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兀睾賳賷丞 賳賮爻賷
賯氐賷丿丞 (兀睾賳賷丞 賳賮爻賷) 鬲賲孬賱 匕乇賵丞 賳卮賷丿 丕賱卮丕毓乇貙 賮賴賷 賯氐賷丿丞 賵丕孬賯丞 賲賳 賲囟賲賵賳賴丕. 賵賲丕 亘丿丕 賱亘毓囟 丕賱賲毓賱賯賷賳 賵丕賱賳賯丕丿 丕賱兀賵丕卅賱 毓賱賶 兀賳賴 賳賵毓 賲賳 丕賱賮賵囟賶 丕賱卮毓乇賷丞貙 兀氐亘丨 賷賳馗乇 廿賱賷賴 丕賱賷賵賲 毓賱賶 兀賳賴 亘賳賷丞 賲鬲毓賲丿丞 賵賵丕毓賷丞- 賵乇亘賲丕 賰丕賳鬲 賲孬丕賱丕賸 丨丿丕孬賷丕賸 賲亘賰乇丕賸 賱賲丕 賷丿毓賶 胤乇賷賯丞 丕賱鬲丿丕毓賷 丕賱丨乇
149 pages, Unknown Binding
First published January 1, 1856
637 people are currently reading
18.1k people want to read
About the author
Walt Whitman
1,591听books5,196听followersWalter Whitman Jr. was an American poet, essayist, and journalist. He is considered one of the most influential poets in American literature. Whitman incorporated both transcendentalism and realism in his writings and is often called the father of free verse. His work was controversial in his time, particularly his 1855 poetry collection Leaves of Grass, which was described by some as obscene for its overt sensuality.
Whitman was born in Huntington on Long Island, and lived in Brooklyn as a child and through much of his career. At the age of 11, he left formal schooling to go to work. He worked as a journalist, a teacher, and a government clerk. Whitman's major poetry collection, Leaves of Grass, first published in 1855, was financed with his own money and became well known. The work was an attempt to reach out to the common person with an American epic. Whitman continued expanding and revising Leaves of Grass until his death in 1892.
During the American Civil War, he went to Washington, D.C., and worked in hospitals caring for the wounded. His poetry often focused on both loss and healing. On the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, whom Whitman greatly admired, he authored two poems, "O Captain! My Captain!" and "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd", and gave a series of lectures on Lincoln. After suffering a stroke towards the end of his life, Whitman moved to Camden, New Jersey, where his health further declined. When he died at the age of 72, his funeral was a public event.
Whitman's influence on poetry remains strong. Art historian Mary Berenson wrote, "You cannot really understand America without Walt Whitman, without Leaves of Grass... He has expressed that civilization, 'up to date,' as he would say, and no student of the philosophy of history can do without him." Modernist poet Ezra Pound called Whitman "America's poet... He is America."
Whitman was born in Huntington on Long Island, and lived in Brooklyn as a child and through much of his career. At the age of 11, he left formal schooling to go to work. He worked as a journalist, a teacher, and a government clerk. Whitman's major poetry collection, Leaves of Grass, first published in 1855, was financed with his own money and became well known. The work was an attempt to reach out to the common person with an American epic. Whitman continued expanding and revising Leaves of Grass until his death in 1892.
During the American Civil War, he went to Washington, D.C., and worked in hospitals caring for the wounded. His poetry often focused on both loss and healing. On the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, whom Whitman greatly admired, he authored two poems, "O Captain! My Captain!" and "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd", and gave a series of lectures on Lincoln. After suffering a stroke towards the end of his life, Whitman moved to Camden, New Jersey, where his health further declined. When he died at the age of 72, his funeral was a public event.
Whitman's influence on poetry remains strong. Art historian Mary Berenson wrote, "You cannot really understand America without Walt Whitman, without Leaves of Grass... He has expressed that civilization, 'up to date,' as he would say, and no student of the philosophy of history can do without him." Modernist poet Ezra Pound called Whitman "America's poet... He is America."
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 815 reviews
October 16, 2020
Truly remarkable. An ode to humanity.
October 13, 2024
Song of Myself is the song to all humanity represented in Progress entering a new life in the United States. Whitman, an American poet and contemporary of Poe and Emerson, participated in the Civil War and became a great reference to the future of his country and the world.
New styles and ways of life were associated with the nascent democracy in his homeland. Showing off his extreme sensitivity, he gave us this literary gem in free verse (a find for the time). He even claimed his authorship in the use of this new literary gadget.
New styles and ways of life were associated with the nascent democracy in his homeland. Showing off his extreme sensitivity, he gave us this literary gem in free verse (a find for the time). He even claimed his authorship in the use of this new literary gadget.
January 25, 2025
Facile and arrogant blowhard or thoroughgoing genius of conveying human experience, I don鈥檛 much care. Walt Whitman crafted some of the most pivotal poetry in history. Whether it was all for what we now call clout or an outpouring of praise for humanity in all of its messy contradictions, Song of Myself intones clamorously and everlasting.
Whitman wrote pseudonymous reviews of his own work and, honestly, respect for the hustle. A man cannot be faulted for being a little obnoxious in trying to make a name for himself if he puts in the effort and believes in what he is doing. (This is not a veiled confession. I would undoubtedly fall to scathing myself in such an attempt).
Whitman wrote pseudonymous reviews of his own work and, honestly, respect for the hustle. A man cannot be faulted for being a little obnoxious in trying to make a name for himself if he puts in the effort and believes in what he is doing. (This is not a veiled confession. I would undoubtedly fall to scathing myself in such an attempt).
May 3, 2021
Walt Whitman鈥檚 poem, which would eventually become 鈥淪ong of Myself,鈥� had no title in the 1855, first edition of Leaves of Grass. In the 1856 edition, it was 鈥淎 Poem of Walt Whitman, an American.鈥� In 1860, the title changed to 鈥淲alt Whitman.鈥� It wasn鈥檛 until 1871 that Whitman changed the title to 鈥淪ong of Myself.鈥� Along with the changes in title were changes made over the course of time to the poem itself.
Whitman鈥檚 鈥淚鈥� is a spectator, a commentator of what he sees, seeing them all, rich, poor, black, white, all religions, all races, all the good and the bad, revealing them all, and then moving on.
In the early part of this poem, Whitman shows the reader how the physical self, the 鈥淚,鈥� encompasses the universe and also is interchangeable with the universe. How every element in nature is in us, and when we have no further use of our bodies they return to the earth to once again be a part of the universe. We are all part of this cycle, and therefore equal. Grass, the ultimate symbol of democracy.
There鈥檚 more, there鈥檚 so much more. But, for me, this time it was the predominant 鈥渢ake-away.鈥� The commentary of the poem is broken down by section, with a Critical Commentary followed by an Afterword. These are both elucidating. The Commentary focusing on 鈥渢ranslating鈥� the section, and the Afterword occasionally sharing a life experience that sheds more light on the section.
