POEM OF THE DAY -- "Leaves of Grass 13" by Walt Whitman

Returning to Leaves of Grass after a long hiatus through Surrealism and protest, it's nice to be back. This section of Leaves of Grass 13 Poem of Procreation is one of my favorites and stands out as one of the most sensual pieces of Whitman work.

Leaves of Grass

13 -- Poem of Procreation

By Walt Whitman

A WOMAN waits for me -- she contains all,
nothing is lacking,
Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if
the moisture of the right man were lacking.

Sex contains all,
Bodies, souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delica-
cies, results, promulgations,
Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal
mystery, the semitic milk,
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,
All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the
earth,
All the governments, judges, gods, followed per-
sons of the earth,
These are contained in sex, as parts of itself
and justifications of itself.

Without shame the man I like knows and avows
the deliciousness of his sex,
Without shame the woman I like knows and
avows hers.

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O I will fetch bully breeds of children yet!
They cannot be fetched, I say, on less terms than
mine,
Electric growth from the male, and rich ripe fibre
from the female, are the terms.

I will dismiss myself from impassive women,
I will go stay with her who waits for me, and
with those women that are warm-blooded and
sufficient for me,
I see that they understand me, and do not deny
me,
I see that they are worthy of me -- so I will be
the robust husband of those women!
They are not one jot less than I am,
They are tanned in the face by shining suns and
blowing winds,
Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and
strength,
They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle,
shoot, run, strike, retreat, advance, resist,
defend themselves,
They are ultimate in their own right -- they are
calm, clear, well-possessed of themselves.

I draw you close to me, you women!
I cannot let you go, I would do you good,
I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our

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Enveloped in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but
me.

It is I, you women -- I make my way,
I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable -- but I
love you,
I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for
you,
I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for
These States -- I press with slow rude muscle,
I brace myself effectually -- I listen to no en-
treaties,
I dare not withdraw till I deposite what has so
long accumulated within me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,
In you I wrap a thousand onward years,
On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of
me and of America,
The drops I distil upon you are drops of fierce
and athletic girls, and of new artists, musi-
cians, singers,
The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in
their turn,
I shall demand perfect men and women out of my
love-spendings,
I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others,
as I and you interpenetrate now,

__________________________________________

I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers
of them, as I count on the fruits of the gush-
ing showers I give now,
I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life,
death, immortality I plant so lovingly now.

POEM OF THE DAY - "Song of Myself 4" by Walt Whitman

Wow.  Compassionating.   I love the word.  I find it in various online dictionaries - after a level or two of digging of course - it doesn't even google well - and I can't follow any links to find it used in a sentence, like all other forms of "Compassionate".  Compassionating.  Just the fact that Whitman would use it in a poem (there's your example, hello) gives it a meaning that justifies its existence as a word, in print, and even as a way to live a life.


Abe Lincoln, Mother Theresa, Jesus, Ghandi, the Pope -- these are people who live or have lived their lives compassionating.

I think that Whitman's "Song of Myself" was an evolving discovery of various aspects of the human soul - as he discovers that such qualities as compassion and love are far more important than the material trappings and competitive nature of life as it spins on around him.

That's just what I think.  I have gained a new respect for Walt Whitman since I've re-studied this poem, letting it step out of the shadow of my heavy handed high school english teacher - into the sunlight.


You may have also noticed I've shed the standard pictures of an ancient, alien Walt Whitman with wide face and heavy white beard - in favor of the one above.  This guy, Walt Whitman (during his prime by the way) - looks like someone I can relate to - not the scragly old God-Like character we usually come across.
 
 

Song of Myself 4

by Walt Whitman

4

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 dates, 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;
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights, and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am;
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary;
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head, curious what will come next;
Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders;
I have no mockings or arguments—I witness and wait.
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POEM OF THE DAY -- "Song of Myself 3" by Walt Whitman

So sorry for the hiatus, friends; it was time to purge - the holidays are here and sometimes this can be a difficult time of year, bringing on a mix of (sometimes negative) emotions which can drain the soul, and take a creative toll.

Picking up where we left off, I should have remembered this 3rd section of Whitmans wonderful epic "Song of Myself" (we use the final 1900 edition, but sometimes offer earlier editions for interesting comparison) during the last week or two.

Simply, chill.  What goes on around doesn't really matter or change the spiritual reality of things - and a simple change of goggles reveals good no matter where you are.

Click the link below to purchase the original version of the poem featured in the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass - Whitmans wonderful collection which features this poem in it's entirety of course.

Song of Myself 

By Walt Whitman

3

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.

Urge, and urge, and urge;
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance—always substance and increase, always sex;
Always a knit of identity—always distinction—always a breed of life.

To elaborate is no avail—learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery, here we stand.

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.
Showing the best, and dividing it from the worst, age vexes age;
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean;
Not an inch, nor a particle of an inch, is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied—I see, dance, laugh, sing:
As the hugging and loving Bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day, with stealthy tread,
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels, swelling the house with their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization, and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me a cent,
Exactly the contents of one, and exactly the contents of two, and which is ahead?

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