“The novel is of Franklin Evans who is the country mouse who comes to ruin in the wicked city. Led astray by evil companions, he takes one swig of wine in a tavern and sets himself on the downward path. As wine bibbing leads to harder stuff, the hapless Evans becomes a puppet of the demon rum. His forays into low dives and dance halls cost him his job, wreck his marriage, contribute to his saintly wife’s death, and quickly bring him to a life of petty crime.
Evans is a maddening protagonist, utterly lacking in will or initiative; he’s a sort of moral polyp afloat in a bottle. Even so, the course of his downfall isn’t completely predictable. As if to show how low drink can bring a man, Whitman has Evans move to Virginia where he falls in love with Margaret, a “creole” slave whom he marries but comes to hate. In her “swarthiness,” Margaret embodies sheer animal appetite; she personifies Evans’s own thirst for drink. Interestingly, she’s the only character who pulses with a semblance of life. Maddened by jealousy, “the wretched Creole” poisons the genteel Mrs. Conway, a luscious widow whom Evans wants to take as his mistress. These are the ugliest chapters in the novel, made more distasteful by Whitman’s shameless attempts to play on race for sensational effect. But this is, of course, a tale of redemption. Evans takes the temperance pledge. He ends up inheriting a fortune from a benefactor. Whitman’s moral is clear: Sobriety isn’t just virtuous, it can be lucrative too”. http://www.nysun.com/arts/dominion-of-th… on 12-08-09

The stanza I chose has ran with me through-out this class, from the first time I read this stanza and I fell in love with it. I did most of my projects surrounding it as well as this. I did two videos in different rooms reading the same part of the poem. The reason I chose this location to read my poem is that I felt very alive and happy at this location. It reminded me of little scenes which I saw while reading Franklin Evans. The part with me in the bathroom I felt signifies me celebrating who I am and how times have changed. Whitman always spoke of “ I Am, You” which brought the reader closer to him, but after reading some of his work and biography, I felt as though in some ways he was not being true to himself and who he was. Franklin Evans seemed to be a part of him that he never spoke about, a part that never came out (unconscious part). Being in a stall was liberating, I felt a little like Franklin Evans experiencing alcohol. Just in a better way. The second scene was in a velvet dining room while having dinner and drinks, it reminded me of a reading we did of Charles Dickens when he came to NYC and spoke of it in terrible ways. The remembrance was of the ladies in their bright clothing, the red velvet room felt like that, it was like an evil room of uncertainties. Just like Franklin’s experiences in the city.
My video may be a little different due to the location, but this is where I found Whitman.

Where Nicole found Whitman! In a stall while having dinner.

nicole | MySpace Video

“The novel is of Franklin Evans who is the country mouse who comes to ruin in the wicked city. Led astray by evil companions, he takes one swig of wine in a tavern and sets himself on the downward path. As wine bibbing leads to harder stuff, the hapless Evans becomes a puppet of the demon rum. His forays into low dives and dance halls cost him his job, wreck his marriage, contribute to his saintly wife’s death, and quickly bring him to a life of petty crime.
Evans is a maddening protagonist, utterly lacking in will or initiative; he’s a sort of moral polyp afloat in a bottle. Even so, the course of his downfall isn’t completely predictable. As if to show how low drink can bring a man, Whitman has Evans move to Virginia where he falls in love with Margaret, a “creole” slave whom he marries but comes to hate. In her “swarthiness,” Margaret embodies sheer animal appetite; she personifies Evans’s own thirst for drink. Interestingly, she’s the only character who pulses with a semblance of life. Maddened by jealousy, “the wretched Creole” poisons the genteel Mrs. Conway, a luscious widow whom Evans wants to take as his mistress. These are the ugliest chapters in the novel, made more distasteful by Whitman’s shameless attempts to play on race for sensational effect. But this is, of course, a tale of redemption. Evans takes the temperance pledge. He ends up inheriting a fortune from a benefactor. Whitman’s moral is clear: Sobriety isn’t just virtuous, it can be lucrative too”. http://www.nysun.com/arts/dominion-of-th… on 12-08-09

The stanza I chose has ran with me through-out this class, from the first time I read this stanza and I fell in love with it. I did most of my projects surrounding it as well as this. I did two videos in different rooms reading the same part of the poem. The reason I chose this location to read my poem is that I felt very alive and happy at this location. It reminded me of little scenes which I saw while reading Franklin Evans. The part with me in the bathroom I felt signifies me celebrating who I am and how times have changed. Whitman always spoke of “ I Am, You” which brought the reader closer to him, but after reading some of his work and biography, I felt as though in some ways he was not being true to himself and who he was. Franklin Evans seemed to be a part of him that he never spoke about, a part that never came out (unconscious part). Being in a stall was liberating, I felt a little like Franklin Evans experiencing alcohol. Just in a better way. The second scene was in a velvet dining room while having dinner and drinks, it reminded me of a reading we did of Charles Dickens when he came to NYC and spoke of it in terrible ways. The remembrance was of the ladies in their bright clothing, the red velvet room felt like that, it was like an evil room of uncertainties. Just like Franklin’s experiences in the city.
My video may be a little different due to the location, but this is where I found Whitman.

Where Nicole found Whitman! In a stall while having dinner.

nicole | MySpace Video

“The novel is of Franklin Evans who is the country mouse who comes to ruin in the wicked city. Led astray by evil companions, he takes one swig of wine in a tavern and sets himself on the downward path. As wine bibbing leads to harder stuff, the hapless Evans becomes a puppet of the demon rum. His forays into low dives and dance halls cost him his job, wreck his marriage, contribute to his saintly wife’s death, and quickly bring him to a life of petty crime.
Evans is a maddening protagonist, utterly lacking in will or initiative; he’s a sort of moral polyp afloat in a bottle. Even so, the course of his downfall isn’t completely predictable. As if to show how low drink can bring a man, Whitman has Evans move to Virginia where he falls in love with Margaret, a “creole” slave whom he marries but comes to hate. In her “swarthiness,” Margaret embodies sheer animal appetite; she personifies Evans’s own thirst for drink. Interestingly, she’s the only character who pulses with a semblance of life. Maddened by jealousy, “the wretched Creole” poisons the genteel Mrs. Conway, a luscious widow whom Evans wants to take as his mistress. These are the ugliest chapters in the novel, made more distasteful by Whitman’s shameless attempts to play on race for sensational effect. But this is, of course, a tale of redemption. Evans takes the temperance pledge. He ends up inheriting a fortune from a benefactor. Whitman’s moral is clear: Sobriety isn’t just virtuous, it can be lucrative too”. http://www.nysun.com/arts/dominion-of-th… on 12-08-09

The stanza I chose has ran with me through-out this class, from the first time I read this stanza and I fell in love with it. I did most of my projects surrounding it as well as this. I did two videos in different rooms reading the same part of the poem. The reason I chose this location to read my poem is that I felt very alive and happy at this location. It reminded me of little scenes which I saw while reading Franklin Evans. The part with me in the bathroom I felt signifies me celebrating who I am and how times have changed. Whitman always spoke of “ I Am, You” which brought the reader closer to him, but after reading some of his work and biography, I felt as though in some ways he was not being true to himself and who he was. Franklin Evans seemed to be a part of him that he never spoke about, a part that never came out (unconscious part). Being in a stall was liberating, I felt a little like Franklin Evans experiencing alcohol. Just in a better way. The second scene was in a velvet dining room while having dinner and drinks, it reminded me of a reading we did of Charles Dickens when he came to NYC and spoke of it in terrible ways. The remembrance was of the ladies in their bright clothing, the red velvet room felt like that, it was like an evil room of uncertainties. Just like Franklin’s experiences in the city.
My video may be a little different due to the location, but this is where I found Whitman.

Where Nicole found Whitman! In a stall while having dinner.

nicole | MySpace Video

“The novel is of Franklin Evans who is the country mouse who comes to ruin in the wicked city. Led astray by evil companions, he takes one swig of wine in a tavern and sets himself on the downward path. As wine bibbing leads to harder stuff, the hapless Evans becomes a puppet of the demon rum. His forays into low dives and dance halls cost him his job, wreck his marriage, contribute to his saintly wife’s death, and quickly bring him to a life of petty crime.
Evans is a maddening protagonist, utterly lacking in will or initiative; he’s a sort of moral polyp afloat in a bottle. Even so, the course of his downfall isn’t completely predictable. As if to show how low drink can bring a man, Whitman has Evans move to Virginia where he falls in love with Margaret, a “creole” slave whom he marries but comes to hate. In her “swarthiness,” Margaret embodies sheer animal appetite; she personifies Evans’s own thirst for drink. Interestingly, she’s the only character who pulses with a semblance of life. Maddened by jealousy, “the wretched Creole” poisons the genteel Mrs. Conway, a luscious widow whom Evans wants to take as his mistress. These are the ugliest chapters in the novel, made more distasteful by Whitman’s shameless attempts to play on race for sensational effect. But this is, of course, a tale of redemption. Evans takes the temperance pledge. He ends up inheriting a fortune from a benefactor. Whitman’s moral is clear: Sobriety isn’t just virtuous, it can be lucrative too”. http://www.nysun.com/arts/dominion-of-the-liquor-fiend/61491/retrieved on 12-08-09

The stanza I chose has ran with me through-out this class, from the first time I read this stanza and I fell in love with it. I did most of my projects surrounding it as well as this. I did two videos in different rooms reading the same part of the poem. The reason I chose this location to read my poem is that I felt very alive and happy at this location. It reminded me of little scenes which I saw while reading Franklin Evans. The part with me in the bathroom I felt signifies me celebrating who I am and how times have changed. Whitman always spoke of “ I Am, You” which brought the reader closer to him, but after reading some of his work and biography, I felt as though in some ways he was not being true to himself and who he was. Franklin Evans seemed to be a part of him that he never spoke about, a part that never came out (unconscious part). Being in a stall was liberating, I felt a little like Franklin Evans experiencing alcohol. Just in a better way. The second scene was in a velvet dining room while having dinner and drinks, it reminded me of a reading we did of Charles Dickens when he came to NYC and spoke of it in terrible ways. The remembrance was of the ladies in their bright clothing, the red velvet room felt like that, it was like an evil room of uncertainties. Just like Franklin’s experiences in the city.
My video may be a little different due to the location, but this is where I found Whitman.