My grandfather figures predominantly in my love of poetry, and more specifically in the love of Whitman鈥檚 poetry. As a child, I sat beside him as he wrote his own poems, line by line, asking this much younger version of me what words I thought he should use. Including me in the process. When he wasn鈥檛 writing, or we weren鈥檛 polishing the pews or some such thing, he was reading poetry to me. In this case, I remember a lot of it discovered under his loving eye as he broke this down, line by line, first asking, and then helping me discover what this poem was about. For him, the equality of all men was the paramount message. My grandfather was poor, growing up in rural West Virginia in a house his father had lovingly built with his own hands. His parents had lived on his grandfather鈥檚 farm when they were first married, but moved to 鈥渢own鈥� in 1902 when Salem College was being built nearby, they wanted a college education for themselves and their children.
I had started reading another book around the same time, Rick Bragg鈥檚 鈥淎ll Over But the Shoutin,鈥欌€� and then a day or so later, I began in small bits reading 鈥淭he Fire This Time: A New Generation Speaks鈥� by Jesmyn Ward. It made for an interesting combination, from the 1850s to now, words, ideas and ideals shared by Whitman. Bragg, echoing the same thoughts throughout his memoir. Ward, one of today鈥檚 authors, asking the same questions.
Whitman鈥檚 celebration of the self includes everyone, regardless of race, morality, identity, religion, sexual orientation, or social standing.
To paraphrase the last line of an old Peter, Paul & Mary / Pete Seeger song: When will we ever learn?
Published: 15 October 2016
Many thanks to University of Iowa Press (The Iowa Whitman Series), NetGalley, and to Ed Folsom and Christopher Merrill.
March 9, 2016
Well, one thing I gathered from this poem is that Walt Whitman loves himself, and he loves America. To his mind, America is everything; it is freedom; it is democracy; it is happiness, and, again, according to him, it is the most poetic place on Earth. Through this he is trying to establish a unified America, and a mind-set that is distinctively American. After the civil war he wanted the nation to identify themselves with these ideals and to break from the past, as seen by his personal breaking of the rules of regular metre, form and rhyme. His poetry is an individual statement that stands against the poetry that came before it. He wanted perpetual peace and friendship with his American brothers, so he tried to create a unified vision of a perfect America through poetry. You can鈥檛 blame him for trying.
The poem is incredibly liberal for the time. Whitman establishes his voice against slavery, and attests that all men are equal; he further argues that men and women are the same. Poetry can be enjoyed by both, his attempt is aimed at both sexes; therefore, they are equal in everything. This is his personal message, and he is trying to spread it through these verses. It is clearly his intent for this to blossom and grow; thus, being permanently established in the American psyche. Though, that being said, not everyone thinks the same. Not everybody appreciated Whitman鈥檚 ideas at the time. Then there is the entire separate issue of homoeroticism within his verse; he just seems to have eroticised the working man, but not the woman.
I am the poet of slaves and of the masters of slaves
I am the poet of the body
And I am
I am the poet of the body
And I am the poet of the soul
I go with the slaves of the earth equally with the masters
And I will stand between the masters and the slaves,
Entering into both so that both shall understand me alike
I am the poet of Strength and Hope
This was quite interesting to read, but part of me feels like I have to be American to fully appreciate it. Whitman addresses an American audience, and if you鈥檙e not American, some of its affect is lost. He is trying to establish a bond of unity and, again, if you鈥檙e not part of that bond; its message goes a little over your head. I also think his ideas regarding religion are a little na茂ve. He spurns prayer and reverence of a higher entity; he almost characterises himself as a prophet, which is incredibly arrogant and annoying as well. Whilst I appreciate this work, and its literary merit, this is not a writer I鈥檇 choose to explore further.
The poem is incredibly liberal for the time. Whitman establishes his voice against slavery, and attests that all men are equal; he further argues that men and women are the same. Poetry can be enjoyed by both, his attempt is aimed at both sexes; therefore, they are equal in everything. This is his personal message, and he is trying to spread it through these verses. It is clearly his intent for this to blossom and grow; thus, being permanently established in the American psyche. Though, that being said, not everyone thinks the same. Not everybody appreciated Whitman鈥檚 ideas at the time. Then there is the entire separate issue of homoeroticism within his verse; he just seems to have eroticised the working man, but not the woman.
I am the poet of slaves and of the masters of slaves
I am the poet of the body
And I am
I am the poet of the body
And I am the poet of the soul
I go with the slaves of the earth equally with the masters
And I will stand between the masters and the slaves,
Entering into both so that both shall understand me alike
I am the poet of Strength and Hope
This was quite interesting to read, but part of me feels like I have to be American to fully appreciate it. Whitman addresses an American audience, and if you鈥檙e not American, some of its affect is lost. He is trying to establish a bond of unity and, again, if you鈥檙e not part of that bond; its message goes a little over your head. I also think his ideas regarding religion are a little na茂ve. He spurns prayer and reverence of a higher entity; he almost characterises himself as a prophet, which is incredibly arrogant and annoying as well. Whilst I appreciate this work, and its literary merit, this is not a writer I鈥檇 choose to explore further.
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February 11, 2021
鈥淵ou mean you're comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but freedom within it? Yes. Mrs. Whatsit said. You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you.鈥�
鈥� Madeleine L'Engle,
Take one:
Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?
Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has.
Do you take it I would astonish?
Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering through the woods?
Do I astonish more than they?
This hour I tell things in confidence,
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.
Or,
I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into new tongue.
I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.
I chant the chant of dilation or pride,
We have had ducking or deprecating about enough,
I show that size is only development.
Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?
It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on.
I better stop before I write down the entire book in quotes. Fabulous as it is, it still has more nagging questions than the most. I read it the first time around 15, still a lavish and luscious treat for the day. I will read and reread even on my deathbed (if possible).
鈥� Madeleine L'Engle,
Take one:
Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?
Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has.
Do you take it I would astonish?
Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering through the woods?
Do I astonish more than they?
This hour I tell things in confidence,
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.
Or,
I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into new tongue.
I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.
I chant the chant of dilation or pride,
We have had ducking or deprecating about enough,
I show that size is only development.
Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?
It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on.
I better stop before I write down the entire book in quotes. Fabulous as it is, it still has more nagging questions than the most. I read it the first time around 15, still a lavish and luscious treat for the day. I will read and reread even on my deathbed (if possible).
November 27, 2016
鈥淟et your soul stand cool and composed
before a million universes.鈥�
鈥� Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
There are some books that are just MEANT to be illustrated. Where the poem seems part of the earth. Part of the poet. Part of the sky and the stars!
