiritual guidance initially sound like your own thoughts, it feels like your own emotions. Thus, Spirit most often speaks to you in your own voice, and, only once you begin to listen to, trust it, and most importantly live out its guidance, can you differentiate the voice of your angel, from that of your lower mind. No matter where you are in your life, you can develop your intuition to a finer point, and you can begin to perceive the spiritual world. Further, this development of spiritual perception is part of our evolution as human beings; it is the process in which we transform our materiality and are drawn back into the spiritual world. In this way, our ability to perceive the Holy Spirit is key in our journey to becoming like it. Finally, learning to engage consciously with the spiritual world around us is a key condition to developing the immortal body. Why? Because our immortal body is fundamentally a spiritual body, it will not exist in the material world once it is established. In this way, we are really just developing the senses and internal qualities of Spirit to reunite with it. To return to it. At its core psychic development is spiritual development, and, spiritual development is our conscious progression to immortality. I will be teaching a class September 14th at 3pm ET! It will focus on how to build a strong foundation for spiritual work, establishing and maintaining healthy attunement, and various issues regarding the professional level of psychic work. This class is great for beginners and professionals alike, however there will be an extra focus on developing a career in psychic work. gigiyoung.com/course/psychic…

🤍 “The palm at the end of the mind, Beyond the last thought, rises In the bronze decor, A gold-feathered bird Sings in the palm, without human meaning, Without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason That makes us happy or unhappy. The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.”

the psalm at the end of the mind

@Kulambq 💙

'The bells, I say, the bells break down their tower; And swing I know not where. Their tongues engrave Membrane through marrow, my long-scattered score Of broken intervals… And I, their sexton slave!' Hart Crane

…Down that stair Sometimes there's fog: opaque red droplets check The beam. Sometimes tall redwood-tendoned glades Come and go, whose dwellers came and went. Now darting feverishly anywhere, Manic duncecap its danseuse eludes, Now slowed by grief, white-lipped, Grasping the newel bone of its descent, This light can even be invisible Till a deep sparkle, regular as script, As wavelets of an EKG, defines The dreamless gulf between two shoulder blades.

All day from high within the skull— Dome of a Pantheon, trepanned light shines Into the body… James Merrill, from ‘The Instilling’

James Merrill, ‘Days of 1994’ These days in my friend’s house
Light seeks me underground. To wake
Below the level of the lawn
—Half-basement cool through the worst heat—
Is strange and sweet.
High up, three window-slots, new slants on dawn:
Through misty greens and gilts
An infant sun totters on stilts of shade
Up toward the high
Mass of interwoven boughs,
While close against the triptych panes
Rock bears witness, Dragonfly
Shivers in place
Above tall Queen Anne’s Lace—
More figures from The Book of Thel by Blake
(Lilly & Worm, Cloudlet & Clod of Clay)
And none but drinks the dewy Manna in. I shiver next, Light walking on my grave …
And sleep, and wake. This time, peer out
From just beneath the mirror of the lake
A gentle mile uphill.
Florets—the mountain laurel—float
Openmouthed, devout,
Set swaying by the wake of the flatboat: Barcarole whose chords of gloom
Draw forth the youngest, purest, faithfullest,
Cool-crystal-casketed
Hands crossed on breast,
Pre-Raphaelite face radiant—and look,
Not dead, O never dead!
To wake, to wake
Among the flaming dowels of a tomb
Below the world, the thousand things
Here risen to if not above
Before day ends:
The spectacles, the book,
Forgetful lover and forgotten love,
Cobweb hung with trophy wings,
The fading trumpet of a car,
The knowing glance from star to star,
The laughter of old friends. 🖼️ David Hockney

💙 ‘…The Chinese Mencius has not been the least successful in his generalization. "I fully understand language," he said, "and nourish well my vast-flowing vigor." — "I beg to ask what you call vast-flowing vigor?" — said his companion. "The explanation," replied Mencius, "is difficult. This vigor is supremely great, and in the highest degree unbending. Nourish it correctly, and do it no injury, and it will fill up the vacancy between heaven and earth. This vigor accords with and assists justice and reason, and leaves no hunger." — In our more correct writing, we give to this generalization the name of Being, and thereby confess that we have arrived as far as we can go. Suffice it for the joy of the universe, that we have not arrived at a wall, but at interminable oceans. Our life seems not present, so much as prospective; not for the affairs on which it is wasted, but as a hint of this vast-flowing vigor…’

Wallace Stevens, "The River of Rivers in Connecticut" #poem

@biancastone 🩵 “For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth May unwind the winding path; A mouth that has no moisture and no breath Breathless mouths may summon; I hail the superhuman; I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.”

