Song of Myself (1892 Version) by Walt Whitman | poetry foundation (2023)

I celebrate and sing myself

And what you must assume

'Cause every atom that's mine so well is yours.

I stroll and invite my soul,

I lean forward and wander at ease, observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this earth, this air,

Born here of parents born here of equal parents and your equal parents,

I, now thirty-seven years old and perfectly healthy, begin

Hoping not to stop until death.

Creeds and schools in limbo,

A little stepping back was enough for who they are, but never forget

I host for good or ill, I let speak at all costs,

Nature without control with primal energy.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, shelves are full of perfumes,

I breathe the scent myself and I know it and I like it,

Distilling would get me high too, but I won't allow it.

The atmosphere is not perfume, it does not taste like distillation, it is odorless,

It's forever for my mouth, I'm in love with it

I'll go to the edge of the forest and stand undressed and naked

I'm dying for him to contact me.

the smoke of my own breath

echoes, waves, humming whispers, love root, silk thread, ledge and vine,

My breathing and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passage of blood and air through my lungs,

The smell of green leaves and dry leaves and the shore and dark sea rocks and hay in the barn

The burping sound of my voice released in the whirl of the wind,

A few light kisses, a few hugs, arms outstretched,

The play of light and shade on the trees as the limbers sway,

The pleasure alone or in the hustle and bustle of the streets or along the fields and slopes,

The feeling of health, the midday buzz, the music as I get out of bed and meet the sun.

Did you charge a thousand acres a lot? Have you paid much attention to the earth?

Did you practice so long to learn to read?

Have you ever been so proud of understanding the meaning of poetry?

Stop with me day and night and you will own the origin of all poems,

Thou shalt have the good of the earth and the sun (there are millions of suns left)

You will no longer take things second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the ghosts of books,

You will neither look through my eyes nor take things from me

You have to listen to all sides and filter them out of you.

I heard what the speakers were talking about, the talk of the beginning and the end

But I'm not talking about the beginning or the end.

There was never a more beginning than now

No more youth or old age than now,

And there will never be more perfection than now

No more heaven or hell than now.

Urge and insist and persist

Always the procreative drive of the world.

Out of concealment, the opposite equals ascent, always substance and increase, always sex,

Always a web of identity, always distinction, always a curriculum vitae.

Elaborate is useless, learned and unlearned feel that it is so.

Safe as the surest certainty, plumb on the pillars, well maintained, leaning on the beams,

Robust as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electric,

I and this mystery here are us.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

One lacks both, and the invisible is proved by the visible,

Until it becomes invisible and receives evidence in its turn.

Showing the best and separating it from the worst, old age bores,

Knowing the perfect propriety and equanimity of things, I keep silent while they argue and go bathing and admiring myself.

Welcome is every organ and characteristic of me and of every human being who is healthy and clean,

Not an inch nor a speck of an inch is abominable, and none should be less familiar than the rest.

I am content - I see, I dance, I laugh, I sing;

While the tender and loving bedfellow sleeps by my side at night and withdraws with furtive steps at dawn,

Leaves me baskets covered with white towels that fill the house with their abundance

Should I postpone my acceptance and realization and scream into my eyes

may they stop looking back and down the road,

And immediately digit and show me a penny

Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which one comes out on top?

Travelers and questioners surround me,

people I know, the impact my childhood had on me or the community and city I live in or the nation,

The latest data, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,

My dinner, dress, partner, looks, compliments, debts,

The real or imagined indifference of a man or woman I love

The illness of one of my parents or myself, or misconduct, or loss, or lack of money, or depression, or elation,

The battles, the horrors of fratricidal warfare, the fever of dubious news, the fickle events;

These come to me day and night and go from me again,

But they are not the self.

In addition to pulling and transporting what I am

It will be fun, smug, compassionate, idle, uniform,

Looks down, stands erect, or bends an arm in a certain imperceptible stillness,

Head cocked to the side, curious what's next

In and out of the game, watch and marvel.

Looking back to my own days sweating through the fog with linguists and competitors

I have no ridicule or strife, I testify and hope.

I believe in you my soul, the other that I am must not bow to you,

And one must not bend down in front of the other.

Walk the grass with me, untie the stop from your throat

I want no words, no music or rhymes, no custom or lecture, not even the best,

I just like the calm, the hum of your tube voice.

I'm interested in how we once made a summer morning so transparent

As you laid your head on my hips and gently rolled me over

And he untied the shirt from my chest and plunged his tongue into my bare heart,

And he stretched out his hand until he felt my beard, and he stretched out his hand until he held my feet.

Arose swiftly and spread around me the peace and knowledge that surpasses all arguments on earth,

And I know God's hand is my promise

And I know the Spirit of God is my brother

And that all men ever born are also my brothers and women are my sisters and lovers,

And that a kelson of creation is love,

And boundless are the hard or fallen leaves in the fields,

And brown ants in the little pits beneath them,

And mossy scabs from the worm fence, piled stones, elderberry, mullein and pokeweed.

said a childwhat is the grassbring it to me with full hands;

How could I react to the child? I do not know what is more than him.

I think it must be the flag of my disposition, of hopeful green stuff.

Or I think it's the Lord's handkerchief

A scented gift and a designed memory,

Put the owner's name somewhere in the corners for us to see and watch and sayWhose?

Or I think the grass itself is a child, the baby born of vegetation.

Or I think it's a uniform hieroglyph,

And that means sprouting in wide zones and narrow zones alike,

Raised among the blacks as among the whites,

Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give 'em the same, I get 'em the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of the graves.

Tenderly I'll use you to roll the grass,

You may be sweating on the breasts of youth

Maybe I would have loved her if I had known her

They may be from elderly people or from children taken from their mothers' wombs,

And here you are in your mother's womb.

This grass is too dark to be of old mothers white heads

Darker than the colorless beards of the old,

Dark to get under the red roofs of the mouths.

O I perceive at last how many tongues are spoken,

And I realize that they don't come off the palate for nothing.

I wish I could translate the references to the dead boys and girls

And the hints about old men and mothers and the puppies that will soon be taken from their laps.

What do you think happened to young and old?

And what do you think happened to the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere

The smallest sprout shows that there really is no death,

And if ever there was one, he moved life forward and didn't wait at the end to arrest it,

And it stopped the moment life appeared.

Everything goes forward and outward, nothing falls apart,

And dying is different than expected and happier.

Has anyone assumed that being born is lucky?

I hasten to tell him or her that dying is lucky and I know it.

I spend death with the dying and birth with the freshly washed child, and am not locked between hat and boots,

And examine different items, no two are the same and all are good,

The good earth and the good stars and their accessories are all good.

I am not a country and not an appendage of a country

I am the mate and companion of men, all as immortal and unfathomable as I am,

(They don't know how immortal they are, but I do.)

Each guy for himself and for himself, for me my husband and my wife,

For me those who were once boys and who love women

For me, the man who is proud and feels the pain of being offended

For me the girlfriend and the spinster, for me the mothers and the mothers of the mothers,

For me, lips that smiled, eyes that shed tears,

For me children and parents of children.

unroll! you don't owe me, nor obsolete, nor discarded,

I see through cloth and gingham whether or not

And I am there, persistent, greedy, tireless and unshakeable.

The little one sleeps in the cradle,

I pick up the gauze and look at it for a long time, silently brushing the flies away with my hand.

The young man and the red-faced girl stray up the thick hill

I see her from above.

The suicide spreads on the bloody bedroom floor

I'm watching the spiky-haired body, I'm watching where the gun fell.