This book feels good. The binding is tight. The pages are thick. Even the cover contains multitudes. It is beautiful and rough. I rub it against my chin and it calms me. But wait. I haven't even opened the book yet.
I see Whitman as a Giant American; a giant American sphinx. Composed with grass. Posed with grass. Posed. Winged. Ready to fly.
I start to flip through pages. The pages seem to grab each other in prayer. Or perhaps, they hide. They seem to want you, dear reader, to peal them apart and slip your finger's gaze into their pretty jaws.
Some drawings are modern. Some pages full of words and others seem to float with simple lines, spare words, in a space that is made for both the visual, the sound, and the tap tap tap of the verse, the heartbeat of the sky.
Other pages seem crowned, like a womb at 40 weeks. Ready to burst with life and words. Your eyes start to play with you. You see the pictures dance. You keep reading the same lines again and again. Lost in a sea of beauty, an ocean of vitality, an amniotic sac of life.
This is one of those books that allows you to flit and fly from page to page; sink into the folds or fly back into your chair or bed. It almost feels like a drug. You, lovely reader, are lifted from the folio to your own dreams. You are possessed by your own images.
Sometimes it even gets to be too much. You pull back. It isn't a bad trip. It is just too rich. A chocolate that demands a pause, a honey that ambers in the cold. You, sweet book nerd, need time to drink it. You need time to absorb the poem and the visuals.
After you finish it, you end up spending more money on the illustrated by Matt Kish but you don't stop there. You also spend a bunch of money buying a hardcover version of Matt Kish's amazing .
How will you explain these charges to your wife, crazy, compulsive book buyer? The $18.45 for Heart of Darkness she will understand, but you just spent over $200 for a 1st edition Matt Kish Moby-Dick. What whale are you hunting now?
You did it. Didn't you? Don't deny now. You have gone too far to stop. You are already down the rabbit hole. You also bought Zak Smith's ? Don't you feel smug? Yes, you spent less on this than the Moby-Dick, but ye gads son -- you have children to rear, to feed, to send to college. Thank God, gods, mothers and all that is HOLY you don't drink, or they would be writing about your yak purchase.
Go to bed. Sleep tight. Dream of spiders, bats, whales, and rivers; dream of poets, writers dead and writers hiding. Dream of art and fiction and the artists who dream big, draw daily, and produce such charming fetishes to your favorite books.
before a million universes.鈥�
鈥� Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
There are some books that are just MEANT to be illustrated. Where the poem seems part of the earth. Part of the poet. Part of the sky and the stars!
This book feels good. The binding is tight. The pages are thick. Even the cover contains multitudes. It is beautiful and rough. I rub it against my chin and it calms me. But wait. I haven't even opened the book yet.
I see Whitman as a Giant American; a giant American sphinx. Composed with grass. Posed with grass. Posed. Winged. Ready to fly.
I start to flip through pages. The pages seem to grab each other in prayer. Or perhaps, they hide. They seem to want you, dear reader, to peal them apart and slip your finger's gaze into their pretty jaws.
Some drawings are modern. Some pages full of words and others seem to float with simple lines, spare words, in a space that is made for both the visual, the sound, and the tap tap tap of the verse, the heartbeat of the sky.
Other pages seem crowned, like a womb at 40 weeks. Ready to burst with life and words. Your eyes start to play with you. You see the pictures dance. You keep reading the same lines again and again. Lost in a sea of beauty, an ocean of vitality, an amniotic sac of life.
This is one of those books that allows you to flit and fly from page to page; sink into the folds or fly back into your chair or bed. It almost feels like a drug. You, lovely reader, are lifted from the folio to your own dreams. You are possessed by your own images.
Sometimes it even gets to be too much. You pull back. It isn't a bad trip. It is just too rich. A chocolate that demands a pause, a honey that ambers in the cold. You, sweet book nerd, need time to drink it. You need time to absorb the poem and the visuals.
After you finish it, you end up spending more money on the illustrated by Matt Kish but you don't stop there. You also spend a bunch of money buying a hardcover version of Matt Kish's amazing .
How will you explain these charges to your wife, crazy, compulsive book buyer? The $18.45 for Heart of Darkness she will understand, but you just spent over $200 for a 1st edition Matt Kish Moby-Dick. What whale are you hunting now?
You did it. Didn't you? Don't deny now. You have gone too far to stop. You are already down the rabbit hole. You also bought Zak Smith's ? Don't you feel smug? Yes, you spent less on this than the Moby-Dick, but ye gads son -- you have children to rear, to feed, to send to college. Thank God, gods, mothers and all that is HOLY you don't drink, or they would be writing about your yak purchase.
Go to bed. Sleep tight. Dream of spiders, bats, whales, and rivers; dream of poets, writers dead and writers hiding. Dream of art and fiction and the artists who dream big, draw daily, and produce such charming fetishes to your favorite books.
February 23, 2020
"I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue.
I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.
I chant the chant of dilation or pride,
We have had ducking and deprecating about enough,
I show that size is only development.
Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?
It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on.
I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.
Press close bare-bosom鈥檇 night鈥攑ress close magnetic nourishing night!
Night of south winds鈥攏ight of the large few stars!
Still nodding night鈥攎ad naked summer night.
Smile O voluptuous cool-breath鈥檇 earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset鈥攅arth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow鈥檇 earth鈥攔ich apple-blossom鈥檇 earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.
Prodigal, you have given me love鈥攖herefore I to you give love!
O unspeakable passionate love."
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue.
I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.
I chant the chant of dilation or pride,
We have had ducking and deprecating about enough,
I show that size is only development.
Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?
It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on.
I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.
Press close bare-bosom鈥檇 night鈥攑ress close magnetic nourishing night!
Night of south winds鈥攏ight of the large few stars!
Still nodding night鈥攎ad naked summer night.
Smile O voluptuous cool-breath鈥檇 earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset鈥攅arth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow鈥檇 earth鈥攔ich apple-blossom鈥檇 earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.
Prodigal, you have given me love鈥攖herefore I to you give love!
O unspeakable passionate love."
January 26, 2018
Okay. This is a good start. I don't know if I'll ever read . I wish to, but something tells me I won't be doing that any time soon. However, I liked this poem. There's so much optimism in here that I thought I could never relate to it. And I was right... Still, I enjoyed reading this. I mean, he lost me during some verses, but after a couple of seconds and a sip of coffee, I was ready to keep going; there are a lot of beautiful lines waiting to be appreciated.
Multitudes!
Note to self: Read a bit more about transcendentalism in order to fully understand this.
Feb 09, 14
* Also on .
I think I could turn and live with animals, they're so placid
and self-contain'd,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of
owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands
of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
*
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
Multitudes!
Note to self: Read a bit more about transcendentalism in order to fully understand this.
Feb 09, 14
* Also on .
