Archives For Walt Whitman

 

Walt_Whitman_by_Mathew_Brady

Tomorrow (March 26) marks the anniversary of Walt Whitman’s death in 1892.

In remembrance of him, we offer five of his poems that we love from his famed collection LEAVES OF GRASS…

Poets to Come
Walt Whitman

 

Poets to come! orators, singers, musicians to come!
Not to-day is to justify me and answer what I am for,
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than
before known,
Arouse! for you must justify me.

I myself but write one or two indicative words for the future,
I but advance a moment only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.

I am a man who, sauntering along without fully stopping, turns a
casual look upon you and then averts his face,
Leaving it to you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you.

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“What an artist is trying to do for people is bring them closer to something, because of course art is about sharing. You wouldn’t be an artist unless you wanted to share an experience, a thought.”
– Artist David Hockney
born on this day in 1937

 
Poem of the Day:
July Afternoon by the Pond
by Walt Whitman
 
Kindle Ebook of the Day: 
Scandal of the Evangelical Conscience
by Ron Sider – $3.03!!!
 
 

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The Wake Up Call – July 9, 2014

 

Walt Whitman 1872

Tomorrow, May 31, is the birthday of Walt Whitman, born 1819…

I just encountered this recording of Walt Whitman’s poem “America” that is supposed to be read by Whitman himself in 1890.
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Walt WhitmanA July Afternoon By The Pond

Walt Whitman

The fervent heat, but so much more endurable in this pure air—the white and pink pond-blossoms, with great heart-shaped leaves; the glassy waters of the creek, the banks, with dense bushery, and the picturesque beeches and shade and turf; the tremulous, reedy call of some bird from recesses, breaking the warm, indolent, half-voluptuous silence; an occasional wasp, hornet, honey-bee or bumble (they hover near my hands or face, yet annoy me not, nor I them, as they appear to examine, find nothing, and away they go)—the vast space of the sky overhead so clear, and the buzzard up there sailing his slow whirl in majestic spirals and discs; just over the surface of the pond, two large slate-color’d dragon-flies, with wings of lace, circling and darting and occasionally balancing themselves quite still, their wings quivering all time, (are they not showing off for my amusement?)— Continue Reading…

 

Walt WhitmanI Hear America Singing
Walt Whitman

 
 

Today is the Birthday
of Walt Whitman, born 1819

 
 
 
 
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
       singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as
       he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning,
       or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work,
       or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day–at night the party of young
       fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

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Remembering Allen Ginsberg who died on this day in 1997.

The first installment in this year’s National Poetry Month series of poets reading their work…

This poem is found in

Howl and Other Poems
Allen Ginsberg

Paperback: City Lights.
Buy now: [ Amazon

My recommendation: Start the video and minimize the window.  Listen to Ginsberg and ignore the ridiculous imagery.





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Out of May’s Shows Selected
Walt Whitman

Apple orchards, the trees all cover’d with blossoms;
Wheat fields carpeted far and near in vital emerald green;
The eternal, exhaustless freshness of each early morning;
The yellow, golden, transparent haze of the warm afternoon sun;
The aspiring lilac bushes with profuse purple or white flowers.





 

“Broadway”
Walt Whitman
(Found in Walt Whitman: The Complete Poems )

WHAT hurrying human tides, or day or night?
What passions, winnings, losses, ardors, swim thy waters!
What whirls of evil, bliss and sorrow, stem thee!
What curious questioning glances–glints of love!
Leer, envy, scorn, contempt, hope, aspiration!
Thou portal–thou arena–thou of the myriad long-drawn lines and groups!
(Could but thy flagstones, curbs, facades, tell their inimitable tales;
Thy windows rich, and huge hotels–thy side-walks wide;)
Thou of the endless sliding, mincing, shuffling feet!
Thou, like the parti-colored world itself–like infinite, teeming, mocking life!
Thou visor’d, vast, unspeakable show and lesson!

 

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry
Walt Whitman
1819-1892

1

Flood-tide below me! I see you face to face!
Clouds of the west–sun there half an hour high–I see you also face
to face.

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious
you are to me!
On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning
home, are more curious to me than you suppose,
And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more
to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.

2

The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of the day,
The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme, myself disintegrated, every
one disintegrated yet part of the scheme,
The similitudes of the past and those of the future,
The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings, on
the walk in the street and the passage over the river,
The current rushing so swiftly and swimming with me far away,
The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them,
The certainty of others, the life, love, sight, hearing of others.

Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore,
Others will watch the run of the flood-tide,
Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the
heights of Brooklyn to the south and east,
Others will see the islands large and small;
Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half
an hour high,
A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others
will see them,
Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the
falling-back to the sea of the ebb-tide.
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