No living man can drink from the whole wine. Yeats from All Souls Night, Epilogue to 'A Vision'

🩵 “…Unspeakable Thou Bridge to Thee, O Love. Thy pardon for this history, whitest Flower, O Answerer of all,—Anemone,— Now while thy petals spend the suns about us, hold— (O Thou whose radiance doth inherit me) Atlantis,—hold thy floating singer late! So to thine Everpresence, beyond time, Like spears ensanguined of one tolling star That bleeds infinity—the orphic strings, Sidereal phalanxes, leap and converge: —One Song, one Bridge of Fire! Is it Cathay, Now pity steeps the grass and rainbows ring The serpent with the eagle in the leaves…? Whispers antiphonal in azure swing.”

'Poetic prophecy ... is a peculiar type of perception, capable of apprehending some absolute and timeless concept of the imagination with astounding clarity and conviction.' Hart Crane

@alexgreycosm 💙

The Higher Self opens the third eye. Increasingly elevated worlds appear as we yearn Godward. Higher Self is a new painting showing how each disclosure of the visionary realm follows an ascending light. Our creative will is being pulled upward by the cosmic evolutionary force. This painting is now turned into a Textured Foil Metal Print. - UV Print on Holographic Paper - Mounted on Metal, Ready to hang - Limited Edition of 200 Collect | shop.cosm.org/products/highe…

@skywsabreadroll 🩵 open.spotify.com/track/2JH26hQt…

i’m still here btw open.spotify.com/track/7GF92haK…

Percy Shelley, from ‘The Witch of Atlas’ XXVII #MelvilleMonday 🐳 …While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece Of sandal wood, rare gums, and cinnamon; Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is — Each flame of it is as a precious stone Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this Belongs to each and all who gaze upon… Moby-Dick, ‘The Dying Whale’ — …Soothed again, but only soothed to deeper gloom, Ahab, who had sterned off from the whale, sat intently watching his final wanings from the now tranquil boat. For that strange spectacle observable in all sperm whales dying—the turning sunwards of the head, and so expiring—that strange spectacle, beheld of such a placid evening, somehow to Ahab conveyed a wondrousness unknown before. “He turns and turns him to it,—how slowly, but how steadfastly, his homage-rendering and invoking brow, with his last dying motions. He too worships fire; most faithful, broad, baronial vassal of the sun!—Oh that these too-favouring eyes should see these too-favouring sights. Look! here, far water-locked; beyond all hum of human weal or woe; in these most candid and impartial seas; where to traditions no rocks furnish tablets; where for long Chinese ages, the billows have still rolled on speechless and unspoken to, as stars that shine upon the Niger’s unknown source; here, too, life dies sunwards full of faith; but see! no sooner dead, than death whirls round the corpse, and it heads some other way. “Oh, thou dark Hindoo half of nature, who of drowned bones hast builded thy separate throne somewhere in the heart of these unverdured seas; thou art an infidel, thou queen, and too truly speakest to me in the wide-slaughtering Typhoon, and the hushed burial of its after calm. Nor has this thy whale sunwards turned his dying head, and then gone round again, without a lesson to me. “Oh, trebly hooped and welded hip of power! Oh, high aspiring, rainbowed jet!—that one strivest, this one jettest all in vain! In vain, oh whale, dost thou seek intercedings with yon all-quickening sun, that only calls forth life, but gives it not again. Yet dost thou, darker half, rock me with a prouder, if a darker faith. All thy unnamable imminglings float beneath me here; I am buoyed by breaths of once living things, exhaled as air, but water now. “Then hail, for ever hail, O sea, in whose eternal tossings the wild fowl finds his only rest. Born of earth, yet suckled by the sea; though hill and valley mothered me, ye billows are my foster-brothers!” 🖼️ NASA’s Solar Dynamics Observatory