Where Nicole found Whitman! In a stall while having dinner.

nicole | MySpace Video

“The novel is of Franklin Evans who is the country mouse who comes to ruin in the wicked city. Led astray by evil companions, he takes one swig of wine in a tavern and sets himself on the downward path. As wine bibbing leads to harder stuff, the hapless Evans becomes a puppet of the demon rum. His forays into low dives and dance halls cost him his job, wreck his marriage, contribute to his saintly wife’s death, and quickly bring him to a life of petty crime.
Evans is a maddening protagonist, utterly lacking in will or initiative; he’s a sort of moral polyp afloat in a bottle. Even so, the course of his downfall isn’t completely predictable. As if to show how low drink can bring a man, Whitman has Evans move to Virginia where he falls in love with Margaret, a “creole” slave whom he marries but comes to hate. In her “swarthiness,” Margaret embodies sheer animal appetite; she personifies Evans’s own thirst for drink. Interestingly, she’s the only character who pulses with a semblance of life. Maddened by jealousy, “the wretched Creole” poisons the genteel Mrs. Conway, a luscious widow whom Evans wants to take as his mistress. These are the ugliest chapters in the novel, made more distasteful by Whitman’s shameless attempts to play on race for sensational effect. But this is, of course, a tale of redemption. Evans takes the temperance pledge. He ends up inheriting a fortune from a benefactor. Whitman’s moral is clear: Sobriety isn’t just virtuous, it can be lucrative too”. http://www.nysun.com/arts/dominion-of-the-liquor-fiend/61491/retrieved on 12-08-09

The stanza I chose has ran with me through-out this class, from the first time I read this stanza and I fell in love with it. I did most of my projects surrounding it as well as this. I did two videos in different rooms reading the same part of the poem. The reason I chose this location to read my poem is that I felt very alive and happy at this location. It reminded me of little scenes which I saw while reading Franklin Evans. The part with me in the bathroom I felt signifies me celebrating who I am and how times have changed. Whitman always spoke of “ I Am, You” which brought the reader closer to him, but after reading some of his work and biography, I felt as though in some ways he was not being true to himself and who he was. Franklin Evans seemed to be a part of him that he never spoke about, a part that never came out (unconscious part). Being in a stall was liberating, I felt a little like Franklin Evans experiencing alcohol. Just in a better way. The second scene was in a velvet dining room while having dinner and drinks, it reminded me of a reading we did of Charles Dickens when he came to NYC and spoke of it in terrible ways. The remembrance was of the ladies in their bright clothing, the red velvet room felt like that, it was like an evil room of uncertainties. Just like Franklin’s experiences in the city.
My video may be a little different due to the location, but this is where I found Whitman.

Where Nicole found Whitman! In a stall while having dinner.

nicole | MySpace Video

“The novel is of Franklin Evans who is the country mouse who comes to ruin in the wicked city. Led astray by evil companions, he takes one swig of wine in a tavern and sets himself on the downward path. As wine bibbing leads to harder stuff, the hapless Evans becomes a puppet of the demon rum. His forays into low dives and dance halls cost him his job, wreck his marriage, contribute to his saintly wife’s death, and quickly bring him to a life of petty crime.
Evans is a maddening protagonist, utterly lacking in will or initiative; he’s a sort of moral polyp afloat in a bottle. Even so, the course of his downfall isn’t completely predictable. As if to show how low drink can bring a man, Whitman has Evans move to Virginia where he falls in love with Margaret, a “creole” slave whom he marries but comes to hate. In her “swarthiness,” Margaret embodies sheer animal appetite; she personifies Evans’s own thirst for drink. Interestingly, she’s the only character who pulses with a semblance of life. Maddened by jealousy, “the wretched Creole” poisons the genteel Mrs. Conway, a luscious widow whom Evans wants to take as his mistress. These are the ugliest chapters in the novel, made more distasteful by Whitman’s shameless attempts to play on race for sensational effect. But this is, of course, a tale of redemption. Evans takes the temperance pledge. He ends up inheriting a fortune from a benefactor. Whitman’s moral is clear: Sobriety isn’t just virtuous, it can be lucrative too”. http://www.nysun.com/arts/dominion-of-the-liquor-fiend/61491/retrieved on 12-08-09

The stanza I chose has ran with me through-out this class, from the first time I read this stanza and I fell in love with it. I did most of my projects surrounding it as well as this. I did two videos in different rooms reading the same part of the poem. The reason I chose this location to read my poem is that I felt very alive and happy at this location. It reminded me of little scenes which I saw while reading Franklin Evans. The part with me in the bathroom I felt signifies me celebrating who I am and how times have changed. Whitman always spoke of “ I Am, You” which brought the reader closer to him, but after reading some of his work and biography, I felt as though in some ways he was not being true to himself and who he was. Franklin Evans seemed to be a part of him that he never spoke about, a part that never came out (unconscious part). Being in a stall was liberating, I felt a little like Franklin Evans experiencing alcohol. Just in a better way. The second scene was in a velvet dining room while having dinner and drinks, it reminded me of a reading we did of Charles Dickens when he came to NYC and spoke of it in terrible ways. The remembrance was of the ladies in their bright clothing, the red velvet room felt like that, it was like an evil room of uncertainties. Just like Franklin’s experiences in the city.
My video may be a little different due to the location, but this is where I found Whitman.

Where Nicole found Whitman! In a stall while having dinner.

nicole | MySpace Video

“The novel is of Franklin Evans who is the country mouse who comes to ruin in the wicked city. Led astray by evil companions, he takes one swig of wine in a tavern and sets himself on the downward path. As wine bibbing leads to harder stuff, the hapless Evans becomes a puppet of the demon rum. His forays into low dives and dance halls cost him his job, wreck his marriage, contribute to his saintly wife’s death, and quickly bring him to a life of petty crime.
Evans is a maddening protagonist, utterly lacking in will or initiative; he’s a sort of moral polyp afloat in a bottle. Even so, the course of his downfall isn’t completely predictable. As if to show how low drink can bring a man, Whitman has Evans move to Virginia where he falls in love with Margaret, a “creole” slave whom he marries but comes to hate. In her “swarthiness,” Margaret embodies sheer animal appetite; she personifies Evans’s own thirst for drink. Interestingly, she’s the only character who pulses with a semblance of life. Maddened by jealousy, “the wretched Creole” poisons the genteel Mrs. Conway, a luscious widow whom Evans wants to take as his mistress. These are the ugliest chapters in the novel, made more distasteful by Whitman’s shameless attempts to play on race for sensational effect. But this is, of course, a tale of redemption. Evans takes the temperance pledge. He ends up inheriting a fortune from a benefactor. Whitman’s moral is clear: Sobriety isn’t just virtuous, it can be lucrative too”. http://www.nysun.com/arts/dominion-of-the-liquor-fiend/61491/retrieved on 12-08-09

The stanza I chose has ran with me through-out this class, from the first time I read this stanza and I fell in love with it. I did most of my projects surrounding it as well as this. I did two videos in different rooms reading the same part of the poem. The reason I chose this location to read my poem is that I felt very alive and happy at this location. It reminded me of little scenes which I saw while reading Franklin Evans. The part with me in the bathroom I felt signifies me celebrating who I am and how times have changed. Whitman always spoke of “ I Am, You” which brought the reader closer to him, but after reading some of his work and biography, I felt as though in some ways he was not being true to himself and who he was. Franklin Evans seemed to be a part of him that he never spoke about, a part that never came out (unconscious part). Being in a stall was liberating, I felt a little like Franklin Evans experiencing alcohol. Just in a better way. The second scene was in a velvet dining room while having dinner and drinks, it reminded me of a reading we did of Charles Dickens when he came to NYC and spoke of it in terrible ways. The remembrance was of the ladies in their bright clothing, the red velvet room felt like that, it was like an evil room of uncertainties. Just like Franklin’s experiences in the city.
My video may be a little different due to the location, but this is where I found Whitman.

Where Nicole found Whitman! In a stall while having dinner.

nicole | MySpace Video

Her father and his friends sat nearby crosslegged and dumbly smoking . . . . they

had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their

shoulders;

On a bank lounged the trapper . . . . he was dressed mostly in skins . . . . his luxuriant
beard and curls protected his neck,

One hand rested on his rifle . . . . the other hand held firmly the wrist of the red girl,

She had long eyelashes . . . . her head was bare . . . . her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reached to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopped outside,

I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,

Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsey and weak,

And went where he sat on a log, and led him in and assured him,

And brought water and filled a tub for his sweated body and bruised feet,

And gave him a room that entered from my own, and gave him some coarse clean
clothes,

And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,

And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;

He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and passed north,

I had him sit next me at table . . . . my firelock leaned in the corner.”

Although there are many sections in the poem that are just breathtaking, I chose this passage from the 1855 version of “Leaves of Grass” as my favorite. Walt Whitman is, in my humble opinion, one of the few poets that succeeds in portraying the exact image to his readers. While reading this passage about the marriage of a trapper and a red girl and the story about the runaway slave, I was more than astonished by the scenes that seemed to happen right in front of me.

At the time when the poem was written there were many talks and debates concerning tolerance, slavery, equality etc. These two scenes show Whitman’s stance on the matter, and very well draw a pretty precise sketch of my opinion on these antebellum problems.

I was positively overwhelmed with the amount of work we did during our first class period on the 31st. The introductory class was great and the high point was definitely reading the poem out loud, and holding the old green “Leaves of Grass” copy. Can’t wait for Saturday!