The sound of the pavement, the cart tires, the sound of boot soles, the talk of walkers,

The heavy bus, the driver with a questioning thumb, the sound of shod horses on the granite floor,

The snow sleds, jingling, shouted jokes, snowball skins,

Hooray for popular favorites, the mob's rage awakens,

The rocking of the stretcher covered by a curtain, a patient inside being taken to the hospital,

The clash of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and the fall,

The excited crowd, the policeman with his star, making his way quickly into the middle of the crowd,

The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,

What groans from overfed or hungry people who get heatstroke or have convulsions,

What exclamations of suddenly taken women running home and bearing babies,

What living and buried language always vibrates here, what howls tamed by decency,

Criminal arrests, offenses, adulterous offers, pledges, refusals with convex lips,

I care about them or their show or resonance - I come and I go.

The big barn doors are open and ready

The dry grass of harvest time carries the slow wagon

The bright light plays with the mixed grey-brown and green,

Strokes are packed to the slack cut.

I'm there, I help, I came stretched out on the load

I felt your gentle thrusts laying one leg on the other

I jump off the bar and grab the shamrock and the timothy grass

And roll it upside down and tangle my frizzy hair.

Alone far in the wilderness and in the mountains I hunt,

Wandering in wonder at my own lightness and joy,

Choosing a safe place to stay overnight at the end of the afternoon,

Light a fire and grill fresh game,

Falling asleep in the harvested leaves with my dog and gun beside me.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky sails, she cuts off glare and noise,

My eyes fix on the land, I bow to its bow or shout happily from the deck.

The boatmen and shell collectors rose early and stopped to receive me,

I tucked the toes of my pants into my boots and went out to have fun;

You should have been with us around the soup pot that day.

I saw the wedding of the far west outdoor hunter, the bride was a redhead girl,

His father and his friends sat cross-legged and smoked in silence, they had loafers on their feet and big, thick blankets around their shoulders,

On a bench rested the hunter, clad mostly in furs, his luxuriant beard and curls protecting his neck, holding his bride's hand,

She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her thick, straight locks flowed down her voluptuous limbs and reached to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopped outside,

I heard your movements break the branches of the woodpile,

Through the half-swinging kitchen door I saw him limp and weak,

And went to where he was sitting on a log and led him and assured him:

And brought water and filled a tub for her sweaty body and sore feet,

And I gave him a room adjoining mine, and I gave him coarse clean clothes,

And perfectly remember your rolling eyes and your strangeness,

And remember to put band-aids on the blisters on your neck and ankles;

He stayed with me for a week before recovering and heading north,

I let him sit next to me at the table, my firelock propped in the corner.

Twenty-eight young people bathe on the beach,

Twenty-eight young people and all very friendly;

Twenty-eight years of womanhood and everything so lonely.

She owns the beautiful house by the bank

She hides behind the shutters, beautiful and richly dressed.

Which of the boys does she like the most?

Ah, the most homely of them is beautiful to them.

Where are you going, ma'am? because I see you

You splash in the water there, but stay still in your room.

Dancing and laughing, the twenty-ninth bather came along the shore,

The others did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The young men's beards glistened with moisture dripping from their long hair,

Small rivulets ran through their bodies.

An invisible hand also stroked their bodies,

It flowed trembling from her temples and ribs.

The boys float on their backs, their white bellies swell in the sun, they don't ask who grabs them fast,

They don't know who snorts and refuses with followers and bows bent,

They don't think about who they spray with.

The butcher boy takes off his killing clothes or sharpens his knife at the market stall,

I enjoy his reciprocation and his shuffling and breaking.

Blacksmiths with dirty hairy breasts surround the anvil,

Everyone has their main slide, everyone is outside, there is great heat in the fire.

From the ash-covered threshold I follow your movements,

The lightness of her waist even plays with her massive arms,

Upper hand swing the hammers, upper hand so slowly, upper hand really,

They don't rush, everyone knocks in their place.

The black man holds tight to the reins of his four horses, the block swinging beneath by its tethered chain,

The black man driving the long cart from the Steinhof, solid and tall, he stands balanced on one leg on the string,

His blue shirt exposes his wide neck and chest and loosens over the waist sash,

His gaze is calm and commanding, he flicks the brim of his hat off his forehead,

The sun hits the curly hair and mustache, falls on the black of his polished and perfect limbs.

I see the painterly giant and I love him, and I don't stop there,

I also go with the team.

In me, the caress of life, where it moves, to and fro,

For side alcoves and junior stoops, no person or object is missing,

Record everything for me and this song.

Oxen shaking off yoke and chains or standing in the shade of leaves, what do you express in your eyes?

It seems to me more than anything printed that I have read in my life.

My step frightens the duck and the wood duck in my distant and day-long walk,

They stand up together, slowly circling.

I believe in these winged intentions

And recognize the red, the yellow, the white playing in me

And deliberately look at the green and the purple and the tufted crown

And do not call the tortoise unworthy, because it is nothing else,

And the jay in the forest never studied the range, but to me it trills very well,

And the appearance of the bay mare makes me ashamed of the stupidity.

The wild goose leads her flock through the cold night,

Ya-hunkhe says, and it sounds to me like an invitation

The daring may assume it makes no sense, but I who listen carefully

Find your purpose and set it there towards the wintry sky.

The Northern Hoofed Hoof, the House Bench Cat, the Chickadee, the Prairie Dog,

The sow's litter grunt as they tug at their teats,

The brood of the turkey hen and she with wings half spread,

I see in them and in me the same old law.

The pressure of my foot on the earth springs from a hundred affections,

They despise the best I can do to tell them.

I'm in love with growing up outdoors

Of men who dwell among cattle, or enjoy the sea or the woods,

Of shipwrights and drivers and drivers of axes and sledgehammers and drivers of horses,

I can eat and sleep in it week after week.

What's more common, cheaper, closer, easier is me,

I take my chances, spend for big returns,

I adorn myself to give myself to the first who will take me,

Do not ask heaven to descend to my good will,

Spread it free forever.

fifteen

The pure alto sings in the organ gallery,

(Video) Song of Myself by Walt Whitman (Sections 1-30)

The carpenter prepares his board, his bow's tongue whistles his wild upward lisp,

The married and unmarried children come home for Thanksgiving dinner,

The pilot grabs the kingpin, he goes down with a strong arm,

The first mate leans on the lifeboat, spear and harpoon ready,

The duck shooter goes quietly and carefully,

Deacons are ordained with folded hands at the altar,

The spinner moves back and forth to the sound of the ferris wheel,

The farmer stops at the pubs while walking on a day one bread and looks at oats and rye,

The lunatic is finally brought to the institution as a confirmed case,

(He'll never sleep like he did in the cradle in his mother's room again;)

The thin-jawed grey-haired newspaper printer works his case,

He snuffs his tobacco while his eyes fog over the manuscript;

The deformed limbs are strapped to the operating table,

What is removed falls terribly into a bucket;

The quadroon girl is sold at the auction stand, the drunk shakes his head by the bar stove,

The engine driver rolls up his sleeves, the policeman makes his rounds, the porter flags passers-by,

The young man is driving the express car (I love him even though I don't know him ;)

The half-breed wears light boots to take part in the race,

Western turkey shooting attracts young and old alike, some leaning on their rifles, others perched on logs,

The shooter emerges from the crowd, takes his position, takes aim with his character;

Groups of newly arrived immigrants cover the quay or dike,

Like wool pie hoes in the sugar field, the foreman sees them from the saddle,

The bugle blows in the ballroom, the gentlemen run to their partners, the dancers bow to each other,

The young man lies awake in the cedar-roofed attic and hears the musical rain,

Wolverine places traps in the creek that helps fill the Huron,

Woman wrapped in her yellow-lined shawl offers loafers and beaded bags for sale,

With half-closed eyes tilted to the side, the connoisseur looks at the gallery exhibition,

While sailors moor the steamship, the plank is released for passengers ashore,

The younger sister spreads the strand while the older sister rolls it into a ball, pausing every now and then for the knots,

The one-year-old woman is on the mend and happy to have given birth to her first child a week ago,

The clean-haired Yankee works at her sewing machine or in the factory or mill,

The paver leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's graffiti flies over the notebook, the sign painter writes in blue and gold,

The canal boy trots on the tow truck, the accountant counts at his table, the cobbler waxes his thread,

The conductor sets the beat for the band and all the performers follow,

The child is baptized, the convert makes his first profession,

The regatta spreads across the bay, the race begins (how the white sails shine!)