Percy Shelley, from Queen Mab, Part VI 🪐 …Throughout these infinite orbs of mingling light, Of which yon earth is one, is wide diffus'd A Spirit of activity and life, That knows no term, cessation, or decay; That fades not when the lamp of earthly life, Extinguish'd in the dampness of the grave, Awhile there slumbers, more than when the babe In the dim newness of its being feels The impulses of sublunary things, And all is wonder to unpractis'd sense: But, active, steadfast and eternal, still Guides the fierce whirlwind, in the tempest roars, Cheers in the day, breathes in the balmy groves, Strengthens in health, and poisons in disease; And in the storm of change, that ceaselessly Rolls round the eternal universe and shakes Its undecaying battlement, presides, Apportioning with irresistible law The place each spring of its machine shall fill; So that when waves on waves tumultuous heap Confusion to the clouds, and fiercely driven Heaven's lightnings scorch the uprooted ocean-fords, Whilst, to the eye of shipwreck'd mariner, Lone sitting on the bare and shuddering rock, All seems unlink'd contingency and chance, No atom of this turbulence fulfils A vague and unnecessitated task, Or acts but as it must and ought to act. Even the minutest molecule of light, That in an April sunbeam's fleeting glow Fulfils its destin'd, though invisible work, The universal Spirit guides; nor less, When merciless ambition, or mad zeal, Has led two hosts of dupes to battlefield, That, blind, they there may dig each other's graves, And call the sad work glory, does it rule All passions: not a thought, a will, an act, No working of the tyrant's moody mind, Nor one misgiving of the slaves who boast Their servitude to hide the shame they feel, Nor the events enchaining every will, That from the depths of unrecorded time Have drawn all-influencing virtue, pass Unrecogniz'd or unforeseen by thee, Soul of the Universe! eternal spring Of life and death, of happiness and woe, Of all that chequers the phantasmal scene That floats before our eyes in wavering light, Which gleams but on the darkness of our prison, Whose chains and massy walls We feel, but cannot see. Spirit of Nature! all-sufficing Power, Necessity! thou mother of the world! Unlike the God of human error, thou Requir'st no prayers or praises; the caprice Of man's weak will belongs no more to thee Than do the changeful passions of his breast To thy unvarying harmony; the slave, Whose horrible lusts spread misery o'er the world, And the good man, who lifts with virtuous pride His being in the sight of happiness That springs from his own works; the poison-tree, Beneath whose shade all life is wither'd up, And the fair oak, whose leafy dome affords A temple where the vows of happy love Are register'd, are equal in thy sight: No love, no hate thou cherishest; revenge And favouritism, and worst desire of fame Thou know'st not: all that the wide world contains Are but thy passive instruments, and thou Regard'st them all with an impartial eye, Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot feel, Because thou hast not human sense, Because thou art not human mind. Yes! when the sweeping storm of time Has sung its death-dirge o'er the ruin'd fanes And broken altars of the almighty Fiend Whose name usurps thy honours, and the blood Through centuries clotted there has floated down The tainted flood of ages, shalt thou live Unchangeable! A shrine is rais'd to thee, Which, nor the tempest-breath of time, Nor the interminable flood Over earth's slight pageant rolling, Availeth to destroy— The sensitive extension of the world. That wondrous and eternal fane, Where pain and pleasure, good and evil join, To do the will of strong necessity, And life, in multitudinous shapes, Still pressing forward where no term can be, Like hungry and unresting flame Curls round the eternal columns of its strength. 🖼️ The Trifid and Lagoon nebulae

Percy Shelley, from ‘Epipsychidion’ 💗 …And we will talk, until thought's melody Become too sweet for utterance, and it die In words, to live again in looks, which dart With thrilling tone into the voiceless heart, Harmonizing silence without a sound. Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound, And our veins beat together; and our lips With other eloquence than words, eclipse The soul that burns between them, and the wells Which boil under our being's inmost cells, The fountains of our deepest life, shall be Confus'd in Passion's golden purity, As mountain-springs under the morning sun. We shall become the same, we shall be one Spirit within two frames, oh! wherefore two? One passion in twin-hearts, which grows and grew, Till like two meteors of expanding flame, Those spheres instinct with it become the same, Touch, mingle, are transfigur'd; ever still Burning, yet ever inconsumable: In one another's substance finding food, Like flames too pure and light and unimbu'd To nourish their bright lives with baser prey, Which point to Heaven and cannot pass away: One hope within two wills, one will beneath Two overshadowing minds, one life, one death, One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality, And one annihilation. Woe is me! The winged words on which my soul would pierce Into the height of Love's rare Universe, Are chains of lead around its flight of fire— I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire! 🖼️ François Gerard, Cupid & Psyche

@_Sophianical 🩵