Her father and his friends sat nearby crosslegged and dumbly smoking . . . . they

had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their

shoulders;

On a bank lounged the trapper . . . . he was dressed mostly in skins . . . . his luxuriant
beard and curls protected his neck,

One hand rested on his rifle . . . . the other hand held firmly the wrist of the red girl,

She had long eyelashes . . . . her head was bare . . . . her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reached to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopped outside,

I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,

Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsey and weak,

And went where he sat on a log, and led him in and assured him,

And brought water and filled a tub for his sweated body and bruised feet,

And gave him a room that entered from my own, and gave him some coarse clean
clothes,

And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,

And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;

He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and passed north,

I had him sit next me at table . . . . my firelock leaned in the corner.”

Although there are many sections in the poem that are just breathtaking, I chose this passage from the 1855 version of “Leaves of Grass” as my favorite. Walt Whitman is, in my humble opinion, one of the few poets that succeeds in portraying the exact image to his readers. While reading this passage about the marriage of a trapper and a red girl and the story about the runaway slave, I was more than astonished by the scenes that seemed to happen right in front of me.

At the time when the poem was written there were many talks and debates concerning tolerance, slavery, equality etc. These two scenes show Whitman’s stance on the matter, and very well draw a pretty precise sketch of my opinion on these antebellum problems.

I was positively overwhelmed with the amount of work we did during our first class period on the 31st. The introductory class was great and the high point was definitely reading the poem out loud, and holding the old green “Leaves of Grass” copy. Can’t wait for Saturday!

Her father and his friends sat nearby crosslegged and dumbly smoking . . . . they

had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their

shoulders;

On a bank lounged the trapper . . . . he was dressed mostly in skins . . . . his luxuriant
beard and curls protected his neck,

One hand rested on his rifle . . . . the other hand held firmly the wrist of the red girl,

She had long eyelashes . . . . her head was bare . . . . her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reached to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopped outside,

I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,

Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsey and weak,

And went where he sat on a log, and led him in and assured him,

And brought water and filled a tub for his sweated body and bruised feet,

And gave him a room that entered from my own, and gave him some coarse clean
clothes,

And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,

And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;

He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and passed north,

I had him sit next me at table . . . . my firelock leaned in the corner.”

Although there are many sections in the poem that are just breathtaking, I chose this passage from the 1855 version of “Leaves of Grass” as my favorite. Walt Whitman is, in my humble opinion, one of the few poets that succeeds in portraying the exact image to his readers. While reading this passage about the marriage of a trapper and a red girl and the story about the runaway slave, I was more than astonished by the scenes that seemed to happen right in front of me.

At the time when the poem was written there were many talks and debates concerning tolerance, slavery, equality etc. These two scenes show Whitman’s stance on the matter, and very well draw a pretty precise sketch of my opinion on these antebellum problems.

I was positively overwhelmed with the amount of work we did during our first class period on the 31st. The introductory class was great and the high point was definitely reading the poem out loud, and holding the old green “Leaves of Grass” copy. Can’t wait for Saturday!

Her father and his friends sat nearby crosslegged and dumbly smoking . . . . they

had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their

shoulders;

On a bank lounged the trapper . . . . he was dressed mostly in skins . . . . his luxuriant
beard and curls protected his neck,

One hand rested on his rifle . . . . the other hand held firmly the wrist of the red girl,

She had long eyelashes . . . . her head was bare . . . . her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reached to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopped outside,

I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,

Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsey and weak,

And went where he sat on a log, and led him in and assured him,

And brought water and filled a tub for his sweated body and bruised feet,

And gave him a room that entered from my own, and gave him some coarse clean
clothes,

And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,

And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;

He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and passed north,

I had him sit next me at table . . . . my firelock leaned in the corner.”

Although there are many sections in the poem that are just breathtaking, I chose this passage from the 1855 version of “Leaves of Grass” as my favorite. Walt Whitman is, in my humble opinion, one of the few poets that succeeds in portraying the exact image to his readers. While reading this passage about the marriage of a trapper and a red girl and the story about the runaway slave, I was more than astonished by the scenes that seemed to happen right in front of me.

At the time when the poem was written there were many talks and debates concerning tolerance, slavery, equality etc. These two scenes show Whitman’s stance on the matter, and very well draw a pretty precise sketch of my opinion on these antebellum problems.

I was positively overwhelmed with the amount of work we did during our first class period on the 31st. The introductory class was great and the high point was definitely reading the poem out loud, and holding the old green “Leaves of Grass” copy. Can’t wait for Saturday!

Her father and his friends sat nearby crosslegged and dumbly smoking . . . . they

had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their

shoulders;

On a bank lounged the trapper . . . . he was dressed mostly in skins . . . . his luxuriant
beard and curls protected his neck,

One hand rested on his rifle . . . . the other hand held firmly the wrist of the red girl,

She had long eyelashes . . . . her head was bare . . . . her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reached to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopped outside,

I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,

Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsey and weak,

And went where he sat on a log, and led him in and assured him,

And brought water and filled a tub for his sweated body and bruised feet,

And gave him a room that entered from my own, and gave him some coarse clean
clothes,

And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,

And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;

He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and passed north,

I had him sit next me at table . . . . my firelock leaned in the corner.”

Although there are many sections in the poem that are just breathtaking, I chose this passage from the 1855 version of “Leaves of Grass” as my favorite. Walt Whitman is, in my humble opinion, one of the few poets that succeeds in portraying the exact image to his readers. While reading this passage about the marriage of a trapper and a red girl and the story about the runaway slave, I was more than astonished by the scenes that seemed to happen right in front of me.

At the time when the poem was written there were many talks and debates concerning tolerance, slavery, equality etc. These two scenes show Whitman’s stance on the matter, and very well draw a pretty precise sketch of my opinion on these antebellum problems.

I was positively overwhelmed with the amount of work we did during our first class period on the 31st. The introductory class was great and the high point was definitely reading the poem out loud, and holding the old green “Leaves of Grass” copy. Can’t wait for Saturday!

Her father and his friends sat nearby crosslegged and dumbly smoking . . . . they

had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their

shoulders;

On a bank lounged the trapper . . . . he was dressed mostly in skins . . . . his luxuriant
beard and curls protected his neck,

One hand rested on his rifle . . . . the other hand held firmly the wrist of the red girl,

She had long eyelashes . . . . her head was bare . . . . her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reached to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopped outside,

I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,

Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsey and weak,

And went where he sat on a log, and led him in and assured him,

And brought water and filled a tub for his sweated body and bruised feet,

And gave him a room that entered from my own, and gave him some coarse clean
clothes,

And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,

And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;

He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and passed north,

I had him sit next me at table . . . . my firelock leaned in the corner.”

Although there are many sections in the poem that are just breathtaking, I chose this passage from the 1855 version of “Leaves of Grass” as my favorite. Walt Whitman is, in my humble opinion, one of the few poets that succeeds in portraying the exact image to his readers. While reading this passage about the marriage of a trapper and a red girl and the story about the runaway slave, I was more than astonished by the scenes that seemed to happen right in front of me.

At the time when the poem was written there were many talks and debates concerning tolerance, slavery, equality etc. These two scenes show Whitman’s stance on the matter, and very well draw a pretty precise sketch of my opinion on these antebellum problems.

I was positively overwhelmed with the amount of work we did during our first class period on the 31st. The introductory class was great and the high point was definitely reading the poem out loud, and holding the old green “Leaves of Grass” copy. Can’t wait for Saturday!

Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-washed babe … and am not contained between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good, and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of the earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,
They do not know how immortal, but I know.

Yes! Whitman knows what it is like to die because he is dead! This voice of a poet speaking from the other world to the future generations is what I love in Whitman. It appears throughout his poetry, connecting the people who read it and telling them of the universality of human experience. A shocking statement saying that it is lucky to be dead is followed by soothing images of birth, earth and stars. Whitman doesn’t wish to upset us, but to unite us, to be our immortal “mate and companion”.

Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-washed babe … and am not contained between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good, and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of the earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,
They do not know how immortal, but I know.

Yes! Whitman knows what it is like to die because he is dead! This voice of a poet speaking from the other world to the future generations is what I love in Whitman. It appears throughout his poetry, connecting the people who read it and telling them of the universality of human experience. A shocking statement saying that it is lucky to be dead is followed by soothing images of birth, earth and stars. Whitman doesn’t wish to upset us, but to unite us, to be our immortal “mate and companion”.

Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-washed babe … and am not contained between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good, and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of the earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,
They do not know how immortal, but I know.

Yes! Whitman knows what it is like to die because he is dead! This voice of a poet speaking from the other world to the future generations is what I love in Whitman. It appears throughout his poetry, connecting the people who read it and telling them of the universality of human experience. A shocking statement saying that it is lucky to be dead is followed by soothing images of birth, earth and stars. Whitman doesn’t wish to upset us, but to unite us, to be our immortal “mate and companion”.

Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-washed babe … and am not contained between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good, and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of the earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,
They do not know how immortal, but I know.

Yes! Whitman knows what it is like to die because he is dead! This voice of a poet speaking from the other world to the future generations is what I love in Whitman. It appears throughout his poetry, connecting the people who read it and telling them of the universality of human experience. A shocking statement saying that it is lucky to be dead is followed by soothing images of birth, earth and stars. Whitman doesn’t wish to upset us, but to unite us, to be our immortal “mate and companion”.

” I do not press my finger across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing hearing and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. ”

My body is a shrine of my physical and mental experiences.

Each of my senses is a bliss.

I am a materialist and spiritualist in one.

Thank you Whitman for helping me to express myself !

” I do not press my finger across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing hearing and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. ”

My body is a shrine of my physical and mental experiences.

Each of my senses is a bliss.

I am a materialist and spiritualist in one.

Thank you Whitman for helping me to express myself !

” I do not press my finger across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing hearing and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. ”

My body is a shrine of my physical and mental experiences.

Each of my senses is a bliss.

I am a materialist and spiritualist in one.

Thank you Whitman for helping me to express myself !

” I do not press my finger across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing hearing and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. ”

My body is a shrine of my physical and mental experiences.

Each of my senses is a bliss.

I am a materialist and spiritualist in one.

Thank you Whitman for helping me to express myself !

” I do not press my finger across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing hearing and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. ”

My body is a shrine of my physical and mental experiences.

Each of my senses is a bliss.

