| Title | : | Song of Myself |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 142092706X |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9781420927061 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 80 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1856 |
Song of Myself Reviews
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Truly remarkable. An ode to humanity.
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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 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 claims his authorship in the use of this new literary gadget. -
Walt Whitman’s poem, which would eventually become “Song of Myself,” had no title in the 1855, first edition of Leaves of Grass. In the 1856 edition, it was “A Poem of Walt Whitman, an American.” In 1860, the title changed to “Walt Whitman.” It wasn’t until 1871 that Whitman changed the title to “Song of Myself.” Along with the changes in title were changes made over the course of time to the poem itself.
Whitman’s “I” 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 “I,” 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’s more, there’s so much more. But, for me, this time it was the predominant “take-away.” 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 “translating” 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’s 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’t writing, or we weren’t 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’s farm when they were first married, but moved to “town” 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’s “All Over But the Shoutin,’” and then a day or so later, I began in small bits reading “The Fire This Time: A New Generation Speaks” 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’s authors, asking the same questions.
Whitman’s 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. -
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’t 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’s 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’re not American, some of its affect is lost. He is trying to establish a bond of unity and, again, if you’re not part of that bond; its message goes a little over your head. I also think his ideas regarding religion are a little naïve. 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’d choose to explore further. -
“You 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.”
― Madeleine L'Engle,
A Wrinkle in Time: With Related Readings
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). -
“Let your soul stand cool and composed
before a million universes.”
― 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
Heart of Darkness 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
Moby-Dick in Pictures: One Drawing for Every Page.
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
Pictures Showing What Happens on Each Page of Thomas Pynchon's Novel Gravity's Rainbow? 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. -
"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’d night—press close magnetic nourishing night!
Night of south winds—night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night—mad naked summer night.
Smile O voluptuous cool-breath’d earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset—earth 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’d earth—rich apple-blossom’d earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.
Prodigal, you have given me love—therefore I to you give love!
O unspeakable passionate love." -
Okay. This is a good start. I don't know if I'll ever read
Leaves of Grass. 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.
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
my blog. -
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 – 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 “head athwart my hips” and the diction “gently”, “parted”, “plunged” and “bare-stript” creates a sensation of gentle but erotic caresses. However, it is also possibly to somewhat “skim over” 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 “proper society”. 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: “And what I shall assume you shall assume,/ For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you” (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. -
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0770h0v
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 -
Me acerqué a Whitman buscando un poeta y encontré un chamán, un sacerdote, un gurú. Sus poemas me han impresionado e inspirado muchísimo. No solo me parecen de una belleza extrema, sino que me sorprenden por ser absurdamente modernos. Me resulta muy difícil imaginar a alguien del siglo XIX hablando con esa pasión desbordada, escribiendo con esa delicadeza tan sutil unas veces y tan aplastante otras. No todos los poemas son para mí (los religiosos y los bélicos me interesan mucho menos), pero he disfrutado mucho de este poemario aunque la edición deje bastante que desear.
Sabia que en Whitman podría encontrar algún ramalazo de su amor por los hombres, pero esperaba pistas sueltas y no un homoerotismo tan incuestionable, hermoso y poético. Me ha sorprendido una barbaridad.
He viajado con Walt por bosques salvajes, hemos recorrido tejados de ciudades en construcción, hemos visto con los ojos de un pájaro un país en expansión, hemos bebido con sus trabajadores y sus artesanos, y he mirado en el interior del alma del poeta como si mirada en la mía.
Menudo viaje, menudo viaje. -
Poco hay que decir. Whitman en toda su expresión: pura energía natural.
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I read this a few months ago, but I just wanted to add this to comment on Goodreads'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. -
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’t work as a way of reading “Song of Myself.” Words loop around the page, skirting the illustrations in unpredictable patterns, so that it is very difficult to follow the poem’s flow. I gave up after one-third because I didn’t 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.
-
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.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0770h0v -
E o mundo à nossa volta fez-se poesia e música. Pelas mãos encantadas de Walt Whitman.
"Já disse que a alma não é mais do que o corpo,
E disse que o corpo não é mais do que a alma,
E nada, nem Deus, é maior para uma pessoa que ela própria,
E quem caminha duzentos metros sem amar caminha amortalhado para o seu próprio funeral,
E eu ou tu que não possuímos um centavo podemos comprar o melhor que a Terra contém,
E olhar com um só olho ou mostrar um feijão na sua vagem desconcerta
a aprendizagem de todos os tempos,
E não há ofício ou emprego em que um jovem não se possa converter em herói,
E não há delicado objecto que possa servir de eixo às rodas do universo,
E digo a todos os homens e mulheres: que a tua alma permaneça serena e tranquila ante um milhão de universos.
E digo à humanidade: não sintas curiosidade por Deus,
(Não há palavras que possam definir a paz que sinto em relação a Deus e à morte).
Escuto e comtemplo Deus em cada objecto, ainda que não O entenda minimamente,
Nem entenda que possa existir alguém mais maravilhoso do que eu próprio.