March 3, 2009
The first six sections of Walt Whitman's Song of Myself present a myriad of issues both in subject matter and style. Reading these sections is a very different experience from reading a sonnet or even blank verse. Whitman's form was revolutionary when it arrived on the literary scene, and it continues to be distinctive. To some, Whitman's form is the essence of his art, and part of what makes Song of Myself so accessible and so entrancing. But to others it seems mere sloppiness 鈥� Whitman's lines follow no particular rhyme scheme, beat count, or structure. My alliances lie with the former camp; it seems that Whitman's form only adds to the beauty of his work. Not only are his ideas and images amazing and new, but the way it must be read is unconventional; in fact, even the way it looks on the page is distinct. Whitman's thoughts flow smoothly from his mind to the paper; there is no stuffiness or sensation of a forced meter.
The particularly fine aspects of Song of Myself are the images and concepts Whitman utilizes. Whitman's Song of Myself operates on a new level, with a new method, and he wants us to know it. He wasn't afraid to throw conventional poetic expectations out the window. It is, in fact, intimidating to look at the pages of Song of Myself; lines are irregularly spaced, there is no clear poetic form, and his verse paragraphs are arranged differently from page to page. The subject matter, too, is sometimes surprising. It takes effort to appreciate the beauty of Whitman's technique and to interpret the depth of his images.
While the broadly accepted impression of Whitman is the grandfatherly bearded man we so often see pictured, it is important to remember that the original edition of Leaves of Grass which contained Song of Myself featured a photo of an attractive young Whitman staring haughtily back at his readers, head cocked, hand on his hip. He is not a man talking just about the grass and plant life parts of nature, but the whole gamut of events from life to death, including sexuality.
Whitman's entire work is sensual in nature, but at parts it veers towards overt sexuality. There is one part in particular that is beautiful, but also rather scandalous in its depiction of what I assume to be homosexual fellatio:
I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet (90).
The image of the 鈥渉ead athwart my hips鈥� and the diction 鈥済ently鈥�, 鈥減arted鈥�, 鈥減lunged鈥� and 鈥渂are-stript鈥� creates a sensation of gentle but erotic caresses. However, it is also possibly to somewhat 鈥渟kim over鈥� the passage and simply think of it as metaphorical or to not even analyze it at all. Missing this passage doesn't necessarily damage the work as a whole. Surely there are many readers who never have and never want to see the sexuality of the passage. It is certainly intriguing to see an author who is so open about the sexuality that is indeed innate to human life, but at the same time inappropriate to discuss in 鈥減roper society鈥�. Whitman's attitude of authority regarding life and death seems more convincing because he is willing to take on the issue of sex. Honestly, how would life and death exist if sex did not? By addressing reality, Whitman draws the reader in further; the poem seems to true and so honest.
Whitman's song became, in parts, my song too. I felt connected to the earth and to other people, and I felt an intellectual connection with Whitman himself. Ultimately, this seems to be the point of Leaves of Grass, as we are informed in the very first stanza: 鈥淎nd what I shall assume you shall assume,/ For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you鈥� (2). Captured within the poem is the wide eyed wonder of childhood, an attempt to grasp death, and of course the many sensual aspects of life. Whitman's combination of the beauty of life and the utter unidentifiable nature of death helped me better understand my own life. His writing encompasses the degree to which we all live, all the while trying not to dwell upon our demise. We will all die, but no one can know when. In this way, we are all connected. The following stanza presents this idea quite concisely when one considers how complex the subject matter is:
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death. (188)
In the last line of the above section Whitman asks us to consider the nature of life and death and the inevitability of our own demise. Yet his outlook is not bleak; he wishes to live until he dies, which is all we can really do. What is the point of thinking about dying when we have our lives stretching indefinitely before us? We all hope to live until we die, but perhaps never verbalize it or put the sensation into concrete terms. Were we not to live as best we could, the world would sink into Nihilism, and the beauty of small things such as fresh green grass and the smell of perfume would be wasted and lost.
The combination of imagery: the grass growing from the bodies of the dead and the children plucking the grass in wonder, lets us remember that there is a circle of life and the world is still amazing, even when it seems impossibly bleak; even when someone close to us has died. We all die, but first we have to live. And if we can remember the wide eyed wonderment of childhood and the fact that we are connected even through something as tiny as a blade of grass, maybe the life we are given can be as enjoyable as the picture Whitman portrays. The grass is new life, but its roots lie in the decaying skulls of our past. Yet a child can pluck the blades and see only beauty, not the death that, in reality, lies behind the appearance of new growth.
The particularly fine aspects of Song of Myself are the images and concepts Whitman utilizes. Whitman's Song of Myself operates on a new level, with a new method, and he wants us to know it. He wasn't afraid to throw conventional poetic expectations out the window. It is, in fact, intimidating to look at the pages of Song of Myself; lines are irregularly spaced, there is no clear poetic form, and his verse paragraphs are arranged differently from page to page. The subject matter, too, is sometimes surprising. It takes effort to appreciate the beauty of Whitman's technique and to interpret the depth of his images.
While the broadly accepted impression of Whitman is the grandfatherly bearded man we so often see pictured, it is important to remember that the original edition of Leaves of Grass which contained Song of Myself featured a photo of an attractive young Whitman staring haughtily back at his readers, head cocked, hand on his hip. He is not a man talking just about the grass and plant life parts of nature, but the whole gamut of events from life to death, including sexuality.
Whitman's entire work is sensual in nature, but at parts it veers towards overt sexuality. There is one part in particular that is beautiful, but also rather scandalous in its depiction of what I assume to be homosexual fellatio:
I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet (90).
The image of the 鈥渉ead athwart my hips鈥� and the diction 鈥済ently鈥�, 鈥減arted鈥�, 鈥減lunged鈥� and 鈥渂are-stript鈥� creates a sensation of gentle but erotic caresses. However, it is also possibly to somewhat 鈥渟kim over鈥� the passage and simply think of it as metaphorical or to not even analyze it at all. Missing this passage doesn't necessarily damage the work as a whole. Surely there are many readers who never have and never want to see the sexuality of the passage. It is certainly intriguing to see an author who is so open about the sexuality that is indeed innate to human life, but at the same time inappropriate to discuss in 鈥減roper society鈥�. Whitman's attitude of authority regarding life and death seems more convincing because he is willing to take on the issue of sex. Honestly, how would life and death exist if sex did not? By addressing reality, Whitman draws the reader in further; the poem seems to true and so honest.