The drover watching his flock sings to those who would stray

The peddler sweats with his knapsack on his back, (the buyer haggles over a dime or two;)

The bride unlaces her white dress, the minute hand of the clock moves slowly,

The opium eater leans with rigid head and freshly parted lips,

The whore drags her shawl, her bonnet swings round her pimply drunken neck,

The crowd laughs at their vows of villainy, the men scoff and wink at each other,

(Miserable! I don't laugh at your vows or mock you ;)

The President holding a Cabinet Council is surrounded by the Grand Secretaries,

In the square three majestic and friendly matrons walk with their arms crossed,

The Fish Smack Pack crew repeated shifts of halibut in the hold,

The Missourian traverses the prairie with his goods and cattle,

As the ticket seller crosses the train, he warns by the jingle of loose coins,

Workers lay the floor, plumbers tin the roof, masons ask for mortar,

In single file, each carrying his horse, the workers go ahead;

Seasons chasing each other, the indescribable crowd gathering, it's the fourth day of the seventh month, (what salutes from cannon and handguns!)

The seasons follow one another, the plow ploughs, the reaper cuts, and the winter grain falls to the ground;

In the lakes the pike fisherman watches and waits in the hole in the frozen surface,

The stumps swell around the clearing, the squatter cuts deep with his axe,

The boaters make their way to the cotton or pecan trees at dusk,

Raccoon hunters traverse the Red River regions or the drains of Tennessee or Arkansas.

Torches glow in the dark over Chattahooche or Altamahaw,

Patriarchs sit down to dinner with children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren around them,

On clay walls, in canvas tents, hunters and hunters rest after a day of sports,

The city sleeps and the country sleeps,

The living sleep in their time, the dead sleep in their time,

The old husband sleeps next to his wife and the young husband sleeps next to his wife;

And these tend to me, and I tend outward to them,

And since I'm supposed to be more or less one of those, I am

And out of these all I weave the song of myself.

I'm old and young, stupid and wise

Independent of others, always with consideration for others,

Maternal as paternal, a child as well as a man,

Filled with coarse and filled with good,

One of the nations of many nations, the least equal and the greatest equal,

A southerner as well as a northerner, an aloof and hospitable planter near the Oconee where I live,

A Yankee makes my own way, ready for the trade, my joints are the world's softest joints and the world's hardest joints,

A Kentuckian walking through the Elkhorn Valley in my suede leggings, a Louisian or Georgian,

A boatswain on lakes or bays or along the shore, a hoosier, badger, buckeye;

At home with Canadian snowshoes or in the bush or with fishermen in Newfoundland,

At home in the fleet of ice boats, sailing with the others and capsizing,

At home in the hills of Vermont or the woods of Maine or on the ranch in Texas,

Comrade of the Californians, comrade of the free Northwest, (love your large proportions)

Comrade of the ferrymen and charcoal burners, comrade of all who join hands and welcome drink and meat,

An apprentice with the simplest, a teacher with the most thoughtful,

A budding but seasoned newcomer in countless seasons,

Of all ranks and castes am I, of all ranks and religions,

A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, Quaker,

Prisoner, informer, troublemaker, lawyer, doctor, priest.

I resist everything better than my own diversity,

Breathe in the air but let it long after me

And I'm not arrogant and I'm in my place.

(The moth and fish eggs are in their place,

The bright suns I see and the dark suns I can't see are in their places

The tangible is in place and the intangible is in place.)

Indeed, these are the thoughts of all men in all times and countries, they are not mine,

If they're not yours as much as mine, they're nothing or almost nothing,

If they are not the riddle and the solution to the riddle, they are nothing,

If they are not as near as they are far, they are nothing.

This is the grass that grows where there is land and water,

This is the common air that washes the globe.

With loud music I come, with my trumpets and my drums,

I play marches not only for acknowledged victors, I play marches for the vanquished and the dead.

Have you ever heard that winning the day was good?

I also say that falling is good, battles are lost in the same spirit with which they are won.

I hit and hit for the dead

I blow through my approaches the loudest and happiest for her.

Hooray for those who failed!

And for those whose warships sank at sea!

And to the shipwrecked at sea!

And to all the generals who lost battles and all the heroes who were defeated!

And the countless unsung heroes who rival the greatest heroes known!

This is the meal also prepared, this is the meat for the natural hunger,

It's the same for the wicked as for the righteous, I compromise with everyone

I don't want a single person to be offended or left out,

The maid, the plunderer, the thief are hereby invited,

The thick-lipped slave is invited, the Venerele is invited;

There will be no difference between them and the others.

This is the pressure of a shy hand, this sway and smell of hair,

This is the touch of my lips on yours, this is the murmur of desire

This distant depth and height reflects my own face,

This is the thoughtful merging of myself and exit again.

Do you think I have a complicated purpose?

Well, I've had it raining for the fourth month, and it's got mica on the side of a rock.

Do you think I would be surprised?

Does the daylight surprise you? does dawn redstart start chirping through the woods?

Am I more surprised than you?

At this time I tell things in secret

I may not tell everyone, but I will tell you.

who goes there burning desire, raw, mystical, naked;

How do I draw strength from the meat I eat?

What is a man anyway? what I am? what are you?

What I mark as mine you must balance with yours

Otherwise it would be a waste of time to listen to me.

I don't bitch that I bitch all over the world

That the months are emptiness and earth, but wallow and dirt.

whimpering and stooping with powders for invalids, obedience goes to the distant room,

I wear my hat however I want, inside or outside the house.

why should i pray why should I worship and be solemn?

layers combed through, thoroughly analyzed, doctors advised and precisely calculated,

I find no fat sweeter than sticking to my own bones.

In all people I see myself, not a barleycorn more and not a barleycorn less,

And whatever good or bad I say about myself, I say about them.

I know I'm solid and healthy

For me, the converging objects of the universe flow incessantly,

All were written for me and I need to understand what writing means.

I know I'm immortal

I know this orbit of mine cannot be traversed by a carpenter's compass,

I know I won't bolt like a child's carlacue being cut with a stick at night.

I know it's August

I don't bother my mind to justify myself or be understood,

I see elementary laws never apologize

(I guess I wear myself no prouder than the level I plant my house on, after all.)

I exist as I am, that's enough

When no one else in the world knows I'm happy

And when everyone is aware of it, I sit content.

One world I'm aware of and by far the biggest for me, and that's myself

And whether I come to myself today or in ten thousand or ten million years,

I can take it happily now or wait with equal enthusiasm.

My base is granite carved and carved,

I laugh at what you call resolution

And I know the vastness of time.

I am the poet of the body and I am the poet of the soul

The joys of heaven are with me and the sorrows of hell are with me,

The former I plant and multiply, the latter I translate into a new language.

I am the poet of woman and man,

And I say it's just as good to be a woman as it is to be a man

And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

I sing the song of expansion or pride

We've dodged and belittled enough

I show that greatness is only development.

Have you outgrown the rest? are you the president

It's a trifle, they will achieve more than anything and still pass.

It is I who walk with the tender and growing night,

I call to earth and sea, half held back by the night.

Get closer to the bare chest night - get closer to the nourishing and magnetic night!

Night of the South Winds - Night of few and big stars!

Still tempting night - crazy naked summer night.

Smile, O voluptuous land of fresh breath!

Land of sleeping and liquid trees!

Land of sunken sunsets - land of mountains with misty peaks!

Land of the full moon's glassy parting, tinted only blue!

Land of light and darkness staining the tide!

Land of clear cloudy gray lighter and clearer because of me!

Land of distant elbows - rich land of apple blossoms!

Smile because your lover is coming.

Lost one, you gave me love - that's why I give you love!