Porque é 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 próprio rosto ao espelho,
Encontro cartas de Deus espalhadas pela rua, todas assinadas com o seu nome,
E deixo-as onde estão pois sei que vá para onde for,
Chegarão sempre outras pontualmente."
Não está neste livro mas não resisto, afinal foi o poema que me levou a Whitman- já toda a gente sabe; do velhinho "O Clube dos Poetas Mortos"
Ó Capitão! meu Capitão!
Ergue-te ao dobre dos sinos; Por ti se agita o pendão e os clarins tocam teus hinos.
Por ti buquês, guirlandas...
Multidões as praias lotam,
Teu nome é o que elas clamam; para ti os olhos voltam,
Capitão, querido pai, Dormes no braço macio...
É meu sonho que ao convés Vais caído, morto e frio.
Ah! meu Capitão não fala, foi do lábio o sopro expulso,
Meu calor meu pai não sente, já não tem vontade ou pulso.
Da nau ancorada e ilesa, a jornada é concluída.
E lá vem ela em triunfo da viagem antes temida.
Povo, exulta! Sino, dobra! Mas meu passo é tão sombrio...
No convés meu Capitão Vai caído, morto e frio. -
Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)
“Canto de Mim Mesmo”, no original "Song of Myself" (1856) de Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892) é um dos livros que tenho relido com alguma regularidade.
Poesia sobre homens e mulheres de todas as profissões ou credos, da luz e das sombras, de paisagens imensas, do corpo e da alma, dos prazeres sensuais, do amor, do sexo e da luxúria…
“Este canto de mim mesmo não se faz com palavras rotineiras,
Interroga abruptamente, para mais longe trazer para perto” (43)
Um livro de palavras que se vão unindo…
“Celebro-me e canto-me (1)
Vagueio e convido a minha alma (1)
Esperando que só a morte me faça parar. (1)
Para sempre ficará na minha boca, por ela me apaixonei (2)
Estou louco por entrar em contacto com ela (2)
Alguns beijos leves, alguns abraços, os braços à volta de um corpo, (2)
Fica comigo esta dia e esta noite e possuirás a origem de todos os poemas, (2)
Abandona-te comigo sobre a erva, solta as amarras da tua garganta,
Não quero palavras, nem música, nem rima, não quero hábitos nem lições, nem as melhores,
Quero apenas a quietude, o murmúrio da tua velada voz. (5)
No final – “Sentiste-te orgulhoso por captar o sentido dos poemas?” (2)
Ilustração de Allen Crawford -
Αν αποτύχεις να με βρεις στην αρχή μην αποθαρρύνεσαι,
Αν αποτύχεις σε κάποιο σημείο ψάξε σε άλλο,
Σταματάω κάπου και σε περιμένω.... -
Τι βιβλίο!Τι έργο!Ο Whitman έχει ονομαστεί ως ο πρώτος ποιητής της δημοκρατίας της Αμερικής!
Διάβασα την εξαιρετικά επιμελημένη έκδοση από τις εκδόσεις Μάτι σε εισαγωγή, μετάφραση και σχόλια του Χρήστου Εμμανουηλίδη.
Υ.Γ το παρόν ποίημα μπορεί να χαρακτηριστεί ως το "Άξιον Εστί" της Αμερικής. -
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.) " -
“(…) Se me queres ter de novo, procura-me debaixo da sola das tuas botas.
Dificilmente saberás quem sou ou o que significo,
Todavia dar-te-ei saúde,
E filtrando o teu sangue dar-te-ei vigor,
Se à primeira não me encontrares, não desanimes,
Se não estiver num lugar, procura-me noutro,
Algures estarei à tua espera”. (Walt Whitman – Canto de mim mesmo) -
"No te desanimes si no me encuentras al primer intento
de no estar junto a ti, mira más lejos,
que yo en alguna parte me detendré a esperarte" -
خیلی زیباس و حس متفاوتی نسبت به سایر هم رده های خودش تو آدم ایجاد می کنه.
یکی از دوستام بهم معرفی کرد، منم به شما توصیه می کنم. -
Que belleza fue leer a Whitman. De lo mejor de mi 2020.
-
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:
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. -
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." -
XXIV
"Walt Whitman, um cosmo, o filho de Manhattan,
Turbulento, carnal, sensual, comendo, bebendo e procriando,
Não é um sentimental, não olha de cima os homens e as mulheres nem se afasta deles,
Não é mais modesto que imodesto.
Retirai as fechaduras das portas!
Retirai as próprias portas dos seus umbrais!" -
Whitman es asombroso, sinceramente lo conocí por John Green y entiendo porqué ha influído tanto en su obra. Los cantos de Whitman están llenos de fuerza y valentía, no teme escribir lo que siente y transimitir su indignación y amor por la humanidad.
Sin dudarlo mi favorito es Cálamo. -
"يا غرور شروق الشمس لا أحتاج دفئك
أنتَ تضيء السطوح وحدها، أما أنـا !
فألجُ السطوح والأعماق معًا". -
Reread ❤️