Whitman's song became, in parts, my song too. I felt connected to the earth and to other people, and I felt an intellectual connection with Whitman himself. Ultimately, this seems to be the point of Leaves of Grass, as we are informed in the very first stanza: 鈥淎nd what I shall assume you shall assume,/ For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you鈥� (2). Captured within the poem is the wide eyed wonder of childhood, an attempt to grasp death, and of course the many sensual aspects of life. Whitman's combination of the beauty of life and the utter unidentifiable nature of death helped me better understand my own life. His writing encompasses the degree to which we all live, all the while trying not to dwell upon our demise. We will all die, but no one can know when. In this way, we are all connected. The following stanza presents this idea quite concisely when one considers how complex the subject matter is:
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death. (188)
In the last line of the above section Whitman asks us to consider the nature of life and death and the inevitability of our own demise. Yet his outlook is not bleak; he wishes to live until he dies, which is all we can really do. What is the point of thinking about dying when we have our lives stretching indefinitely before us? We all hope to live until we die, but perhaps never verbalize it or put the sensation into concrete terms. Were we not to live as best we could, the world would sink into Nihilism, and the beauty of small things such as fresh green grass and the smell of perfume would be wasted and lost.
The combination of imagery: the grass growing from the bodies of the dead and the children plucking the grass in wonder, lets us remember that there is a circle of life and the world is still amazing, even when it seems impossibly bleak; even when someone close to us has died. We all die, but first we have to live. And if we can remember the wide eyed wonderment of childhood and the fact that we are connected even through something as tiny as a blade of grass, maybe the life we are given can be as enjoyable as the picture Whitman portrays. The grass is new life, but its roots lie in the decaying skulls of our past. Yet a child can pluck the blades and see only beauty, not the death that, in reality, lies behind the appearance of new growth.
April 26, 2016
Description: Orson Welles read Whitman's trailblazing poem for the BBC Third Programme in 1953. In a new landmark reading of the poem, Welles' voice is interwoven with readings from a small cast of acclaimed actors - Michael Sheen, Clarke Peters, Julianna Jennings, Kyle Soller and Eleanor Bron. With an introduction from poet, Mark Doty.
Reader Orson Welles
Writer Walt Whitman
Reader Michael Sheen
Reader Julianna Jennings
Reader Kyle Soller
Reader Clarke Peters
Reader Mark Doty
December 3, 2020
Me acerqu茅 a Whitman buscando un poeta y encontr茅 un cham谩n, un sacerdote, un gur煤. Sus poemas me han impresionado e inspirado much铆simo. No solo me parecen de una belleza extrema, sino que me sorprenden por ser absurdamente modernos. Me resulta muy dif铆cil imaginar a alguien del siglo XIX hablando con esa pasi贸n desbordada, escribiendo con esa delicadeza tan sutil unas veces y tan aplastante otras. No todos los poemas son para m铆 (los religiosos y los b茅licos me interesan mucho menos), pero he disfrutado mucho de este poemario aunque la edici贸n deje bastante que desear.
Sabia que en Whitman podr铆a encontrar alg煤n ramalazo de su amor por los hombres, pero esperaba pistas sueltas y no un homoerotismo tan incuestionable, hermoso y po茅tico. Me ha sorprendido una barbaridad.
He viajado con Walt por bosques salvajes, hemos recorrido tejados de ciudades en construcci贸n, hemos visto con los ojos de un p谩jaro un pa铆s en expansi贸n, hemos bebido con sus trabajadores y sus artesanos, y he mirado en el interior del alma del poeta como si mirada en la m铆a.
Menudo viaje, menudo viaje.
Sabia que en Whitman podr铆a encontrar alg煤n ramalazo de su amor por los hombres, pero esperaba pistas sueltas y no un homoerotismo tan incuestionable, hermoso y po茅tico. Me ha sorprendido una barbaridad.
He viajado con Walt por bosques salvajes, hemos recorrido tejados de ciudades en construcci贸n, hemos visto con los ojos de un p谩jaro un pa铆s en expansi贸n, hemos bebido con sus trabajadores y sus artesanos, y he mirado en el interior del alma del poeta como si mirada en la m铆a.
Menudo viaje, menudo viaje.
January 22, 2020
Poco hay que decir. Whitman en toda su expresi贸n: pura energ铆a natural.
April 27, 2012
I read this a few months ago, but I just wanted to add this to comment on 欧宝娱乐's lack of poetry section. I know that poetry has to be published in a specific volume, but most people read poetry selectively, not in its entirety (This poem took me two days to read. God knows how long Leaves of Grass would have taken). And reviewing an entire volume of poetry seems absurd when there is so much substance in just one poem. Basically, I would just like to talk about one poem instead of an entire collection.
On this particular poem, let's just say I didn't know Whitman until I read this. I've read a few of his poems, "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry", "A Noiseless Patient Spider," "Facing West from California's Shore," "O Captain! My Captain!" and other poems. But none of his shorter verses compare to "Song of Myself." It really revealed to me the essence of Whitman as a poet and what his purpose was, setting out to become the American Bard. And you don't really see how long his lines are until you read this...they are long. The entire poem is 40-50 pages. Poetry with no rhyme, meter, or form. Whitman challenged the rules of poetry with "Song of Myself."
The subject of his poetry also reacted against the lofty ideas of Victorian poetry. Instead, he reaches out to the American middle class with the topic of America. Others might argue that America itself is a lofty topic, but the landscape Whitman creates in his poem is grounded on the middle class America working, hammering, picking, writing in harmony. It really is beautiful.
And there are so many great lines in this poem. So quotable. I was actually prompted to write this review because my American lit professor randomly quoted one of my favorite lines, "I am large, I contain multitudes."
No one understands Whitman until they read "Song of Myself." Although America isn't praised for its poetry, Whitman comes close to the "American Bard" Emerson was calling for.
On this particular poem, let's just say I didn't know Whitman until I read this. I've read a few of his poems, "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry", "A Noiseless Patient Spider," "Facing West from California's Shore," "O Captain! My Captain!" and other poems. But none of his shorter verses compare to "Song of Myself." It really revealed to me the essence of Whitman as a poet and what his purpose was, setting out to become the American Bard. And you don't really see how long his lines are until you read this...they are long. The entire poem is 40-50 pages. Poetry with no rhyme, meter, or form. Whitman challenged the rules of poetry with "Song of Myself."
The subject of his poetry also reacted against the lofty ideas of Victorian poetry. Instead, he reaches out to the American middle class with the topic of America. Others might argue that America itself is a lofty topic, but the landscape Whitman creates in his poem is grounded on the middle class America working, hammering, picking, writing in harmony. It really is beautiful.
And there are so many great lines in this poem. So quotable. I was actually prompted to write this review because my American lit professor randomly quoted one of my favorite lines, "I am large, I contain multitudes."
No one understands Whitman until they read "Song of Myself." Although America isn't praised for its poetry, Whitman comes close to the "American Bard" Emerson was calling for.