O indescribable passionate love.

your sea! I resign with you too - I guess what you mean,

I look from the shore at your crooked inviting fingers

I think you refuse to go back without feeling me

We must go for a walk together, I undress, hurry out of sight of the country,

Cushion me softly, rock me in surging drowsiness,

Hit me with wet love, I can reward you.

sea of expansive bumps,

sea breathes wide and convulsively,

Sea of the brine of life and graves not dug but always ready,

howlers and graves of storms, capricious and tender sea,

I am integral with you, I too am of a phase and all phases.

Participants of the inflow and outflow I, increasers of hate and reconciliation,

Glorifier of friends and those who sleep in each other's arms.

I show sympathy

(Should I make my list of household items and skip the house that supports them?)

Not only am I the poet of good, I do not refuse to be the poet of evil as well.

What is this outburst about virtue and vice?

Evil drives me and the reform of evil drives me, I remain indifferent,

My floor is not a fault finder or reject floor,

I moisten the roots of everything that grows.

Have you feared unrelenting gestational scrofula?

Did you know that the heavenly laws still need to be edited and corrected?

I find one side a balance and the opposite side a balance,

Soft teaching as constant help as stable teaching,

Thoughts and actions of the present wake up and begin early.

This minute that comes to mind in the last few decades

It doesn't get any better and now.

What has behaved well in the past or is well behaved today is no wonder

The wonder is over and over again how there can be a bad person or an unbeliever.

Infinite unfolding of words of ages!

It's a modern word of mine, the word en-masse.

A word of faith that never falters

Here or henceforth I don't care, I absolutely accept the time.

He alone is flawless, he alone rounds and completes everything,

This bewildering mystical wonder alone completes everything.

I accept reality and dare not question it,

Materialism first and last penetration.

Long live positive science! long live the exact demo!

Look for a mix of sedum with cedar and lilac branches,

That's the lexicographer, that's the chemist, he made a grammar out of the old tablets,

These sailors put the ship into dangerous unknown seas.

This is the geologist, this one works with the scalpel and this one is a mathematician.

Gentlemen, always the first honor to you!

Your facts are useful but they are not my home

I just walk through them into an area of my apartment.

Minus the ownership memories my words said,

And even more the memories of life, of freedom and redemption,

And make a short report on geldings and geldings and prefer fully equipped males and females,

And strike the gong of revolt and stop the fugitives and the schemers and conspirators.

Walt Whitman, a cosmos, from Manhattan the son,

Turbulent, meaty, sensual, eat, drink and breed,

No sentimentalist, no superior of men and women or separate from them,

No more humble than immodest.

Unscrew the door locks!

Unscrew the doors from their jambs yourself!

He who humiliates another humiliates me,

And everything that was done or said comes back to me eventually.

Through me the afflatus arises and arises, through me the stream and the index.

I speak the original password, I give the sign of democracy,

For God! I will not accept anything that everyone cannot have their counterpart on the same terms.

Many mute voices through me

voices of endless generations of prisoners and slaves,

Voices of the sick and the desperate and the thieves and the dwarves,

tuning of preparing and adding cycles,

And from the threads that bind the stars, and from wombs and paternal matter,

And from their rights others slack,

Of the deformed, trivial, dull, stupid, despised,

Fog in the air, bugs roll dung balls.

Voices forbidden by me

Voices of sex and desire, veiled voices and I remove the veil

Indecent voices enlightened and transfigured by me.

I don't put my fingers over my mouth

I hold on to the bowels as gently as I hold on to the head and heart,

Copulation is no more important to me than death.

I believe in the flesh and the appetite

Seeing, hearing, feeling are wonders, and every part and sign of me is a wonder.

I am divine within and without, and I make sacred everything I touch or be touched,

The scent of these armpits is finer than prayer,

This head more than churches, bibles and all creeds.

If I love one thing more than another, it will be the extension of my own body, or part of it,

Translucent cast of me will be you!

Shady bumps and breaks are yours!

Solid Male Colter will be you!

What is true for me will be for you!

You my rich blood! your milchbach-pale strips of my life!

A breast pressing against other breasts will be you!

My brain must be your hidden convolutions!

Root of the sweetly washed flag! shy snipe! Nest of duplicate eggs saved! it will be you!

(Video) Song of the Open Road - Walt Whitman (Powerful Life Poetry)

Hay mixed head, beard, muscles it will be you!

Maple sap, male wheat fiber, it will be you!

So generous sun will you be!

Vapors that light up and shade my face will be you!

Your sweaty brooks and dew, it will be you!

Winds whose gently tickling genitals rub against me, it must be you!

Wide muscle fields, living oak branches, loving wanderer on my winding paths, it will be you!

Hands I took, face I kissed, mortals I touched, it will be you.

I adore myself, there's so much of me and it's all so good

Every moment and everything that happens fills me with joy,

I can't tell how my ankles bend, nor where the cause of my least desire comes from,

Neither the cause of the friendship I send nor the cause of the friendship I reciprocate.

That I go out on my balcony, I pause to consider if it's really like that

A morning glory in my window gives me more satisfaction than the metaphysics of books.

To contemplate the dawn!

The dim light erases the immense and transparent shadows,

The air tastes good to my palate.

Weights of the world in motion in innocent dances that rise silently and exhale freshness,

Scooting obliquely high and low.

Something I can't see sends libidinal spikes up

Seas of bright sap flood the sky.

The earth remained from heaven the daily closure of her connection,

The challenge then hung over my head from the east,

The mocking mockery, just see if you'll be the master!

Blinding and trembling how quickly the sunrise would kill me

If I couldn't send the sunrise out of me now and forever.

We also rise dazzling and mighty like the sun,

We find our own soul, oh my, in the stillness and freshness of dawn.

My voice goes after what my eyes can't reach

With the twist of my tongue I embrace worlds and multitudes of worlds.

Language is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure,

Teases me forever, says sarcastically,

Walt, you've held back enough, then why don't you let it out?

Come on now I'm not tormented, you conceive a lot of articulation,

Don't you know, O Rede, how the buds are bent beneath you?

Waiting in the dark protected by the frost

Dirt that shrinks from my prophetic cries,

I the underlying causes to finally balance them out,

My knowledge, my living parts, consistent with the meaning of all things,

Happiness, (May whoever hears me let him or her go in search of this day.)

I deny you my last credit, I refuse to take what I really am,

It spans worlds but never try to span me

I collect the most beautiful and finest just by looking in your direction.

Writing and speaking don't prove me

I wear the evidence plenum and everything else in my face

With the silence of my lips, I completely confuse the skeptic.

Now I will do nothing but listen

To accumulate what I hear in this music, to let the sounds contribute to it.

I hear birdsong, the flapping of rising wheat, the clatter of flames, the crackle of sticks preparing my meals,

I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice

I hear all the tones converge, combine, merge or follow,

City noises and extra-urban noises, day and night noises,

Talkative young people for those who like them, the laughter of the workers while eating,

The angry base of separated friendship, the weak tones of the sick,

The judge, hands clenched on the table, pale lips pronouncing a death sentence,

The heave'e'yo of the stevedores unloading the ships at the quay, the chorus of the anchor lights,

The ringing of alarm bells, the howling of fire, the hum of fast engines and hose reels with forewarning jingles and colored lights,

The whistle of the steam, the rich rolling of the oncoming wagon train,

The slow march played in front of the association marching in twos,

(They will be guarding some corpses, the tops of the flags are covered with black muslin.)

I hear the cello (it's the young man's heartbeat)

I hear the key horn, it slides fast through my ears,

It sends insanely sweet pain through my stomach and chest.

I hear the chorus, it's a grand opera

Ah, this really is music - it suits me.

A tenor great and fresh as creation fills me,

The orbic flex of his mouth spills and fills me completely.

I hear the trained soprano (what's that work with her?)