I am a materialist and spiritualist in one.

Thank you Whitman for helping me to express myself !

” I do not press my finger across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing hearing and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. ”

My body is a shrine of my physical and mental experiences.

Each of my senses is a bliss.

I am a materialist and spiritualist in one.

Thank you Whitman for helping me to express myself !

” I do not press my finger across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing hearing and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. ”

My body is a shrine of my physical and mental experiences.

Each of my senses is a bliss.

I am a materialist and spiritualist in one.

Thank you Whitman for helping me to express myself !

” I do not press my finger across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing hearing and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. ”

My body is a shrine of my physical and mental experiences.

Each of my senses is a bliss.

I am a materialist and spiritualist in one.

Thank you Whitman for helping me to express myself !

“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 have posted this passage because that was how I felt in that very moment. I wanted

to lose myself in the grass, to stop breathing and thinking for a single moment, to

shake off all the barriers and limitations of everyday life restraining me, suffocating

me.  I wanted to “loose the stop from my throat” and listen to the lull of my soul.

I wanted to be that poppy, alone and silent, holding myself on that tiny stem against

the threatening sky. ]]> http://lena.lookingforwhitman.org/2009/11/06/what-lies-within/ Fri, 06 Nov 2009 22:05:25 +0000 http://252.155

“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 have posted this passage because that was how I felt in that very moment. I wanted

to lose myself in the grass, to stop breathing and thinking for a single moment, to

shake off all the barriers and limitations of everyday life restraining me, suffocating

me.  I wanted to “loose the stop from my throat” and listen to the lull of my soul.

I wanted to be that poppy, alone and silent, holding myself on that tiny stem against

the threatening sky. ]]> http://lena.lookingforwhitman.org/2009/11/06/what-lies-within/ Fri, 06 Nov 2009 22:05:25 +0000 http://226.311

“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 have posted this passage because that was how I felt in that very moment. I wanted

to lose myself in the grass, to stop breathing and thinking for a single moment, to

shake off all the barriers and limitations of everyday life restraining me, suffocating

me.  I wanted to “loose the stop from my throat” and listen to the lull of my soul.

I wanted to be that poppy, alone and silent, holding myself on that tiny stem against

the threatening sky. ]]> http://frontispiece.lookingforwhitman.org/2009/11/06/what-lies-within%e2%80%a6/ Fri, 06 Nov 2009 22:05:25 +0000 http://226.139

“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 have posted this passage because that was how I felt in that very moment. I wanted

to lose myself in the grass, to stop breathing and thinking for a single moment, to

shake off all the barriers and limitations of everyday life restraining me, suffocating

me.  I wanted to “loose the stop from my throat” and listen to the lull of my soul.

I wanted to be that poppy, alone and silent, holding myself on that tiny stem against

the threatening sky. ]]> http://lena.lookingforwhitman.org/2009/11/06/what-lies-within/ Fri, 06 Nov 2009 22:05:25 +0000 http://252.155

“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 have posted this passage because that was how I felt in that very moment. I wanted

to lose myself in the grass, to stop breathing and thinking for a single moment, to

shake off all the barriers and limitations of everyday life restraining me, suffocating

me.  I wanted to “loose the stop from my throat” and listen to the lull of my soul.

I wanted to be that poppy, alone and silent, holding myself on that tiny stem against

the threatening sky. ]]> http://lena.lookingforwhitman.org/2009/11/06/what-lies-within/ Fri, 06 Nov 2009 22:05:25 +0000 http://226.166

“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 have posted this passage because that was how I felt in that very moment. I wanted

to lose myself in the grass, to stop breathing and thinking for a single moment, to

shake off all the barriers and limitations of everyday life restraining me, suffocating

me.  I wanted to “loose the stop from my throat” and listen to the lull of my soul.

I wanted to be that poppy, alone and silent, holding myself on that tiny stem against

the threatening sky. ]]> http://frontispiece.lookingforwhitman.org/2009/11/06/song-of-dragan/ Fri, 06 Nov 2009 14:04:25 +0000 http://226.135 This face is a lifeboat;
This is the face commanding and bearded . . . . it asks no odds of the rest;
This face is flavored fruit ready for eating;

This face of a healthy honest boy is the programme of all good.

LoG, 1855, pg. 84

And the one I also like and just had to post:

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought
is won

O Captain! My Captain!, 1887

This face is a lifeboat;
This is the face commanding and bearded . . . . it asks no odds of the rest;
This face is flavored fruit ready for eating;

This face of a healthy honest boy is the programme of all good.

LoG, 1855, pg. 84

And the one I also like and just had to post:

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought
is won

O Captain! My Captain!, 1887

This face is a lifeboat;
This is the face commanding and bearded . . . . it asks no odds of the rest;
This face is flavored fruit ready for eating;

This face of a healthy honest boy is the programme of all good.

LoG, 1855, pg. 84

And the one I also like and just had to post:

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought
is won

O Captain! My Captain!, 1887

This face is a lifeboat;
This is the face commanding and bearded . . . . it asks no odds of the rest;
This face is flavored fruit ready for eating;

This face of a healthy honest boy is the programme of all good.

LoG, 1855, pg. 84

And the one I also like and just had to post:

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought
is won

O Captain! My Captain!, 1887

This face is a lifeboat;
This is the face commanding and bearded . . . . it asks no odds of the rest;
This face is flavored fruit ready for eating;

This face of a healthy honest boy is the programme of all good.

LoG, 1855, pg. 84

And the one I also like and just had to post:

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought
is won

O Captain! My Captain!, 1887

This face is a lifeboat;
This is the face commanding and bearded . . . . it asks no odds of the rest;
This face is flavored fruit ready for eating;

This face of a healthy honest boy is the programme of all good.

LoG, 1855, pg. 84

And the one I also like and just had to post:

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought
is won

O Captain! My Captain!, 1887

Long enough have you dreamed contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life.

Long have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, and rise again and nod to me and shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.

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.
(“Song of Myself”, 1855, p.86)

“I have never understood why he should be called ‘the good gray poet,’” wrote the novelist Henry Miller.  ” The color of his language, his temperament, his whole being is electric blue.”

Blue is my favorite color– the color of the eddies lapping the Brooklyn bridge and ferries, the color of the deep nightswimming sky over Mannahatta, the color of his eyes, the color of these lines.  Water imagery floats through the poems of Leaves of Grass, and it’s not just because Walt loved swimming and bathing (which he absolutely did, by the way.  In the ’40s, he frequented several ‘floating pools’ docked along the Brooklyn shore, favoring “Gray’s Salt Water Baths” through his years editing the Brooklyn Eagle).

Water, and by my own leap of imagination the color blue, represents refreshment and renewal.  Consider the daily baptisms that framed his working days as he commuted to and from Brooklyn to Manhattan’s Newspaper Row.  As Whitman suggests in “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” this ritual cleansing helped clarify his purposes, stabilize his insecurities, and purify his darkest days.  Or think of the plunge the 29th bather takes in the world’s favorite passage from “Song of Myself.”  Here is a person– maybe even a woman!– who is living out her desires for the first time, coming out from behind the curtains to celebrate her body, fulfill her soul.

On 14 October 1842, Walt was part of the massive crowd gathered in City Hall Park to see the first-time spectacle of fresh running water.  Spouting nearly 50 feet high, the Croton Fountain symbolized the successful completion of the Croton Acqueduct, one of the nineteenth century’s greatest engineering feats.  It also represented a much needed new defense against the great fires that destroyed whole neighborhoods in the early part of the century, as well as a force to combat the epidemics of yellow fever and cholera that swept through the city’s tenements and slums.

What do I see and admire in these electric blue lines?  Whitman’s celebration of beginnings (again and again!), of taking the plunge, of diving right in.  His appreciation of the beautiful different strokes of us different folks.   His developing idea of the fluidity of identity.  And our swim together through oceans and oceans of love.

That's me in the corner (as dear Mr. Stipe would sing), with my NYU students at the Croton Fountain.

Long enough have you dreamed contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life.

Long have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, and rise again and nod to me and shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.

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.
(”Song of Myself”, 1855, p.86)

“I have never understood why he should be called ‘the good gray poet,’” wrote the novelist Henry Miller.  ” The color of his language, his temperament, his whole being is electric blue.”

Blue is my favorite color– the color of the eddies lapping the Brooklyn bridge and ferries, the color of the deep nightswimming sky over Mannahatta, the color of his eyes, the color of these lines.  Water imagery floats through the poems of Leaves of Grass, and it’s not just because Walt loved swimming and bathing (which he absolutely did, by the way.  In the ’40s, he frequented several ‘floating pools’ docked along the Brooklyn shore, favoring “Gray’s Salt Water Baths” through his years editing the Brooklyn Eagle).

Water, and by my own leap of imagination the color blue, represents refreshment and renewal.  Consider the daily baptisms that framed his working days as he commuted to and from Brooklyn to Manhattan’s Newspaper Row.  As Whitman suggests in “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” this ritual cleansing helped clarify his purposes, stabilize his insecurities, and purify his darkest days.  Or think of the plunge the 29th bather takes in the world’s favorite passage from “Song of Myself.”  Here is a person– maybe even a woman!– who is living out her desires for the first time, coming out from behind the curtains to celebrate her body, fulfill her soul.

On 14 October 1842, Walt was part of the massive crowd gathered in City Hall Park to see the first-time spectacle of fresh running water.  Spouting nearly 50 feet high, the Croton Fountain symbolized the successful completion of the Croton Acqueduct, one of the nineteenth century’s greatest engineering feats.  It also represented a much needed new defense against the great fires that destroyed whole neighborhoods in the early part of the century, as well as a force to combat the epidemics of yellow fever and cholera that swept through the city’s tenements and slums.

What do I see and admire in these electric blue lines?  Whitman’s celebration of beginnings (again and again!), of taking the plunge, of diving right in.  His appreciation of the beautiful different strokes of us different folks.   His developing idea of the fluidity of identity.  And our swim together through oceans and oceans of love.