June 12, 2014
There is no denying that this is a gorgeous book, each two-page monochrome spread lovingly and inventively drawn. You never know what the next page will bring. However, for someone brand new to Whitman, it just doesn鈥檛 work as a way of reading 鈥淪ong of Myself.鈥� Words loop around the page, skirting the illustrations in unpredictable patterns, so that it is very difficult to follow the poem鈥檚 flow. I gave up after one-third because I didn鈥檛 feel like I was actually reading Whitman. I need to get out my paperback copy of the collected poems instead. For established fans who know the poem well, however, this intricate book will be an absolute treasure.
May 1, 2016
From BBC Radio 3 - Drama on 3:
Orson Welles read Whitman's trailblazing poem for the BBC Third Programme in 1953. In a new landmark reading of the poem, Welles' voice is interwoven with readings from a small cast of acclaimed actors - Michael Sheen, Clarke Peters, Julianna Jennings, Kyle Soller and Eleanor Bron. With an introduction from poet, Mark Doty.
Produced by Emma Harding.
Orson Welles read Whitman's trailblazing poem for the BBC Third Programme in 1953. In a new landmark reading of the poem, Welles' voice is interwoven with readings from a small cast of acclaimed actors - Michael Sheen, Clarke Peters, Julianna Jennings, Kyle Soller and Eleanor Bron. With an introduction from poet, Mark Doty.
Produced by Emma Harding.
July 13, 2016
E o mundo 脿 nossa volta fez-se poesia e m煤sica. Pelas m茫os encantadas de Walt Whitman.
"J谩 disse que a alma n茫o 茅 mais do que o corpo,
E disse que o corpo n茫o 茅 mais do que a alma,
E nada, nem Deus, 茅 maior para uma pessoa que ela pr贸pria,
E quem caminha duzentos metros sem amar caminha amortalhado para o seu pr贸prio funeral,
E eu ou tu que n茫o possu铆mos um centavo podemos comprar o melhor que a Terra cont茅m,
E olhar com um s贸 olho ou mostrar um feij茫o na sua vagem desconcerta
a aprendizagem de todos os tempos,
E n茫o h谩 of铆cio ou emprego em que um jovem n茫o se possa converter em her贸i,
E n茫o h谩 delicado objecto que possa servir de eixo 脿s rodas do universo,
E digo a todos os homens e mulheres: que a tua alma permane莽a serena e tranquila ante um milh茫o de universos.
E digo 脿 humanidade: n茫o sintas curiosidade por Deus,
(N茫o h谩 palavras que possam definir a paz que sinto em rela莽茫o a Deus e 脿 morte).
Escuto e comtemplo Deus em cada objecto, ainda que n茫o O entenda minimamente,
Nem entenda que possa existir algu茅m mais maravilhoso do que eu pr贸prio.
Porque 茅 que desejaria ver Deus melhor do que este dia?
Vejo algo de Deus em cada uma das vinte e quatro horas, e vejo-o em cada momento que passa,
Vejo Deus no rosto de homens e mulheres e no meu pr贸prio rosto ao espelho,
Encontro cartas de Deus espalhadas pela rua, todas assinadas com o seu nome,
E deixo-as onde est茫o pois sei que v谩 para onde for,
Chegar茫o sempre outras pontualmente."
N茫o est谩 neste livro mas n茫o resisto, afinal foi o poema que me levou a Whitman- j谩 toda a gente sabe; do velhinho "O Clube dos Poetas Mortos"
脫 Capit茫o! meu Capit茫o!
Ergue-te ao dobre dos sinos; Por ti se agita o pend茫o e os clarins tocam teus hinos.
Por ti buqu锚s, guirlandas...
Multid玫es as praias lotam,
Teu nome 茅 o que elas clamam; para ti os olhos voltam,
Capit茫o, querido pai, Dormes no bra莽o macio...
脡 meu sonho que ao conv茅s Vais ca铆do, morto e frio.
Ah! meu Capit茫o n茫o fala, foi do l谩bio o sopro expulso,
Meu calor meu pai n茫o sente, j谩 n茫o tem vontade ou pulso.
Da nau ancorada e ilesa, a jornada 茅 conclu铆da.
E l谩 vem ela em triunfo da viagem antes temida.
Povo, exulta! Sino, dobra! Mas meu passo 茅 t茫o sombrio...
No conv茅s meu Capit茫o Vai ca铆do, morto e frio.
"J谩 disse que a alma n茫o 茅 mais do que o corpo,
E disse que o corpo n茫o 茅 mais do que a alma,
E nada, nem Deus, 茅 maior para uma pessoa que ela pr贸pria,
E quem caminha duzentos metros sem amar caminha amortalhado para o seu pr贸prio funeral,
E eu ou tu que n茫o possu铆mos um centavo podemos comprar o melhor que a Terra cont茅m,
E olhar com um s贸 olho ou mostrar um feij茫o na sua vagem desconcerta
a aprendizagem de todos os tempos,
E n茫o h谩 of铆cio ou emprego em que um jovem n茫o se possa converter em her贸i,
E n茫o h谩 delicado objecto que possa servir de eixo 脿s rodas do universo,
E digo a todos os homens e mulheres: que a tua alma permane莽a serena e tranquila ante um milh茫o de universos.
E digo 脿 humanidade: n茫o sintas curiosidade por Deus,
(N茫o h谩 palavras que possam definir a paz que sinto em rela莽茫o a Deus e 脿 morte).
Escuto e comtemplo Deus em cada objecto, ainda que n茫o O entenda minimamente,
Nem entenda que possa existir algu茅m mais maravilhoso do que eu pr贸prio.
Porque 茅 que desejaria ver Deus melhor do que este dia?
Vejo algo de Deus em cada uma das vinte e quatro horas, e vejo-o em cada momento que passa,
Vejo Deus no rosto de homens e mulheres e no meu pr贸prio rosto ao espelho,
Encontro cartas de Deus espalhadas pela rua, todas assinadas com o seu nome,
E deixo-as onde est茫o pois sei que v谩 para onde for,
Chegar茫o sempre outras pontualmente."
N茫o est谩 neste livro mas n茫o resisto, afinal foi o poema que me levou a Whitman- j谩 toda a gente sabe; do velhinho "O Clube dos Poetas Mortos"
脫 Capit茫o! meu Capit茫o!
Ergue-te ao dobre dos sinos; Por ti se agita o pend茫o e os clarins tocam teus hinos.
Por ti buqu锚s, guirlandas...
Multid玫es as praias lotam,
Teu nome 茅 o que elas clamam; para ti os olhos voltam,
Capit茫o, querido pai, Dormes no bra莽o macio...
脡 meu sonho que ao conv茅s Vais ca铆do, morto e frio.
Ah! meu Capit茫o n茫o fala, foi do l谩bio o sopro expulso,
Meu calor meu pai n茫o sente, j谩 n茫o tem vontade ou pulso.
