Monday, May 4, 2009

Walt Whitman

I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

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.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that
pass all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and

-from "Song of Myself", 1855

I should revel in this Springtime, but I keep finding myself crying in the car and
lamenting the whole world.

I hope that you are doing okay.

Are you?


P77 said...

I am and we are. Thanks for asking.

reverend dick said...

Doing fine over, Boss.

reverend dick said...

Make that, doing fine over HERE, Boss. In a Paul Newman kind of voice.

Ride yo bike. It'll improve things.

Gunnar Berg said...

fine looking young lads
will need all your help to grow
into strong young men

oldschooly said...
This comment has been removed by the author.