Topic: From Song of Myself

[Nichi]

Trippers and askers surround me (from Song of Myself)

By Walt Whitman
(1819 - 1892)

Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

 

[Nichi]

Walt Whitman is required reading in US high schools. His importance was presented as being the "vers libre" poet extraordinaire. For the budding poets aspiring to structure, crinkled noses could ensue. I blew him off in my travels for decades, but .... In recent years, I am bowled over by his voice and passion.

[Michael]

Walt Whitman is required reading in US high schools. His importance was presented as being the "vers libre" poet extraordinaire. For the budding poets aspiring to structure, crinkled noses could ensue. I blew him off in my travels for decades, but .... In recent years, I am bowled over by his voice and passion.

but he is so counter-culture?

[Nichi]

but he is so counter-culture?

Yes, he really is, but there are layers to the onion there. 
In the 50's-60's-70's, no one was really talking about his bisexuality. And when I read him in high school, I totally didn't pick up on it, but I was a child of my naive times.

Once you understand about his bisexuality, you can go back and re-read everything in that light, if you're so inclined. (This is why it can be a detriment to know an artist's biography.) But I think in the end, aside from the occasional erotic imagery, his message is much deeper. His version of "freedom" probably is over the head of the typical American.

In a sense, with its intrinsic self-deterministic foundation, it is very American. But I think most Americans have lost the thread of even the illusion of self-determinism.

Then part of me says, "Hell, no one reads poetry anyway, heh."

[Nichi]

[6] A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands (from Song of Myself)

By Walt Whitman
(1819 - 1892)

 

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands,
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Canuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roof of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.