Da nau ancorada e ilesa, a jornada 茅 conclu铆da.
E l谩 vem ela em triunfo da viagem antes temida.
Povo, exulta! Sino, dobra! Mas meu passo 茅 t茫o sombrio...
No conv茅s meu Capit茫o Vai ca铆do, morto e frio.
December 9, 2015
Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)
鈥淐anto de Mim Mesmo鈥�, no original "Song of Myself" (1856) de Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892) 茅 um dos livros que tenho relido com alguma regularidade.
Poesia sobre homens e mulheres de todas as profiss玫es ou credos, da luz e das sombras, de paisagens imensas, do corpo e da alma, dos prazeres sensuais, do amor, do sexo e da lux煤ria鈥�
鈥淓ste canto de mim mesmo n茫o se faz com palavras rotineiras,
Interroga abruptamente, para mais longe trazer para perto鈥� (43)
Um livro de palavras que se v茫o unindo鈥�
鈥淐elebro-me e canto-me (1)
Vagueio e convido a minha alma (1)
Esperando que s贸 a morte me fa莽a parar. (1)
Para sempre ficar谩 na minha boca, por ela me apaixonei (2)
Estou louco por entrar em contacto com ela (2)
Alguns beijos leves, alguns abra莽os, os bra莽os 脿 volta de um corpo, (2)
Fica comigo esta dia e esta noite e possuir谩s a origem de todos os poemas, (2)
Abandona-te comigo sobre a erva, solta as amarras da tua garganta,
N茫o quero palavras, nem m煤sica, nem rima, n茫o quero h谩bitos nem li莽玫es, nem as melhores,
Quero apenas a quietude, o murm煤rio da tua velada voz. (5)
No final 鈥� 鈥淪entiste-te orgulhoso por captar o sentido dos poemas?鈥� (2)
Ilustra莽茫o de Allen Crawford
March 28, 2020
螒谓 伪蟺慰蟿蠉蠂蔚喂蟼 谓伪 渭蔚 尾蟻蔚喂蟼 蟽蟿畏谓 伪蟻蠂萎 渭畏谓 伪蟺慰胃伪蟻蟻蠉谓蔚蟽伪喂,
螒谓 伪蟺慰蟿蠉蠂蔚喂蟼 蟽蔚 魏维蟺慰喂慰 蟽畏渭蔚委慰 蠄维尉蔚 蟽蔚 维位位慰,
危蟿伪渭伪蟿维蠅 魏维蟺慰蠀 魏伪喂 蟽蔚 蟺蔚蟻喂渭苇谓蠅....
螒谓 伪蟺慰蟿蠉蠂蔚喂蟼 蟽蔚 魏维蟺慰喂慰 蟽畏渭蔚委慰 蠄维尉蔚 蟽蔚 维位位慰,
危蟿伪渭伪蟿维蠅 魏维蟺慰蠀 魏伪喂 蟽蔚 蟺蔚蟻喂渭苇谓蠅....
August 15, 2020
韦喂 尾喂尾位委慰!韦喂 苇蟻纬慰!螣 Whitman 苇蠂蔚喂 慰谓慰渭伪蟽蟿蔚委 蠅蟼 慰 蟺蟻蠋蟿慰蟼 蟺慰喂畏蟿萎蟼 蟿畏蟼 未畏渭慰魏蟻伪蟿委伪蟼 蟿畏蟼 螒渭蔚蟻喂魏萎蟼!
螖喂维尾伪蟽伪 蟿畏谓 蔚尉伪喂蟻蔚蟿喂魏维 蔚蟺喂渭蔚位畏渭苇谓畏 苇魏未慰蟽畏 伪蟺蠈 蟿喂蟼 蔚魏未蠈蟽蔚喂蟼 螠维蟿喂 蟽蔚 蔚喂蟽伪纬蠅纬萎, 渭蔚蟿维蠁蟻伪蟽畏 魏伪喂 蟽蠂蠈位喂伪 蟿慰蠀 围蟻萎蟽蟿慰蠀 螘渭渭伪谓慰蠀畏位委未畏.
违.螕 蟿慰 蟺伪蟻蠈谓 蟺慰委畏渭伪 渭蟺慰蟻蔚委 谓伪 蠂伪蟻伪魏蟿畏蟻喂蟽蟿蔚委 蠅蟼 蟿慰 "螁尉喂慰谓 螘蟽蟿委" 蟿畏蟼 螒渭蔚蟻喂魏萎蟼.
螖喂维尾伪蟽伪 蟿畏谓 蔚尉伪喂蟻蔚蟿喂魏维 蔚蟺喂渭蔚位畏渭苇谓畏 苇魏未慰蟽畏 伪蟺蠈 蟿喂蟼 蔚魏未蠈蟽蔚喂蟼 螠维蟿喂 蟽蔚 蔚喂蟽伪纬蠅纬萎, 渭蔚蟿维蠁蟻伪蟽畏 魏伪喂 蟽蠂蠈位喂伪 蟿慰蠀 围蟻萎蟽蟿慰蠀 螘渭渭伪谓慰蠀畏位委未畏.
违.螕 蟿慰 蟺伪蟻蠈谓 蟺慰委畏渭伪 渭蟺慰蟻蔚委 谓伪 蠂伪蟻伪魏蟿畏蟻喂蟽蟿蔚委 蠅蟼 蟿慰 "螁尉喂慰谓 螘蟽蟿委" 蟿畏蟼 螒渭蔚蟻喂魏萎蟼.
April 25, 2011
What I love about poetry is that there is a lot of room for interpretation. And in those beautiful 80 pages, Whitman did deliver what he promised before getting into the poem:
"You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self."
A must-read for anyone who likes to analyze things. It made me want to be in a book club just to discuss it. I think if I loved poetry a bit more, I might have appreciated it immensely.
A few bits that I personally loved:
"I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and
self-contain'd,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of
owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of
years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth."
"Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.) "
October 7, 2018
I am only reviewing the poem itself. It was hard to rate, because much of it was boring and hard to follow. Endless lists of prepositional phrases, predicates so long that I forgot the subjects鈥� I really had a hard time with this work. Then鈥擝AM!鈥攕uddenly my world would be rocked by a section. The last section floored me, but most of the poem bored me or annoyed me. In the end, I鈥檓 glad I can say I鈥檝e read some Walt Whitman. He was definitely something interesting and new in his day.
July 10, 2014
鈥�(鈥�) Se me queres ter de novo, procura-me debaixo da sola das tuas botas.