That's me in the corner (as dear Mr. Stipe would sing), with my NYU students at the Croton Fountain.

Long enough have you dreamed contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life.

Long have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, and rise again and nod to me and shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.

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.
(“Song of Myself”, 1855, p.86)

“I have never understood why he should be called ‘the good gray poet,’” wrote the novelist Henry Miller.  ” The color of his language, his temperament, his whole being is electric blue.”

Blue is my favorite color– the color of the eddies lapping the Brooklyn bridge and ferries, the color of the deep nightswimming sky over Mannahatta, the color of his eyes, the color of these lines.  Water imagery floats through the poems of Leaves of Grass, and it’s not just because Walt loved swimming and bathing (which he absolutely did, by the way.  In the ’40s, he frequented several ‘floating pools’ docked along the Brooklyn shore, favoring “Gray’s Salt Water Baths” through his years editing the Brooklyn Eagle).

Water, and by my own leap of imagination the color blue, represents refreshment and renewal.  Consider the daily baptisms that framed his working days as he commuted to and from Brooklyn to Manhattan’s Newspaper Row.  As Whitman suggests in “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” this ritual cleansing helped clarify his purposes, stabilize his insecurities, and purify his darkest days.  Or think of the plunge the 29th bather takes in the world’s favorite passage from “Song of Myself.”  Here is a person– maybe even a woman!– who is living out her desires for the first time, coming out from behind the curtains to celebrate her body, fulfill her soul.

On 14 October 1842, Walt was part of the massive crowd gathered in City Hall Park to see the first-time spectacle of fresh running water.  Spouting nearly 50 feet high, the Croton Fountain symbolized the successful completion of the Croton Acqueduct, one of the nineteenth century’s greatest engineering feats.  It also represented a much needed new defense against the great fires that destroyed whole neighborhoods in the early part of the century, as well as a force to combat the epidemics of yellow fever and cholera that swept through the city’s tenements and slums.

What do I see and admire in these electric blue lines?  Whitman’s celebration of beginnings (again and again!), of taking the plunge, of diving right in.  His appreciation of the beautiful different strokes of us different folks.   His developing idea of the fluidity of identity.  And our swim together through oceans and oceans of love.

That's me in the corner (as dear Mr. Stipe would sing), with my NYU students at the Croton Fountain.

Long enough have you dreamed contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life.

Long have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, and rise again and nod to me and shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.

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.
(“Song of Myself”, 1855, p.86)

“I have never understood why he should be called ‘the good gray poet,’” wrote the novelist Henry Miller.  ” The color of his language, his temperament, his whole being is electric blue.”

Blue is my favorite color– the color of the eddies lapping the Brooklyn bridge and ferries, the color of the deep nightswimming sky over Mannahatta, the color of his eyes, the color of these lines.  Water imagery floats through the poems of Leaves of Grass, and it’s not just because Walt loved swimming and bathing (which he absolutely did, by the way.  In the ’40s, he frequented several ‘floating pools’ docked along the Brooklyn shore, favoring “Gray’s Salt Water Baths” through his years editing the Brooklyn Eagle).

Water, and by my own leap of imagination the color blue, represents refreshment and renewal.  Consider the daily baptisms that framed his working days as he commuted to and from Brooklyn to Manhattan’s Newspaper Row.  As Whitman suggests in “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” this ritual cleansing helped clarify his purposes, stabilize his insecurities, and purify his darkest days.  Or think of the plunge the 29th bather takes in the world’s favorite passage from “Song of Myself.”  Here is a person– maybe even a woman!– who is living out her desires for the first time, coming out from behind the curtains to celebrate her body, fulfill her soul.

On 14 October 1842, Walt was part of the massive crowd gathered in City Hall Park to see the first-time spectacle of fresh running water.  Spouting nearly 50 feet high, the Croton Fountain symbolized the successful completion of the Croton Acqueduct, one of the nineteenth century’s greatest engineering feats.  It also represented a much needed new defense against the great fires that destroyed whole neighborhoods in the early part of the century, as well as a force to combat the epidemics of yellow fever and cholera that swept through the city’s tenements and slums.

What do I see and admire in these electric blue lines?  Whitman’s celebration of beginnings (again and again!), of taking the plunge, of diving right in.  His appreciation of the beautiful different strokes of us different folks.   His developing idea of the fluidity of identity.  And our swim together through oceans and oceans of love.

That's me in the corner (as dear Mr. Stipe would sing), with my NYU students at the Croton Fountain.

(Marko Skrbic photography)

Some time ago I made a promise to myself… Actually a few of them, some kind of a New Year’s resolution. “I will try to write a letter to one of my favorite illustrators (Brian Froud), I will finally stop biting my nails and I will definitely become a blogger.” I’m starting that letter for the hundredth time now, my nails are getting shorter and shorter, but at least I have this blog!

“Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet…. the effect upon me of my early life…. or the ward and
city I live in…. or the nation,
The latest news…. discoveries, inventions, societies…. authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks – or of myself…. or ill-doing…. or loss
or lack of money…. or depressions or exaltations,
They come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.”

Song of Myself. (1855)

Try reading it without the ellipses… It’s just not the same. Not only the words, but the design of the sentences as well talks about the connection between the physical and the spiritual. Whitman was trying to put his soul on paper, to connect the two, to make you read his thoughts. In the 1891 “Death-bed” Edition of Leaves of Grass he omits the ellipses and only then do we see how this passage becomes harder to relate to. The personal and individual touch is lost, the pauses he deliberately prolonged are gone and the magic is just not there any more.

(Marko Skrbic photography)

Some time ago I made a promise to myself… Actually a few of them, some kind of a New Year’s resolution. “I will try to write a letter to one of my favorite illustrators (Brian Froud), I will finally stop biting my nails and I will definitely become a blogger.” I’m starting that letter for the hundredth time now, my nails are getting shorter and shorter, but at least I have this blog!

“Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet…. the effect upon me of my early life…. or the ward and
city I live in…. or the nation,
The latest news…. discoveries, inventions, societies…. authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks – or of myself…. or ill-doing…. or loss
or lack of money…. or depressions or exaltations,
They come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.”

Song of Myself. (1855)

Try reading it without the ellipses… It’s just not the same. Not only the words, but the design of the sentences as well talks about the connection between the physical and the spiritual. Whitman was trying to put his soul on paper, to connect the two, to make you read his thoughts. In the 1891 “Death-bed” Edition of Leaves of Grass he omits the ellipses and only then do we see how this passage becomes harder to relate to. The personal and individual touch is lost, the pauses he deliberately prolonged are gone and the magic is just not there any more.

(Marko Skrbic photography)

Some time ago I made a promise to myself… Actually a few of them, some kind of a New Year’s resolution. “I will try to write a letter to one of my favorite illustrators (Brian Froud), I will finally stop biting my nails and I will definitely become a blogger.” I’m starting that letter for the hundredth time now, my nails are getting shorter and shorter, but at least I have this blog!

“Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet…. the effect upon me of my early life…. or the ward and
city I live in…. or the nation,
The latest news…. discoveries, inventions, societies…. authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks – or of myself…. or ill-doing…. or loss
or lack of money…. or depressions or exaltations,
They come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.”

Song of Myself. (1855)

Try reading it without the ellipses… It’s just not the same. Not only the words, but the design of the sentences as well talks about the connection between the physical and the spiritual. Whitman was trying to put his soul on paper, to connect the two, to make you read his thoughts. In the 1891 “Death-bed” Edition of Leaves of Grass he omits the ellipses and only then do we see how this passage becomes harder to relate to. The personal and individual touch is lost, the pauses he deliberately prolonged are gone and the magic is just not there any more.

(Marko Skrbic photography)

Some time ago I made a promise to myself… Actually a few of them, some kind of a New Year’s resolution. “I will try to write a letter to one of my favorite illustrators (Brian Froud), I will finally stop biting my nails and I will definitely become a blogger.” I’m starting that letter for the hundredth time now, my nails are getting shorter and shorter, but at least I have this blog!

“Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet…. the effect upon me of my early life…. or the ward and
city I live in…. or the nation,
The latest news…. discoveries, inventions, societies…. authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks – or of myself…. or ill-doing…. or loss
or lack of money…. or depressions or exaltations,
They come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.”

Song of Myself. (1855)

Try reading it without the ellipses… It’s just not the same. Not only the words, but the design of the sentences as well talks about the connection between the physical and the spiritual. Whitman was trying to put his soul on paper, to connect the two, to make you read his thoughts. In the 1891 “Death-bed” Edition of Leaves of Grass he omits the ellipses and only then do we see how this passage becomes harder to relate to. The personal and individual touch is lost, the pauses he deliberately prolonged are gone and the magic is just not there any more.

(Marko Skrbic photography)

Some time ago I made a promise to myself… Actually a few of them, some kind of a New Year’s resolution. “I will try to write a letter to one of my favorite illustrators (Brian Froud), I will finally stop biting my nails and I will definitely become a blogger.” I’m starting that letter for the hundredth time now, my nails are getting shorter and shorter, but at least I have this blog!

“Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet…. the effect upon me of my early life…. or the ward and
city I live in…. or the nation,
The latest news…. discoveries, inventions, societies…. authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks – or of myself…. or ill-doing…. or loss
or lack of money…. or depressions or exaltations,
They come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.”

Song of Myself. (1855)

Try reading it without the ellipses… It’s just not the same. Not only the words, but the design of the sentences as well talks about the connection between the physical and the spiritual. Whitman was trying to put his soul on paper, to connect the two, to make you read his thoughts. In the 1891 “Death-bed” Edition of Leaves of Grass he omits the ellipses and only then do we see how this passage becomes harder to relate to. The personal and individual touch is lost, the pauses he deliberately prolonged are gone and the magic is just not there any more.

(Marko Skrbic photography)

Some time ago I made a promise to myself… Actually a few of them, some kind of a New Year’s resolution. “I will try to write a letter to one of my favorite illustrators (Brian Froud), I will finally stop biting my nails and I will definitely become a blogger.” I’m starting that letter for the hundredth time now, my nails are getting shorter and shorter, but at least I have this blog!

“Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet…. the effect upon me of my early life…. or the ward and
city I live in…. or the nation,
The latest news…. discoveries, inventions, societies…. authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks – or of myself…. or ill-doing…. or loss
or lack of money…. or depressions or exaltations,
They come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.”

Song of Myself. (1855)

Try reading it without the ellipses… It’s just not the same. Not only the words, but the design of the sentences as well talks about the connection between the physical and the spiritual. Whitman was trying to put his soul on paper, to connect the two, to make you read his thoughts. In the 1891 “Death-bed” Edition of Leaves of Grass he omits the ellipses and only then do we see how this passage becomes harder to relate to. The personal and individual touch is lost, the pauses he deliberately prolonged are gone and the magic is just not there any more.

They do not know how immortal, but I know.

Now, I feel the need to explain why I have chosen this particular passage from the Song of Myself. First, and the foremost, I felt it close to my own understanding of the world. I could not but admire the tranquility with which he speaks of death as of something, not only perfectly normal, but also beautiful. It made me wonder what would my life be like if I too were so free from fear and so courageous to “stare directly into the sun”. Maybe the only way to live as fully as possible is to rid oneself of the fear of the eventual end. An that is what Whitman says in these lines – if you want to celebrate life, first you must accept death, not as the end, but as an inevitable change.

They do not know how immortal, but I know.

Now, I feel the need to explain why I have chosen this particular passage from the Song of Myself. First, and the foremost, I felt it close to my own understanding of the world. I could not but admire the tranquility with which he speaks of death as of something, not only perfectly normal, but also beautiful. It made me wonder what would my life be like if I too were so free from fear and so courageous to “stare directly into the sun”. Maybe the only way to live as fully as possible is to rid oneself of the fear of the eventual end. An that is what Whitman says in these lines – if you want to celebrate life, first you must accept death, not as the end, but as an inevitable change.

They do not know how immortal, but I know.

Now, I feel the need to explain why I have chosen this particular passage from the Song of Myself. First, and the foremost, I felt it close to my own understanding of the world. I could not but admire the tranquility with which he speaks of death as of something, not only perfectly normal, but also beautiful. It made me wonder what would my life be like if I too were so free from fear and so courageous to “stare directly into the sun”. Maybe the only way to live as fully as possible is to rid oneself of the fear of the eventual end. An that is what Whitman says in these lines – if you want to celebrate life, first you must accept death, not as the end, but as an inevitable change.

They do not know how immortal, but I know.

Now, I feel the need to explain why I have chosen this particular passage from the Song of Myself. First, and the foremost, I felt it close to my own understanding of the world. I could not but admire the tranquility with which he speaks of death as of something, not only perfectly normal, but also beautiful. It made me wonder what would my life be like if I too were so free from fear and so courageous to “stare directly into the sun”. Maybe the only way to live as fully as possible is to rid oneself of the fear of the eventual end. An that is what Whitman says in these lines – if you want to celebrate life, first you must accept death, not as the end, but as an inevitable change.

They do not know how immortal, but I know.

Now, I feel the need to explain why I have chosen this particular passage from the Song of Myself. First, and the foremost, I felt it close to my own understanding of the world. I could not but admire the tranquility with which he speaks of death as of something, not only perfectly normal, but also beautiful. It made me wonder what would my life be like if I too were so free from fear and so courageous to “stare directly into the sun”. Maybe the only way to live as fully as possible is to rid oneself of the fear of the eventual end. An that is what Whitman says in these lines – if you want to celebrate life, first you must accept death, not as the end, but as an inevitable change.

They do not know how immortal, but I know.

Now, I feel the need to explain why I have chosen this particular passage from the Song of Myself. First, and the foremost, I felt it close to my own understanding of the world. I could not but admire the tranquility with which he speaks of death as of something, not only perfectly normal, but also beautiful. It made me wonder what would my life be like if I too were so free from fear and so courageous to “stare directly into the sun”. Maybe the only way to live as fully as possible is to rid oneself of the fear of the eventual end. An that is what Whitman says in these lines – if you want to celebrate life, first you must accept death, not as the end, but as an inevitable change.

“I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far-west . . . . the bride was
a red girl,

I had him sit next me at table . . . . my firelock leaned in the corner.”

Although there are many sections in the poem that are just breathtaking, I chose this passage from the 1855 version of “Leaves of Grass” as my favorite. Walt Whitman is, in my humble opinion, one of the few poets that succeeds in portraying the exact image to his readers. While reading this passage about the marriage of a trapper and a red girl and the story about the runaway slave, I was more than astonished by the scenes that seemed to happen right in front of me.

At the time when the poem was written there were many talks and debates concerning tolerance, slavery, equality etc. These two scenes show Whitman’s stance on the matter, and very well draw a pretty precise sketch of my opinion on these antebellum problems.

I was positively overwhelmed with the amount of work we did during our first class period on the 31st. The introductory class was great and the high point was definitely reading the poem out loud, and holding the old green “Leaves of Grass” copy. Can’t wait for Saturday!

“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” (46)

~*~*~*~*~*~

As Whitman also inscribes within these lines, life can often shed moments of heaven and hell at the same time. How, you ask? Well, take a look at the picture above for instance. It may seem like a mere snapshot of a couple grown adults with a bunch of children. However, have you thought of what might be there beneath these smiles? In fact, if you take an even more meticulous look, notice how most of the kids are not smiling. Perhaps, one or two of them may be staring at you with a rather weak grin. These faces who are staring at you from your computer screen as we speak are a few of the many lost, abandoned children of South Korea.

This past summer, I flew to Korea for the first time and spent about three months eating, sleeping, and teaching English to orphans from remote areas of South Korea. Technically, I was asked to teach them English. However, after a couple weeks living and breathing with them under one roof, I ended up teaching them more than mere English. I taught them self-confidence, self-esteem, survival skills. But that wasn’t all. I wasn’t the only teacher there. They taught me life.

We ended up teaching each other life. Humanity.

If you wonder what it’s like to experience heaven and hell in one particular space and time, try flying  yourself to an orphanage and look into the eyes of one lost child. (Apparently, I think I’m beginning to sound like some sort of quack advertiser for a junk product…) but really, you’d feel heaven through these kids’ smiles and laughter. Then a moment later, hell, through their tears, empty eyes and fake laughter.

This picture was the day I had to leave Korea. As the child I am holding hands with looks up and asks me, “Mommy, where are you going,” at this moment in time, I’d say was one of the epitomes of Hell-experiences I’ve had to face in my life.

“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” (46)

~*~*~*~*~*~

As Whitman also inscribes within these lines, life can often shed moments of heaven and hell at the same time. How, you ask? Well, take a look at the picture above for instance. It may seem like a mere snapshot of a couple grown adults with a bunch of children. However, have you thought of what might be there beneath these smiles? In fact, if you take an even more meticulous look, notice how most of the kids are not smiling. Perhaps, one or two of them may be staring at you with a rather weak grin. These faces who are staring at you from your computer screen as we speak are a few of the many lost, abandoned children of South Korea.

This past summer, I flew to Korea for the first time and spent about three months eating, sleeping, and teaching English to orphans from remote areas of South Korea. Technically, I was asked to teach them English. However, after a couple weeks living and breathing with them under one roof, I ended up teaching them more than mere English. I taught them self-confidence, self-esteem, survival skills. But that wasn’t all. I wasn’t the only teacher there. They taught me life.

We ended up teaching each other life. Humanity.

If you wonder what it’s like to experience heaven and hell in one particular space and time, try flying  yourself to an orphanage and look into the eyes of one lost child. (Apparently, I think I’m beginning to sound like some sort of quack advertiser for a junk product…) but really, you’d feel heaven through these kids’ smiles and laughter. Then a moment later, hell, through their tears, empty eyes and fake laughter.

This picture was the day I had to leave Korea. As the child I am holding hands with looks up and asks me, “Mommy, where are you going,” at this moment in time, I’d say was one of the epitomes of Hell-experiences I’ve had to face in my life.

“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” (46)

~*~*~*~*~*~

As Whitman also inscribes within these lines, life can often shed moments of heaven and hell at the same time. How, you ask? Well, take a look at the picture above for instance. It may seem like a mere snapshot of a couple grown adults with a bunch of children. However, have you thought of what might be there beneath these smiles? In fact, if you take an even more meticulous look, notice how most of the kids are not smiling. Perhaps, one or two of them may be staring at you with a rather weak grin. These faces who are staring at you from your computer screen as we speak are a few of the many lost, abandoned children of South Korea.

This past summer, I flew to Korea for the first time and spent about three months eating, sleeping, and teaching English to orphans from remote areas of South Korea. Technically, I was asked to teach them English. However, after a couple weeks living and breathing with them under one roof, I ended up teaching them more than mere English. I taught them self-confidence, self-esteem, survival skills. But that wasn’t all. I wasn’t the only teacher there. They taught me life.

We ended up teaching each other life. Humanity.

If you wonder what it’s like to experience heaven and hell in one particular space and time, try flying  yourself to an orphanage and look into the eyes of one lost child. (Apparently, I think I’m beginning to sound like some sort of quack advertiser for a junk product…) but really, you’d feel heaven through these kids’ smiles and laughter. Then a moment later, hell, through their tears, empty eyes and fake laughter.

This picture was the day I had to leave Korea. As the child I am holding hands with looks up and asks me, “Mommy, where are you going,” at this moment in time, I’d say was one of the epitomes of Hell-experiences I’ve had to face in my life.

“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” (46)

~*~*~*~*~*~

As Whitman also inscribes within these lines, life can often shed moments of heaven and hell at the same time. How, you ask? Well, take a look at the picture above for instance. It may seem like a mere snapshot of a couple grown adults with a bunch of children. However, have you thought of what might be there beneath these smiles? In fact, if you take an even more meticulous look, notice how most of the kids are not smiling. Perhaps, one or two of them may be staring at you with a rather weak grin. These faces who are staring at you from your computer screen as we speak are a few of the many lost, abandoned children of South Korea.