The orchestra keeps spinning me as Uranus flies

She drains me of such embers I didn't know I had

He sails me, I stamp my bare feet, they are licked by the sluggish waves,

I'm hit by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,

Soaked in morphine with honey, strangled my windpipe in suspended animation

I finally relaxed again to feel the enigma of enigmas

And that's what we call being.

To be in any form, what is that?

(We go back and forth, all of us, and we always go back there)

If nothing else had evolved, the quahaug in its calloused shell would have sufficed.

My shell is not insensitive,

I have instant drivers with me whether I overtake or stop,

They grab any object and drive it harmlessly through me.

I just move, push, feel with my fingers and I'm happy

Touching my person with someone else is as much as I can take.

Is that a touch? shudder to a new identity,

Flames and ether flow through my veins,

Telltale hint that I reached out and pushed to help them,

My flesh and blood hurl lightning to strike what is little different from me,

On all sides lustful provocateurs hardening my limbs,

Burden the udder of my heart for its held back drop,

Playing wild with me, accepting no rejection,

Deprive me of my best as for a purpose

Unbutton my clothes, hold me by my bare waist

Deceiving my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and grazing fields,

immodestly pushing away the fellow-senses,

Bribed her to switch touches and brush the edges of me

No regard, no regard for my exhausted strength or my anger,

Getting the rest of the herd to enjoy a little

So all standing together on a promontory and worrying.

The guardians leave every other part of me

They left me defenseless to a red raider

They all come to the headland to testify against me and to help.

I was freed from traitors

I talk like crazy I've lost my mind I and no one else am the biggest traitor

I went to the headland first, my own hands carried me there.

Your evil touch! What are you doing? My breath is tight in your throat

Open your floodgates, you're too much for me.

Blind touch of love struggle, covert touch of sharp teeth!

Did it hurt you so bad to leave me?

trod farewell to arrival, everlasting payment of everlasting loan,

Plenty of rain and richer rewards afterwards.

Sprouts catch and accumulate, stand fertile and vital at the curb,

Masculine life-size gilded projected landscapes.

All truths hope in all things,

They neither hasten nor oppose their own surrender,

You don't need the surgeon's forceps,

The insignificant is as big to me as everyone else,

(What's less or more than a touch?)

Logic and sermons never convince

The wetness of the night penetrates deep into my soul.

(Only what proves to every man and woman is so,

Only what no one disputes is so.)

A minute and a drop of me calms my brain

I believe the soaked floes will become lovers and lamps

And a compendium of compendiums is the flesh of a man or a woman,

And lace and flower, there's the feeling they have for each other

And they will branch off from this teaching without limit until it becomes ubiquitous,

And until everyone pleases us and we them.

I believe a blade of grass is no less than a star's journey,

And the pismrus is perfect as well, and a grain of sand, and the wren's egg,

And the tree frog is a top-class masterpiece,

And the bramble would grace the halls of heaven,

And the thinnest hinge in my hand despises all machines

And the cow that crunches with its head bowed surpasses any statue,

And a mouse is wonder enough to scare away sextillion unbelievers.

I think I used gneiss, charcoal, long-fiber moss, fruits, grains, scallop roots,

And I'm littered all over with four-legged friends and birds

And I distanced myself from what's behind me for good reason

But call everything back if I want it.

In vain the excess of haste or timidity,

In vain the plutonic rocks send their ancient heat against my approach,

In vain the mastodon takes refuge among its own dusty bones,

In vain objects are miles away and take many forms,

In vain the ocean sinks into hollows and the great monsters hide,

In vain the vulture seeks shelter in the sky,

In vain the serpent meanders through the vines and trunks,

In vain the moose goes into the inner corridors of the forest,

In vain the razor auk sails north to Labrador,

I follow quickly, climbing to the nest in the crevice.

I think I could get along and live with the animals, they are so peaceful and self-sufficient,

I get up and look at her for a long time.

They do not sweat and do not complain about their condition,

They don't lie awake in the dark and weep over their sins,

You don't make me sick when I talk about your duty to God,

No one is dissatisfied, no one is obsessive crazy

Neither one kneels before the other, nor before his kind that lived thousands of years ago,

Nobody in the whole country is respectable or unhappy.

Then they show me their relationships and I accept them,

They bring me tokens of myself, they clearly show them in their possession.

I wonder where they get these tokens from

Have I walked past them countless times and carelessly dropped them?

I move forward then and now and forever

Collect and show more and more and with speed,

from the infinite omnigene of which you belong to them

Not very exclusive to the realms of my memories

I'm choosing one here that I love, and now I'm walking with him fraternally.

A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and receptive to my caresses,

head high on the forehead, wide between the ears,

Limbs smooth and lithe, tail dusting the ground,

Eyes full of sparkling malice, finely chiseled ears that move flexibly.

His nostrils flare as my heels hug him

His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we run and return.

I'll only use you for a minute, then I'll give up your stud

Why do I need your footsteps when I gallop them myself?

Even if I'm standing or sitting, I'll pass faster than you.

Space and time! Now I see that what I suspected is true

What I sensed as I loafed about in the grass

What I guessed while lying alone in my bed

And again as he walked along the beach under the pale morning stars.

My bonds and ballast leave me, my elbows rest in gaps,

I contour mountains, my palms cover continents,

I go ahead with my vision.

Around the square houses of the city - in log cabins, camping with lumberjacks,

Along the highway ruts, along the dry ravine and the creek bed,

Weeding my onion patch, or weeding rows of carrots and turnips, crossing savannas, entering forests,

Mine, mine, circle the trees for a new purchase,

Ankle deep in the hot sand, pull my boat across the shallow river

Where the panther paces up and down a branch, where the stag turns furiously on the hunter,

Where the rattlesnake suns its limp body on a rock, where the otter feeds on fish,

Where the hard-spiked alligator sleeps in the bayou

Where the black bear searches for roots or honey, where the beaver slaps the mud with its paddle-shaped tail;

Above the growing sugar, above the yellow-flowering cotton, above the rice in its low, damp field,

Above the pointed farmhouse with its jagged cinder and thin sprouts of guttering,

Above the western persimmon, above the long-leaved corn, above the delicate blue-flowered flax,

Over white and brown buckwheat, a lobster and a buzzer over there with the rest,

On the dark green of the rye, rippling and shading in the wind;

Climb mountains, pick myself up carefully, hold on to low, craggy branches,

Walk along the path worn in the grass and beaten by the leaves of the bush.

Where the quail whistles between forest and wheat field,

Where the bat flies on the eve of the seventh month, where the great golden insect falls in the dark,

Where the stream springs from the roots of the old tree and flows into the meadow,

Where the cattle stand and scare away the flies with their trembling fur,

Where gauze hangs in the kitchen, where wildflowers drape across the hearthstone, where cobwebs hang in garlands from the rafters;

Where the hammers are beating, where the press is turning its reels,

Wherever the human heart beats with terrible spasms under the ribs,

Where high above the pear-shaped balloon floats (float in it yourself and calmly look down)

Where life's car is pulled on the loop, where the heat hatches pale green eggs in the crushed sand,

Where the whale swims with its calf and never leaves it,

Where the steamer trails its long plume of smoke,

Where the shark's fin cuts out of the water like a black splinter,

Where the half-burnt brig sails on unknown currents,

Where clams grow on their slimy deck, where the dead rot below;

Where the Stars and Stripes are hoisted at the head of the regiments,

Approaching Manhattan from the sprawling island,

Beneath Niagara the cataract falls like a veil over my face,

On a doorstep, on the hardwood horse block outside,

At the track, at the picnic or jigs, or at a good baseball game,

At feasts, with scoundrel jeers, ironic debauchery, bull dancing, drunkenness, laughter,

Taste the sweetness of the brown mash in the cider mill, suck the juice through a straw,

On apple peels wanting kisses for every berry I find

At meetings, beach parties, bee friends, shelling, house surveying;

Where the thrush makes its delicious gurgle, laughs, screams, cries,

Where the haystack is in the barn, where the dry stalks are scattered, where the breeding cow is waiting in the barn,