Dificilmente saber谩s quem sou ou o que significo,
Todavia dar-te-ei sa煤de,
E filtrando o teu sangue dar-te-ei vigor,
Se 脿 primeira n茫o me encontrares, n茫o desanimes,
Se n茫o estiver num lugar, procura-me noutro,
Algures estarei 脿 tua espera鈥�. (Walt Whitman 鈥� Canto de mim mesmo)
Dificilmente saber谩s quem sou ou o que significo,
Todavia dar-te-ei sa煤de,
E filtrando o teu sangue dar-te-ei vigor,
Se 脿 primeira n茫o me encontrares, n茫o desanimes,
Se n茫o estiver num lugar, procura-me noutro,
Algures estarei 脿 tua espera鈥�. (Walt Whitman 鈥� Canto de mim mesmo)
February 15, 2016
"No te desanimes si no me encuentras al primer intento
de no estar junto a ti, mira m谩s lejos,
que yo en alguna parte me detendr茅 a esperarte"
de no estar junto a ti, mira m谩s lejos,
que yo en alguna parte me detendr茅 a esperarte"
July 25, 2015
禺蹖賱蹖 夭蹖亘丕爻 賵 丨爻 賲鬲賮丕賵鬲蹖 賳爻亘鬲 亘賴 爻丕蹖乇 賴賲 乇丿賴 賴丕蹖 禺賵丿卮 鬲賵 丌丿賲 丕蹖噩丕丿 賲蹖 讴賳賴.
蹖讴蹖 丕夭 丿賵爻鬲丕賲 亘賴賲 賲毓乇賮蹖 讴乇丿貙 賲賳賲 亘賴 卮賲丕 鬲賵氐蹖賴 賲蹖 讴賳賲.
蹖讴蹖 丕夭 丿賵爻鬲丕賲 亘賴賲 賲毓乇賮蹖 讴乇丿貙 賲賳賲 亘賴 卮賲丕 鬲賵氐蹖賴 賲蹖 讴賳賲.
August 26, 2021
Que belleza fue leer a Whitman. De lo mejor de mi 2020.
November 12, 2020
oh, song of myself, or as I like to call it, song of my freaking colossal ego.
September 18, 2014
Whitman is one of those writers whose merits can get lost in their reputations; you forget how good he is when you're not reading him. His role as the mascot of a kind of kitschy Americana--especially ridiculous in this time of decline and fragmentation--overshadows his saving weirdness, his poetic originality:
While this evokes Whitman's whole cosmo-ethico-politico position--roughly, a bright pantheism in which all that lives shares in the divine, mixed with a gnosticism that says each soul is eternal--anybody can have a homespun theology; but not everybody can imagine their own soul as an embryo existing from the beginning of the universe and carried reverently in the mouth of a dinosaur till it could be implanted in a womb.
There is plenty of sermonizing and exhortation here, best experienced as the expression of a mood, a sensibility:
My favorite thing about this poem, though, is less its metaphysics or its politics than its sly humor--
--its vague but unmistakable eroticism--
--its anthology of flash-fiction-like "cases," of various people from spinsters to slaves to a naval crew at war to northern hunters that Walt sympathizes with--
I love the consonance and assonance and alliteration, the subtle rhythms, that keep the free verse from falling into prose. I love Whitman more as the inspirer of Gerard Manley Hopkins than as that of Allen Ginsberg. This poem seems like an effusion, is pitched as a "barbaric yawp," but is a careful sport with words and as much the utterance of a dramatic character--"Walt Whitman, American, one of the roughs, a cosmos"--as it is any kind of polemic, an examination of the artistic character, the veiled soul, the voyeur at the boys in the river, God's spy. He seems to want to redefine poetry so that it is a fierce bodily communion, as here--
--or here--
--but the fact is that--
--because--
A great poem: "My words are words of a questioning, and to indicate reality..." How much more interesting the questions than the answers.
Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me,
My embryo has never been torpid . . . . nothing could overlay it;
For it the nebula cohered to an orb . . . . the long slow strata piled to rest it on . . . . vast vegetables gave it sustenance,
Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it with care.
While this evokes Whitman's whole cosmo-ethico-politico position--roughly, a bright pantheism in which all that lives shares in the divine, mixed with a gnosticism that says each soul is eternal--anybody can have a homespun theology; but not everybody can imagine their own soul as an embryo existing from the beginning of the universe and carried reverently in the mouth of a dinosaur till it could be implanted in a womb.
There is plenty of sermonizing and exhortation here, best experienced as the expression of a mood, a sensibility:
I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's-self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral, dressed in his shroud
My favorite thing about this poem, though, is less its metaphysics or its politics than its sly humor--
And as to you corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me,
I smell the white roses sweetscented and growing,
I reach to the leafy lips . . . . I reach to the polished breasts of melons.
--its vague but unmistakable eroticism--
Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs,
Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.
--its anthology of flash-fiction-like "cases," of various people from spinsters to slaves to a naval crew at war to northern hunters that Walt sympathizes with--
I anchor my ship for a little while only,
My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns to me.
I go hunting polar furs and the seal . . . . leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff . . . . clinging to topples of brittle and blue.
I love the consonance and assonance and alliteration, the subtle rhythms, that keep the free verse from falling into prose. I love Whitman more as the inspirer of Gerard Manley Hopkins than as that of Allen Ginsberg. This poem seems like an effusion, is pitched as a "barbaric yawp," but is a careful sport with words and as much the utterance of a dramatic character--"Walt Whitman, American, one of the roughs, a cosmos"--as it is any kind of polemic, an examination of the artistic character, the veiled soul, the voyeur at the boys in the river, God's spy. He seems to want to redefine poetry so that it is a fierce bodily communion, as here--
You there, impotent, loose in the knees, open your scarfed chops till I blow grit within you,
Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets,
I am not to be denied . . . . I compel . . . . I have stores plenty and to spare,
And any thing I have I bestow.
--or here--
It is you talking just as much as myself . . . . I act as the tongue of you,
It was tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.
--but the fact is that--
I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,
To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can stand.
--because--
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looks with its sidecurved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it.
A great poem: "My words are words of a questioning, and to indicate reality..." How much more interesting the questions than the answers.
February 25, 2015
As Whitman says,
"Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self."
"Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self."
June 25, 2015
XXIV
"Walt Whitman, um cosmo, o filho de Manhattan,
Turbulento, carnal, sensual, comendo, bebendo e procriando,
N茫o 茅 um sentimental, n茫o olha de cima os homens e as mulheres nem se afasta deles,
N茫o 茅 mais modesto que imodesto.
Retirai as fechaduras das portas!
Retirai as pr贸prias portas dos seus umbrais!"
"Walt Whitman, um cosmo, o filho de Manhattan,
Turbulento, carnal, sensual, comendo, bebendo e procriando,
N茫o 茅 um sentimental, n茫o olha de cima os homens e as mulheres nem se afasta deles,
N茫o 茅 mais modesto que imodesto.
Retirai as fechaduras das portas!
Retirai as pr贸prias portas dos seus umbrais!"
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