I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
So begins Song of Myself, arguably Walt Whitman's most famous poem. Whitman was an American poet who believed in nature, body, soul, and the entire universe contained within every single thing, within a blade of grass.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
Song of Myself, although quite a long poem in and of itself (what you see here in green is only the first section of the 52 part poem), is just one poem in Whitman's exceptional collection Leaves of Grass. In his lifetime, Whitman wrote nine different editions of Leaves of Grass. He was constantly working on it, improving it, becoming a part of it. In the preface of his very first edition, Whitman wrote, "Here are the roughs and beards and space and ruggedness and nonchalance that the soul loves." Even on his first effort, he knew that his poetry was to be a continuous work of art. He also knew the truth behind the beautiful words he had written, and how the reader's soul would soar.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Whitman's style had little to do with rhyming or form. He was a free flowing poet to the core. One who wrote with reckless abandon while at the same time a perfectionist, poring over his lines with such intricate detail, to find the perfect center. The spaces between his words are as charged as the words themselves.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.
I admit it. I'm not a poetry guy. I appreciate good poetry when I read it. I strive to feel poetry when I hear it. But in the end, I usually opt to read a novel. Not with Uncle Walt though. You don't read Whitman's work. You become a part of it. He reminds you about everything that exists and has existed and he brings the universe to its knees before you. Check him out. Dig in. Breathe along.
He's my boy.
Walt Whitman was born on May 31, 1819. He lived a long and full life until March 26, 1892.
His words live on forever.