Where the bull does his manly work, where the stallion detains the mare, where the rooster tramples the hen,

Where the heifers graze, where the geese pinch their fodder with short strokes,

Where sunset shadows stretch across the boundless and lonely prairie,

Where herds of buffalo creep far and near across the square miles,

Where the hummingbird shines, where the long-lived swan neck bends and meanders,

Where the laughing seagull flies along the beach, where it laughs its almost human laugh,

Where the hives spread out on a gray bench in the garden, half hidden by tall weeds,

Where ribbon chickens sit in a ring on the ground with their heads sticking out,

Where hearses drive through the arched gates of a graveyard,

Where the winter wolves bark amid snowdrifts and frost-covered trees,

Where the yellow-crested heron comes to the swamp edge at night and feeds on small crabs,

Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the hot midday,

Where Katy-did works her chromatic palette on the walnut tree above the fountain,

Through patches of lemons and silver-leaf cucumbers,

Through the salt shaker, or the orange tree glade, or under the conical firs,

In the gym, in the hall with curtains, in the office or in the public hall;

Content with the native and content with the stranger, content with the new and the old,

Satisfied with both the ugly woman and the beautiful one,

Pleased with the Quaker as she takes off her hat and speaks melodiously,

Satisfied with the melody of the whitewashed church choir,

Satisfied with solemn words from sweaty Methodist minister, seriously impressed at camp meeting;

Window shopping on Broadway all morning, pressing the flesh of my nose against the thick glass

As I hiked that same afternoon, facing the clouds, either along a path or along the beach,

My right and left arm around two friends and I in the middle;

Riding home with the silent, dark-cheeked bush boy (behind me he rides in the curtain of day)

Far from the settlements studying animal footprints or printing on moccasins,

Bringing lemonade to a feverish patient in the hospital bed

Near the sar level when all is still, examining with a candle;

Voyages to all ports for fat and adventure,

Running with the modern crowd, as eager and fickle as everyone else,

Hot for someone I hate, ready in my madness to stab him

Lonely at midnight in my backyard, my mind is long gone

Walking through the ancient Judean hills with the beautiful and gracious God by my side,

Racing through space, racing through the sky and the stars

Acceleration between the seven satellites and the wide ring and the diameter of eighty thousand miles,

Accelerate with tail meteors, throw fireballs like the others,

Carrying the growing child that carries its own full mother in its womb,

attack, enjoy, plan, love, warn,

supporting and filling, appearing and disappearing,

I walk these streets day and night

I visit the ball plantations and look at the product,

And look at the mature quintillion and look at the green quintillion.

I fly these flights of a liquid and devouring soul

My course is below plumb lines.

I use the material and the immaterial,

No guard can stop me, no law can stop me.

I only anchor my ship for a short time,

My messengers are constantly leaving or bringing their return to me.

I hunt arctic hides and seals, leap over chasms with a sharp stick and cling to brittle blue boulders.

(Video) Lecture I on Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself"

I get in the buggy

I take my place late at night in the crow's nest

We're sailing in the arctic sea, it's quite light enough

Through the clear atmosphere I linger on wondrous beauty,

The huge masses of ice pass me and I pass them, the landscape is flat in all directions,

The white-crowned mountains appear in the distance, I cast my fantasies on them,

We are approaching a great battlefield where we will soon fight,

We passed the camp's colossal outposts, we passed with still and careful feet,

Or do we drive through the suburbs to a vast and ruined city

Blocks and architecture collapsed more than all living cities in the world.

I'm a free lad, I camp, plunder fires,

I'll get the groom out of bed and stay with the bride myself

I keep it on my thighs and lips all night.

My voice is the woman's voice, the squeak on the banister,

They make my husband's body drip and drown.

I understand the big hearts of heroes

The courage of the present and of all times,

When the captain saw the wreck of the steamer, crowded and rudderless, and death chasing him up and down in the storm,

How he straightened his fingers and didn't flinch an inch and was faithful in the days and in the nights,

And chalk in big letters on a blackboardBe of good cheer, we won't let you down;

How he followed them and joined them for three days and didn't give up,

When he finally saved the floating company,

How the slender women in long dresses looked as they landed beside their prepared graves,

Like the mute old-faced children and the educated sick and the sharp-lipped bearded men;

I swallow all this, it tastes good, it tastes good to me, it's mine

I'm the type, I suffered, I was there.

The contempt and calm of the martyrs,

The old mother condemned by a witch, burned with dry wood, her children look on,

The persecuted slave languishing on the run, leaning against the fence, blowing, drenched in sweat,

The stitches that pierce your legs and neck like needles, the murderous shot and the bullets,

I feel or am all of this.

I am the hunted slave, I shudder at the bite of a dog

Hell and despair are upon me, cracking and breaking the shooters again,

I grasp the fence posts, my drops of blood diluted with the slime of my skin,

I fall over weeds and rocks

The riders spur their reluctant horses, approach,

Teasing my dizzy ears and hitting my head violently with whips.

The torments are one of my clothes changes,

I don't ask the wounded how they feel, I become the wounded

My worries escalate as I lean on a stick and watch.

I'm the battered firefighter with the broken sternum

Falling walls buried me in their rubble

I breathed heat and smoke, I heard the screams of my comrades,

I heard the distant click of their pickaxes and shovels

They spread the rafters, they tenderly lift me up.

I lie in my red shirt in the night air, the silence that pervades me is because of me,

No pain, I'm exhausted after all, but not so miserable

The faces around me are white and bright, the heads are bare from their fiery caps,

The kneeling crowd disappears in the torchlight.

distant and dead rise,

They point like the dial or move like my hands, I myself am the clock.

I'm an old artilleryman, I count the bombardment of my fort,

I'm back.

Again the long drum roll,

Again the attacking guns, mortars,

Again the cannon responded to my listening ears.

I participate, see and hear the whole thing,

The screams, curses, the roars, the applause for aimed shots,

The ambulance slowly drives by, dragging its red drop,

Workers look for damage, carry out necessary repairs,

The fall of shells through the rented roof, the fan-shaped explosion,

The hum of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.

My dying general's mouth gurgles once more, he waves his hand in anger,

He sighs through the clotDon't worry about me - don't worry - about the trenches.

Now I'll tell what I knew growing up in Texas

(I'm not recounting the fall of the Alamo,

No one escaped to tell the fall of the Alamo

The hundred and fifty are still silent in the Alamo,)

It is the story of the cold blood murder of four hundred and twelve young men.

As they retreated, they formed a hollow square for parapets with their luggage,

Nine hundred lives of the surrounding enemy, nine times their number, was the price they demanded in advance,

Your colonel has been wounded and your ammunition has run out,

They arranged an honorable surrender, received a charter and seal, laid down their arms, and marched back as prisoners of war.

You were the glory of the ranger race,

Matchless with Horse, Gun, Music, Dinner, Dating,

Tall, boisterous, generous, handsome, proud and loving,

Bearded, sunburned, dressed in free hunter's garb,

Not one over thirty years old.

On the second morning of the first day they were brought in squadrons and slaughtered, it was a beautiful early summer,

The work started at five o'clock and ended at eight.

No one obeyed the command to kneel

Some made a mad, helpless run, some stood stiff and straight,

Some fell instantly, shot through the temple or the heart, the living and the dead lay together,

The maimed and maimed dug into the ground, the newcomers saw them there,

A few half-dead tried to crawl away

These were dispatched with bayonets or struck with musket butts,

A young man under the age of seventeen held his killer until two more came to free him.

The three were all torn apart and covered in the boy's blood.

At eleven o'clock the cremation of the bodies began;

This is the story of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men.

Have you heard of an old sea battle?

By moonlight and starlight, would you know who won?

Tell the story as told to me by my grandmother's father, the sailor.

Our enemy wasn't hiding in his ship, I'm telling you, (he said)

His was coarse English courage, and there is none harder or honester, and never was, and never will be;

All through the night he came to ravage us terribly.

