Walking with Walt Whitman – “Song of Myself – 49”

Walking with Walt Whitman
A daily installment from Leaves of Grass.

~ ❦ ~

“Song of Myself – 49”

And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to 
     alarm me.

To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes,
I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting,
I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors,
And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.

And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not 
     offend me,
I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing,
I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons.

And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,
(No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)

I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
O suns—O grass of graves—O perpetual transfers and promotions,
If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing?

Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,
Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,
Toss, sparkles of day and dusk—toss on the black stems that decay 
     in the muck,
Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.

I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night,
I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected,
And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small.

~ ❦ ~

Leaves of Grass – Wikisource
Image – Walt Whitman, age 35, from the frontispiece to Leaves of Grass, Fulton St., Brooklyn, N.Y., steel engraving by Samuel Hollyer from a lost daguerreotype by Gabriel Harrison. ~ Wikipedia

The Evening Star, June 9, 1915

Library of Congress, Washington, DC

Notes in Emily Dickinson’s pocket – “Prayer is the little implement” (Life, 80)

.
.
Prayer is the little implement	
Through which men reach	
Where presence is denied them.	
They fling their speech	
  
By means of it in God’s ear;
If then He hear,	
This sums the apparatus	
Comprised in prayer.
.

 

~  “Tell all the Truth but tell it slant.”  ~
❦
Image of Emily Dickinson – from the daguerreotype taken circa 1848.
Poem – Emily Dickinson. Complete Poems. 1924.

Walking with Walt Whitman – “Song of Myself – 48”

Walking with Walt Whitman
A daily installment from Leaves of Grass.

~ ❦ ~

“Song of Myself – 48”

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 
     drest in his shroud,
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning 
     of all times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may 
     become a hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe,
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed 
     before a million universes.

And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,
For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,
(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about 
     death.)

I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.

Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's 
     name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go,
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.

~ ❦ ~

Leaves of Grass – Wikisource
Image – Walt Whitman, age 35, from the frontispiece to Leaves of Grass, Fulton St., Brooklyn, N.Y., steel engraving by Samuel Hollyer from a lost daguerreotype by Gabriel Harrison. ~ Wikipedia

Notes in Emily Dickinson’s pocket – “I years had been from home” (Life, 79)

I years had been from home,	
And now, before the door,	
I dared not open, lest a face	
I never saw before	
  
Stare vacant into mine
And ask my business there.	
My business,—just a life I left,	
Was such still dwelling there?	
  
I fumbled at my nerve,	
I scanned the windows near;
The silence like an ocean rolled,	
And broke against my ear.	
  
I laughed a wooden laugh	
That I could fear a door,	
Who danger and the dead had faced,
But never quaked before.	
  
I fitted to the latch	
My hand, with trembling care,	
Lest back the awful door should spring,	
And leave me standing there.
  
I moved my fingers off	
As cautiously as glass,	
And held my ears, and like a thief	
Fled gasping from the house.

 

~  “Tell all the Truth but tell it slant.”  ~
❦
Image of Emily Dickinson – from the daguerreotype taken circa 1848.
Poem – Emily Dickinson. Complete Poems. 1924.

Walking with Walt Whitman – “Song of Myself – 47”

Walking with Walt Whitman
A daily installment from Leaves of Grass.

~ ❦ ~

“Song of Myself – 47”

I am the teacher of athletes,
He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of 
     my own,
He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.

The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power, but 
     in his own right,
Wicked rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear,
Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak,
Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp steel cuts,
First-rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's eye, to sail a skiff, to sing a song 
     or play on the banjo,
Preferring scars and the beard and faces pitted with small-pox over all  
     latherers,
And those well-tann'd to those that keep out of the sun.

I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?
I follow you whoever you are from the present hour,
My words itch at your ears till you understand them.

I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while I wait 
     for a boat,
(It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of you,
Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd.)

I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a house,
And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her who 
     privately stays with me in the open air.

If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore,
The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves key,
The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words.

No shutter'd room or school can commune with me,
But roughs and little children better than they.

The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well,
The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with 
     him all day,
The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice,
In vessels that sail my words sail, I go with fishermen and seamen and 
     love them.

The soldier camp'd or upon the march is mine,
On the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not fail them,
On that solemn night (it may be their last) those that know me seek me.
My face rubs to the hunter's face when he lies down alone in his blanket,
The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon,
The young mother and old mother comprehend me,
The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where they are,
They and all would resume what I have told them.

~ ❦ ~

Leaves of Grass – Wikisource
Image – Walt Whitman, age 35, from the frontispiece to Leaves of Grass, Fulton St., Brooklyn, N.Y., steel engraving by Samuel Hollyer from a lost daguerreotype by Gabriel Harrison. ~ Wikipedia

The Evening Star, June 7, 1915

Library of Congress, Washington, DC