This past summer, I flew to Korea for the first time and spent about three months eating, sleeping, and teaching English to orphans from remote areas of South Korea. Technically, I was asked to teach them English. However, after a couple weeks living and breathing with them under one roof, I ended up teaching them more than mere English. I taught them self-confidence, self-esteem, survival skills. But that wasn’t all. I wasn’t the only teacher there. They taught me life.

We ended up teaching each other life. Humanity.

If you wonder what it’s like to experience heaven and hell in one particular space and time, try flying  yourself to an orphanage and look into the eyes of one lost child. (Apparently, I think I’m beginning to sound like some sort of quack advertiser for a junk product…) but really, you’d feel heaven through these kids’ smiles and laughter. Then a moment later, hell, through their tears, empty eyes and fake laughter.

This picture was the day I had to leave Korea. As the child I am holding hands with looks up and asks me, “Mommy, where are you going,” at this moment in time, I’d say was one of the epitomes of Hell-experiences I’ve had to face in my life.

“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” (46)

~*~*~*~*~*~

As Whitman also inscribes within these lines, life can often shed moments of heaven and hell at the same time. How, you ask? Well, take a look at the picture above for instance. It may seem like a mere snapshot of a couple grown adults with a bunch of children. However, have you thought of what might be there beneath these smiles? In fact, if you take an even more meticulous look, notice how most of the kids are not smiling. Perhaps, one or two of them may be staring at you with a rather weak grin. These faces who are staring at you from your computer screen as we speak are a few of the many lost, abandoned children of South Korea.

This past summer, I flew to Korea for the first time and spent about three months eating, sleeping, and teaching English to orphans from remote areas of South Korea. Technically, I was asked to teach them English. However, after a couple weeks living and breathing with them under one roof, I ended up teaching them more than mere English. I taught them self-confidence, self-esteem, survival skills. But that wasn’t all. I wasn’t the only teacher there. They taught me life.

We ended up teaching each other life. Humanity.

If you wonder what it’s like to experience heaven and hell in one particular space and time, try flying  yourself to an orphanage and look into the eyes of one lost child. (Apparently, I think I’m beginning to sound like some sort of quack advertiser for a junk product…) but really, you’d feel heaven through these kids’ smiles and laughter. Then a moment later, hell, through their tears, empty eyes and fake laughter.

This picture was the day I had to leave Korea. As the child I am holding hands with looks up and asks me, “Mommy, where are you going,” at this moment in time, I’d say was one of the epitomes of Hell-experiences I’ve had to face in my life.

“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” (46)

~*~*~*~*~*~

As Whitman also inscribes within these lines, life can often shed moments of heaven and hell at the same time. How, you ask? Well, take a look at the picture above for instance. It may seem like a mere snapshot of a couple grown adults with a bunch of children. However, have you thought of what might be there beneath these smiles? In fact, if you take an even more meticulous look, notice how most of the kids are not smiling. Perhaps, one or two of them may be staring at you with a rather weak grin. These faces who are staring at you from your computer screen as we speak are a few of the many lost, abandoned children of South Korea.

This past summer, I flew to Korea for the first time and spent about three months eating, sleeping, and teaching English to orphans from remote areas of South Korea. Technically, I was asked to teach them English. However, after a couple weeks living and breathing with them under one roof, I ended up teaching them more than mere English. I taught them self-confidence, self-esteem, survival skills. But that wasn’t all. I wasn’t the only teacher there. They taught me life.

We ended up teaching each other life. Humanity.

If you wonder what it’s like to experience heaven and hell in one particular space and time, try flying  yourself to an orphanage and look into the eyes of one lost child. (Apparently, I think I’m beginning to sound like some sort of quack advertiser for a junk product…) but really, you’d feel heaven through these kids’ smiles and laughter. Then a moment later, hell, through their tears, empty eyes and fake laughter.

This picture was the day I had to leave Korea. As the child I am holding hands with looks up and asks me, “Mommy, where are you going,” at this moment in time, I’d say was one of the epitomes of Hell-experiences I’ve had to face in my life.

All truths wait in all things,

They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,

They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,

The insignificant is as big to me as any,

(What is less or more than a touch?)

Logic and sermons never convince,

The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

All truths wait in all things,

They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,

They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,

The insignificant is as big to me as any,

(What is less or more than a touch?)

Logic and sermons never convince,

The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

All truths wait in all things,

They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,

They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,

The insignificant is as big to me as any,

(What is less or more than a touch?)

Logic and sermons never convince,

The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

All truths wait in all things,

They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,

They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,

The insignificant is as big to me as any,

(What is less or more than a touch?)

Logic and sermons never convince,

The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

All truths wait in all things,

They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,

They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,

The insignificant is as big to me as any,

(What is less or more than a touch?)

Logic and sermons never convince,

The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

All truths wait in all things,

They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,

They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,

The insignificant is as big to me as any,

(What is less or more than a touch?)

Logic and sermons never convince,

The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

All truths wait in all things,

They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,

They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,

The insignificant is as big to me as any,

(What is less or more than a touch?)

Logic and sermons never convince,

The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

“I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,

- Walt Whitman

“I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,

- Walt Whitman

“I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,

– Walt Whitman

“I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,

- Walt Whitman

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.

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.

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.

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.

I tramp a perpetual journey,
My signs are a rain-proof coat and good shoes and a staff cut from
the woods;
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, nor church nor philosophy;
I lead no man to a dinner-table or library or exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a
knoll,
My left hand hooks you round the waist,
My right hand points to landscapes of continents, and a plain
public road.

Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself.

I tramp a perpetual journey,
My signs are a rain-proof coat and good shoes and a staff cut from
the woods;
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, nor church nor philosophy;
I lead no man to a dinner-table or library or exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a
knoll,
My left hand hooks you round the waist,
My right hand points to landscapes of continents, and a plain
public road.

Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself.

I tramp a perpetual journey,
My signs are a rain-proof coat and good shoes and a staff cut from
the woods;
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, nor church nor philosophy;
I lead no man to a dinner-table or library or exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a
knoll,
My left hand hooks you round the waist,
My right hand points to landscapes of continents, and a plain
public road.

Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself.

I know I am august,

I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,

I see that the elementary laws never apologize,

I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my

house by after all.

I exist as I am, that is enough,

If no other in the world be aware I sit content,

And if each and all be aware I sit content.

These lines are pretty self explanatory-and relate to my current state of mind.  I am content with my life, for now, and confident–but not overconfident.  I like how Whitman demonstrates his strength of character in these lines–and many others–without being too “cocky.”  This is  where I am in my own life.

As for the photo, I thought my puppy, Linus, would add a nice touch.  He is a very confident, unapologetic, dog:  He’s never afraid to have his voice be heard–he always has the last bark.  If he is stubborn, it is only because he is so smart.  Anyway, Linus never fails to put a smile on my face–even when he’s misbehaving–so I thought he would put a smile on yours too.

I know I am august,

I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,

I see that the elementary laws never apologize,

I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my

house by after all.

I exist as I am, that is enough,

If no other in the world be aware I sit content,

And if each and all be aware I sit content.

These lines are pretty self explanatory-and relate to my current state of mind.  I am content with my life, for now, and confident–but not overconfident.  I like how Whitman demonstrates his strength of character in these lines–and many others–without being too “cocky.”  This is  where I am in my own life.

As for the photo, I thought my puppy, Linus, would add a nice touch.  He is a very confident, unapologetic, dog:  He’s never afraid to have his voice be heard–he always has the last bark.  If he is stubborn, it is only because he is so smart.  Anyway, Linus never fails to put a smile on my face–even when he’s misbehaving–so I thought he would put a smile on yours too.

I know I am august,

I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,

I see that the elementary laws never apologize,

I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my

house by after all.

I exist as I am, that is enough,

If no other in the world be aware I sit content,

And if each and all be aware I sit content.

These lines are pretty self explanatory-and relate to my current state of mind.  I am content with my life, for now, and confident–but not overconfident.  I like how Whitman demonstrates his strength of character in these lines–and many others–without being too “cocky.”  This is  where I am in my own life.

As for the photo, I thought my puppy, Linus, would add a nice touch.  He is a very confident, unapologetic, dog:  He’s never afraid to have his voice be heard–he always has the last bark.  If he is stubborn, it is only because he is so smart.  Anyway, Linus never fails to put a smile on my face–even when he’s misbehaving–so I thought he would put a smile on yours too.

My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain,

The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms,

The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be

         there.

I know I have the best of time and space, and was never

          measured and never will be measured.

I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)

My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain,

The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms,

The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be

         there.

I know I have the best of time and space, and was never

          measured and never will be measured.

I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)

My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain,

The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms,

The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be

         there.

I know I have the best of time and space, and was never

          measured and never will be measured.

I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)

A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

I have heard what the talkers were talking….the talk of the

beginning and the end,

But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,

Nor any more youth or age than there is now;

And will never be any more perfection than there is now,

Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

I have heard what the talkers were talking….the talk of the

beginning and the end,

But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,

Nor any more youth or age than there is now;

And will never be any more perfection than there is now,

Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

I have heard what the talkers were talking….the talk of the

beginning and the end,

But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,

Nor any more youth or age than there is now;

And will never be any more perfection than there is now,

Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

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.

It is easy to spot the line that I have identified with the picture, “loaf with me on the grass . . . . loose the stop from your throat.” In the Reynolds bio, loaferism consistently comes up, Reynolds demostrates the loafer ideals that are related with the politics and journalism of Walt’s time. Reynolds goes on to quote a line aligning loafers with all the philosphers of all history(I will find that line and make an addedum to this post, I believe it is actually Walt who says it).

Loaferism has been the theme that I have liked the most so far in the readings. Bringing the ideal back to the poem, to sit in a field and listen to the nothingness, the lull or the hum of a valved voice, the valved voice of  perhaps one’s self, a lover, or perhaps a group of friends is life at its best. I think Walt would agree. 

O, the white Nike belongs to me. 

I will post a pic of me in my entirety soon on my profile. Believe it or not, I do not have internet access at my apartment, occasionally I can pirate a wireless signal from my neighbors but beyond that I have to work from the library.