We locked with him, the yards tangled, the cannon played,

My captain whipped it quickly with his bare hands.

We had some eighteen pound shots underwater,

On our lower deck, two large chunks exploded on the first shot, killing everyone nearby and exploding overhead.

fighting at sunset, fighting in the dark,

Ten o'clock at night, the full moon rises, our leaks in profit and five feet of water reported,

The Armourer releases the prisoners from the rear hold to give them a chance for themselves.

Traffic to and from the magazine is now stopped by posts,

They see so many strange faces they don't know who to trust.

Our frigate catches fire

The other asks if we demand barracks?

When our colors get hit and the fight is over?

Now I'm laughing happily 'cause I hear my little captain's voice

We didn't hithe cries softlywe have just begun our part of the fight.

Only three guns are in action,

One is aimed at the enemy's mainmast by the captain himself,

Two well served with grapes and shrapnel silence their muskets and clear their decks.

Only the tips are the second fire of this small battery, especially the main tip,

They bravely resist throughout the action.

not a moment goes by

Leaks grow quickly at the pumps, fire eats the powder magazine.

One of the bombs went off, everyone assumes we're going under.

The little captain is relaxed

He is in no hurry, his voice is neither high nor low,

Your eyes give us more light than our battle lanterns.

Around noon, under the rays of the moon, they surrender to us.

Outstretched and still lying at midnight

Two great hooves motionless in the lap of darkness,

Our ship is riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to move on to that which we have conquered,

The captain on deck gives his orders coldly through a pale white face,

Near the corpse of the child who served in the cabin,

The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and neatly curled moustaches,

The flames flicker despite what can be done, above and below,

The hoarse voices of the two or three officers still fit for duty,

Shapeless heaps of bodies and bodies alone, hunks of flesh on the poles and poles,

Cutting the line, swaying the rigging, shaking slightly from the stillness of the waves,

Black and impassive guns, powder pack garbage, strong smell,

Some great stars above, still and sadly shining,

Delicate scents of sea breeze, smells of grass and fields by the sea, death tidings to survivors,

The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw,

Hissing, cackling, gush of falling blood, short wild scream and long, deep and sharp moaning,

These like that, these irretrievable ones.

You stragglers who stand guard! look at your arms!

They populate the conquered doors! I'm obsessed!

Embodie any lawless presence or suffering,

I see myself in prison in the form of another man

And feel the dull, uninterrupted pain.

For me the Wardens of the Damned load their carbines and watch

I am free in the morning and locked at night.

No mutineer goes to jail handcuffed, but I'm handcuffed to him and I walk beside him,

(I'm less the happy one and more the quiet one with sweat on my pursed lips.)

No juvenile is arrested for theft, but I go up and am tried and convicted.

It is not a cholera patient who lies with his last breath, but I lie with my last breath too,

My face is grey, my tendons are twisted, people turn far away from me.

Those who ask will be incorporated into me and I will be incorporated into them,

I take off my hat, sit down, face embarrassed, and beg.

Enough! enough! enough!

I was kind of stunned. Go away!

Give me a little time beyond my bound head, sleep dream gape

I'm on the verge of making a habitual mistake.

That I could forget the mockers and insults!

That I could forget the streaming tears and the blows of clubs and hammers!

That I could look at my own crucifixion and bloody coronation with a different eye.

I remember now,

I take back the surplus fraction

The tomb of the rock multiplies what was entrusted to him or any tombs,

Bodies rise, cuts heal, bonds roll off me.

I stumble, fueled with supreme strength, one of a mean endless procession,

We go inland and to the coast, and we cross all the border lines,

Our ordinances hasten swiftly over all the earth,

The flowers we wear in our hats have grown over thousands of years.

Elves, greetings! come forward!

Continue your notes, continue your questions.

The friendly, flowing savage, who is he?

Is he waiting for civilization or beyond and dominating it?

Is he a free-roaming Southwestern? is he canadian?

Is he from the state of Mississippi? Iowa, Oregon, California?

The mountains? Prairie life, bush life? or sailor?

Wherever he goes, men and women accept and desire him,

They want him to like them, to touch them, to talk to them, to stay with them.

Lawless behavior like snowflakes, simple words like grass, disheveled head, laughter and naivety,

Slow feet, common features, common manners and charisma,

They descend from your fingertips in new forms,

They are carried away by the smell of your body or breath, they fly out of sight of your eyes.

Sunshine boast, I don't need your heat - lie down!

You only light surfaces, I also force surfaces and depths.

Earth! You seem to be looking for something in my hands

Say, old lap, what do you want?

Man or woman, I can tell you how much I love you, but I can't

And you can tell what's in me and what's in you, but you can't

And you can say that I miss you, this pulsing of my nights and days.

Behold, I give neither lectures nor a little almsgiving,

If I give, I give.

You there, helpless, on your loose knees,

Spread your sideburns 'til I blow sand in you

Open your palms and lift the pocket flaps,

I shall not be denied, I oblige, I have provisions in abundance and to be spared,

And everything I have I give away.

I don't ask who you are, I don't care

You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will wrap around you.

To the cotton field slave or latrine cleaner I bow,

On your right cheek I place the family kiss,

And in my soul I swear I'll never deny it.

For women who can become pregnant, I use babies that are larger and more mobile.

(Today I am throwing out material from much more arrogant republics.)

For everyone who dies, I run and turn the doorknob.

Turn the linens to the foot of the bed

Let the doctor and the priest go home.

I grab the descending man and lift him up with an irresistible will,

O despair, here is my neck,

By God, you must not fall! Hang all your weight on me

I stretch you with a mighty breath, I squeeze you,

I fill every room in the house with armed force,

Lovers of mine, disturbing graves.

Sleep - me and you stand guard all night,

No doubt no passer-by will dare lay a finger on you,

I hugged you and from now on I own you,

And when you get up in the morning, you will experience what I tell you.

It is I who bring help to the sick while they are panting on their backs,

And to strong and upright men I bring more needed help.

I heard what was said about the universe

I have heard and heard it for several thousand years;

It's pretty average as far as it goes - but is that all?

Enlarge and apply I come,

First overcome the wary old traders,

Take me the exact measurements from Jehovah,

Lithograph of Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,

Buy designs of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,

In my portfolio place Manito loose, Allah on a sheet, the engraved crucifix,

With Odin and the abominable Mexitli and all idols and images,

Take 'em all for what they're worth and not a penny more

Suppose they lived and did their daily work,

(They have produced mites, like featherless birds, which now have to get up and fly and sing to themselves.)

I accept the rough divine sketches to fill me better and release them to every man and woman I see,

Discover as much or more in a framer that frames a house

With sleeves rolled up, driving hammer and chisel, making higher demands on him,

Not objecting to particular revelations, looking at a puff of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand as strange as any revelation,

Boys who hold fire engines and hook and ladder ropes are no less to me than the gods of old wars,

Watch their voices echoing through the rumble of destruction

Their muscular limbs passing safely through charred slats, their white foreheads whole and unscathed by the flames;

For the mechanic's wife with her baby on her nipple, interceding for every man born,

Three scythes in the harvest whistle in a line of three stout angels with shirts around their waists,

The crooked-toothed, red-haired groom who redeems past and future sins,

He sells everything he owns, walks to pay his brother's lawyers, and sits beside him while he stands trial for forgery;

Which was spread furthest by spreading the square stick over me and then not filling the square stick,

The bull and the insect half never worshiped,

Dung and dirt more admirable than dreamed,

The myriad supernatural, myself biding my time to be one of the supreme,

The day that is preparing for me when I will do as much good as I can and be so wonderful;

For my nuggets of life! already become a creator

I place myself here and now in the invaded lap of the shadows.

a shout in the crowd,

My own voice, stirring and definitive.

come my children

Come my boys and girls, my women, domestic and intimate,

Now that the performer has gathered his courage, he has spent his prelude on the inner reeds.