I celebrate myself,

and what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance ….Always

substance and increase,

Always a knit of identity …always distinction….always a breed of life.

To elaborate is no avail…. Learned and unlearned feel that it is so.

Clear and Sweet is my soul….and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

Lack one lacks both….and the unseen is proved by the

seen,

till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

I exist as I am, that is enough,

If no other in the world be aware I sit content,

and if each and all be aware I sit content.

Do you see O my brothers and sisters?

It is not chaos or death….it is form and union and plan

….it is eternal life….it is happiness.

I celebrate myself,

and what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance ….Always

substance and increase,

Always a knit of identity …always distinction….always a breed of life.

To elaborate is no avail…. Learned and unlearned feel that it is so.

Clear and Sweet is my soul….and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

Lack one lacks both….and the unseen is proved by the

seen,

till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

I exist as I am, that is enough,

If no other in the world be aware I sit content,

and if each and all be aware I sit content.

Do you see O my brothers and sisters?

It is not chaos or death….it is form and union and plan

….it is eternal life….it is happiness.

I celebrate myself,

and what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance ….Always

substance and increase,

Always a knit of identity …always distinction….always a breed of life.

To elaborate is no avail…. Learned and unlearned feel that it is so.

Clear and Sweet is my soul….and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

Lack one lacks both….and the unseen is proved by the

seen,

till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

I exist as I am, that is enough,

If no other in the world be aware I sit content,

and if each and all be aware I sit content.

Do you see O my brothers and sisters?

It is not chaos or death….it is form and union and plan

….it is eternal life….it is happiness.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes . . . . the shelves

Are crowded with perfumes (p. 27)

The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. (p. 27)

Unscrew the locks from the doors!

Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs! (p. 50)

I believe in the flesh and the appetites,

Seeing hearing and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. (p. 51)

NOTE: Page citations are from Whitman: Poetry and Prose. Library of America College Editions. New York, NY. 1982.

Surprisingly enough, I’m unfamiliar with Whitman’s poetry. So reading “Song of Myself” was a completely new experience.  As my eyes roamed over the page, every single line leaped at me but as soon as I read the words “perfume” and “intoxicate,” I couldn’t help but smirk because I’m known in my circle of friends for soaking up my surroundings and allowing scents (such as a fresh pizza baking in a corner restaurant) to overwhelm me. It’s no surprise, then, that the poetic images I chose for my “song” have to do with worldly senses. I’m a very passionate person and enjoy “seeing hearing and feeling” because without those perceptions, a true appreciation for life is impossible.

The photo above was taken at my shore house in Avalon, NJ, and it was snapped very recently, in the summer of 2009. This summer I wanted to “unscrew the doors” (p. 50) as Whitman put it, and not be entrapped by the normal routine. In order to enjoy my new life as a post-graduate student, I escaped from the familiar and safe confinements of my bedroom, a place where I only slept and occasionally read a book. I rarely spent a day alone. My summer days consisted of wandering the beaches with my friends at 2 am, visiting the casinos in Atlantic City, and sampling “shore food” from boardwalk cuisine to exquisite seafood. Each of these experiences is a part of me now, a “tag of me” (p. 51), and the memories are precious. Each experience is also a miracle, as Whitman phrased it, because if one of my summer plans changed even slightly (such as a friend being unable to visit for a weekend), then my earthly experience in Avalon would have been quite different and the “tag of me” might not exist today.

This “Song of Rachel” is a plea for wandering outside the doors or barriers. This “Song of Rachel” insists sensual day-to-day life is a miracle that nourishes the body. I can only hope my experiences at graduate school will be as fulfilling as my adventures in the summer.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes . . . . the shelves

Are crowded with perfumes (p. 27)

The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. (p. 27)

Unscrew the locks from the doors!

Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs! (p. 50)

I believe in the flesh and the appetites,

Seeing hearing and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. (p. 51)

NOTE: Page citations are from Whitman: Poetry and Prose. Library of America College Editions. New York, NY. 1982.

Surprisingly enough, I’m unfamiliar with Whitman’s poetry. So reading “Song of Myself” was a completely new experience.  As my eyes roamed over the page, every single line leaped at me but as soon as I read the words “perfume” and “intoxicate,” I couldn’t help but smirk because I’m known in my circle of friends for soaking up my surroundings and allowing scents (such as a fresh pizza baking in a corner restaurant) to overwhelm me. It’s no surprise, then, that the poetic images I chose for my “song” have to do with worldly senses. I’m a very passionate person and enjoy “seeing hearing and feeling” because without those perceptions, a true appreciation for life is impossible.

The photo above was taken at my shore house in Avalon, NJ, and it was snapped very recently, in the summer of 2009. This summer I wanted to “unscrew the doors” (p. 50) as Whitman put it, and not be entrapped by the normal routine. In order to enjoy my new life as a post-graduate student, I escaped from the familiar and safe confinements of my bedroom, a place where I only slept and occasionally read a book. I rarely spent a day alone. My summer days consisted of wandering the beaches with my friends at 2 am, visiting the casinos in Atlantic City, and sampling “shore food” from boardwalk cuisine to exquisite seafood. Each of these experiences is a part of me now, a “tag of me” (p. 51), and the memories are precious. Each experience is also a miracle, as Whitman phrased it, because if one of my summer plans changed even slightly (such as a friend being unable to visit for a weekend), then my earthly experience in Avalon would have been quite different and the “tag of me” might not exist today.

This “Song of Rachel” is a plea for wandering outside the doors or barriers. This “Song of Rachel” insists sensual day-to-day life is a miracle that nourishes the body. I can only hope my experiences at graduate school will be as fulfilling as my adventures in the summer.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes . . . . the shelves

Are crowded with perfumes (p. 27)

The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. (p. 27)

Unscrew the locks from the doors!

Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs! (p. 50)

I believe in the flesh and the appetites,

Seeing hearing and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. (p. 51)

NOTE: Page citations are from Whitman: Poetry and Prose. Library of America College Editions. New York, NY. 1982.

Surprisingly enough, I’m unfamiliar with Whitman’s poetry. So reading “Song of Myself” was a completely new experience.  As my eyes roamed over the page, every single line leaped at me but as soon as I read the words “perfume” and “intoxicate,” I couldn’t help but smirk because I’m known in my circle of friends for soaking up my surroundings and allowing scents (such as a fresh pizza baking in a corner restaurant) to overwhelm me. It’s no surprise, then, that the poetic images I chose for my “song” have to do with worldly senses. I’m a very passionate person and enjoy “seeing hearing and feeling” because without those perceptions, a true appreciation for life is impossible.

The photo above was taken at my shore house in Avalon, NJ, and it was snapped very recently, in the summer of 2009. This summer I wanted to “unscrew the doors” (p. 50) as Whitman put it, and not be entrapped by the normal routine. In order to enjoy my new life as a post-graduate student, I escaped from the familiar and safe confinements of my bedroom, a place where I only slept and occasionally read a book. I rarely spent a day alone. My summer days consisted of wandering the beaches with my friends at 2 am, visiting the casinos in Atlantic City, and sampling “shore food” from boardwalk cuisine to exquisite seafood. Each of these experiences is a part of me now, a “tag of me” (p. 51), and the memories are precious. Each experience is also a miracle, as Whitman phrased it, because if one of my summer plans changed even slightly (such as a friend being unable to visit for a weekend), then my earthly experience in Avalon would have been quite different and the “tag of me” might not exist today.

This “Song of Rachel” is a plea for wandering outside the doors or barriers. This “Song of Rachel” insists sensual day-to-day life is a miracle that nourishes the body. I can only hope my experiences at graduate school will be as fulfilling as my adventures in the summer.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes . . . . the shelves

Are crowded with perfumes (p. 27)

The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. (p. 27)

Unscrew the locks from the doors!

Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs! (p. 50)

I believe in the flesh and the appetites,

Seeing hearing and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. (p. 51)

NOTE: Page citations are from Whitman: Poetry and Prose. Library of America College Editions. New York, NY. 1982.

Surprisingly enough, I’m unfamiliar with Whitman’s poetry. So reading “Song of Myself” was a completely new experience.  As my eyes roamed over the page, every single line leaped at me but as soon as I read the words “perfume” and “intoxicate,” I couldn’t help but smirk because I’m known in my circle of friends for soaking up my surroundings and allowing scents (such as a fresh pizza baking in a corner restaurant) to overwhelm me. It’s no surprise, then, that the poetic images I chose for my “song” have to do with worldly senses. I’m a very passionate person and enjoy “seeing hearing and feeling” because without those perceptions, a true appreciation for life is impossible.

The photo above was taken at my shore house in Avalon, NJ, and it was snapped very recently, in the summer of 2009. This summer I wanted to “unscrew the doors” (p. 50) as Whitman put it, and not be entrapped by the normal routine. In order to enjoy my new life as a post-graduate student, I escaped from the familiar and safe confinements of my bedroom, a place where I only slept and occasionally read a book. I rarely spent a day alone. My summer days consisted of wandering the beaches with my friends at 2 am, visiting the casinos in Atlantic City, and sampling “shore food” from boardwalk cuisine to exquisite seafood. Each of these experiences is a part of me now, a “tag of me” (p. 51), and the memories are precious. Each experience is also a miracle, as Whitman phrased it, because if one of my summer plans changed even slightly (such as a friend being unable to visit for a weekend), then my earthly experience in Avalon would have been quite different and the “tag of me” might not exist today.

This “Song of Rachel” is a plea for wandering outside the doors or barriers. This “Song of Rachel” insists sensual day-to-day life is a miracle that nourishes the body. I can only hope my experiences at graduate school will be as fulfilling as my adventures in the summer.

Smile O voluptuous coolbreathed 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 elbowed earth!  Rich apple-blossomed earth!

Smile, for your lover comes!

Prodigal!  you have given me love! . . . . therefore I to you

                give love!

O unspeakable passionate love!

Thruster holding me tight and that I hold tight!

We hurt each other as the bridegroom and the bride hurt

                each other.