Simple chords you can write with loose fingers - feel the beat of your climax and close.

My head is spinning around my neck

The music rolls, but not from the organ,

People are around me, but they are not my family.

Always the hard unsinkable ground,

Always the eaters and drinkers, always the rising and setting sun, always the air and the incessant tides,

Always me and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real,

Always the old inexplicable question, always that thorny thumb, that itchy thirsty breath,

we always see each otherBuh! Buh!until we find where the clever one is hiding and bring him out,

Always love, always the sobbing liquid of life,

Always the bandage under the chin, always the easels of death.

Walking here and there with coins in my eyes

To feed the greed of the belly, the brains tucked in liberally,

Buy tickets, take, sell, but never go to the party,

Sweat a lot, plow, beat and then make the weed pay,

Some idly possess wheat, and they constantly claim wheat.

This is the city and I am one of the citizens

What interests me, I care about the rest, politics, wars, markets, newspapers, schools,

The Mayor and Councils, Banks, Customs, Steamboats, Factories, Stocks, Shops, Real Estate and Personal Property.

(Video) from "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman (Favorite Poem Project)

The swarming little mannequins, hopping in collars and tails,

I am aware of who they are (they are definitely not worms or fleas)

I recognize the duplicates of myself, the weakest and most shallow is immortal with me,

What I do and say, the same awaits her

Every thought that fights in me fights in them.

I know my own selfishness very well,

Know my omnivorous lines and won't write less,

And would pick it up whoever it is with myself.

No routine words, this song of mine

But asking abruptly, jumping over it and getting even closer, brings;

This printed and bound book - but the printer and the printer?

The well-taken photos - but your wife or girlfriend tight and tight in your arms?

The black ship, armored with iron, its powerful cannons in the towers - but the courage of the captain and the engineers?

In the houses, the crockery, the food, and the furniture—but the host and hostess and the look in their eyes?

The sky above - here or on the side or on the other side?

The saints and sages of history - but yourself?

Sermons, creeds, theology - but the inscrutable human brain,

And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?

I do not despise you priests of all time, of the whole world,

My faith is the greatest of all faiths and the smallest of all faiths,

Including ancient and modern worship and everything between ancient and modern,

To believe that after five thousand years I will return to earth,

Waiting for answers from oracles, honoring the gods, saluting the sun,

Make the first stone or tree stump a fetish, stir chopsticks in the obis circle,

Assisting the Lama or Brahmin in trimming idol lamps,

Still dancing through the streets in phallic procession, ecstatic and austere in the forest, a gymnosophist,

Drinking mead from the skull cup, for Shastas and admirers of the Vedas, observing the Qur'an,

Walking on the teokallis stained with blood from stone and knives beating drums of snakeskin,

Accepting the gospels, accepting the crucified, knowing with certainty that he is divine,

For the Puritan's kneeling Mass, or raised prayer, or sitting patiently on a bench,

Murmur and foam in my insane fit, or wait like the dead 'til my spirit awaken,

Looking ahead at the sidewalk and in the dirt, or off the sidewalk and in the dirt

Regarding the circuit winders of circuits.

I turn and talk like a man leaving burdens before a journey.

Discouraged doubters, jaded and shut out,

Frivolous, moody, downcast, angry, affected, dejected, atheistic,

I know each of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt, despair and unbelief.

Sneeze like worms!

How they squirm like lightning, with spasms and torrents of blood!

Be at peace, mosquito larvae of skeptics and ill-tempered misers,

I take my place among you just like everyone else,

The past is the shove of you, me, everything, just the same

And what has not yet been experienced and then is exactly the same for you, for me, for everyone.

I do not know what is inexperienced, and then,

But I know that again it will be enough and it cannot fail.

Everyone who passes is taken into account, everyone who stands still, no one can fail.

The young man who died and was buried cannot fail,

Even the girl who died and was laid by his side

Nor the little child who peered through the door, then withdrew and was never seen again,

Nor the old man who lived without purpose and feels it with bitterness worse than gall,

Not even in the poor tuberculous house because of the cachaça and the terrible disorder,

Nor the countless slaughtered and destroyed, nor the brutal Koboo called the excrement of mankind,

Not the bags that just float around with their mouths open for the food to slide in,

Also nothing on earth or in the oldest graves on earth,

Neither in the myriads of spheres, nor in the myriads of myriads that inhabit them,

Not the gift, not the slightest known fluff.

It's time to explain myself - let's get up.

What is known, I take with me,

I throw all men and women with me into the unknown.

The clock shows the moment - but what shows eternity?

So far we've exhausted trillions of winters and summers,

There are trillions before them and trillions before them.

Births have brought us wealth and diversity,

And other births will bring us richness and variety.

I don't name one bigger and one smaller,

What fills his time and place is the same for everyone.

Was humanity murderous or jealous of you, my brother, my sister?

I feel sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous of me,

Everything was nice to me, I can't handle regrets

(What have I got to do with whining?)

I am a culmination of things that have been done and an end of things to be.

My feet reach a crest of ladder tops,

At each step clusters of ages and larger clusters between steps,

All below have traveled duly, and I'm still getting up.

Rise after rise, the ghosts bow behind me,

In the distance I see the huge first nothing, I know I've been there by then

I waited unseen and forever and slept through the lethargic haze,

And I took my time, and I wasn't hurt by the stinking charcoal.

I was hugged for a long time - long and hard.

Immense were the preparations for me,

Loyalty and friends the poor who have helped me.

Bicycles carried my cradle, rowing and rowing like merry sailors,

For space for me the stars held in their own rings,

They sent influences to take care of what should hold me.

Before I was born of my mother, generations guided me,

My embryo was never numb, nothing could cover it.

For this the fog clung to a sphere,

The long slow layers piled up to support it,

Broad green gave him nourishment,

Monstrous sauroids carried it in their mouths and carefully deposited it.

All powers were continually expended to perfect and please me,

Now I'm in this place with my sturdy soul.

O time of youth! Elasticity always enforced!

O masculinity, balanced, floral and full.

my lovers suffocate me

Urgently my lips, thick in the pores of my skin,

Push me through streets and public halls, come to me naked at night,

Crying by day Ahoy! from the river rocks, swaying and singing over my head,

Calling my name from flowerbeds, vines, tangled bushes,

illuminating every moment of my life,

Swaying my body with soft balsamic busts

Silently pulling a handful from their hearts and giving them to me.

Age rises magnificently! O welcome, unspeakable grace of the dying days!

Each state not only completes itself, it completes what gradually grows out of itself,

And the dark silence acts as much as any other.

I open my hatch at night and see the systems spread out in the distance,

And everything I see multiplies as high as I can scramble, to the edge, but to the edge of the most distant systems.

They keep expanding, expanding, expanding,

Out and out and always out.

My sun has its sun and obediently revolves around it,

It gathers with its partners a group of superior circles,

And larger sets follow, forming patches of the larger within themselves.

There is no standstill and there can never be standstill,

If me and you and the worlds and everything beneath or on their surface were reduced to a pale swaying in this moment, it wouldn't count in the long run,

We certainly need to bring it back to where we are now,

And certainly go on, and then on and on.

A few quadrillions of ages, a few octillions of cubic leagues don't risk the gap or impatience,

They are only parts, everything is only a part.

See so far, there's unlimited space outside of it

Count a lot, there's unlimited time around it.

My appointment is scheduled, it's safe

The Lord will be there waiting for me to arrive in perfect condition,

The great camerado, the true lover I long for, will be there.

I know I have the best time and place and I have never been measured and will never be measured.

I travel an eternal journey, (come hear everything!)

My signs are a rainproof cloak, good shoes and a staff cut from the forest,

No friend of mine sits in my chair

I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,

I don't take anyone to a dinner table, a library, an exchange,

But every man and woman of you I lead to a hill

My left hand holds you around the waist

My right hand points to landscapes of continents and public roads.

Neither I nor anyone else can walk this path for you

You must travel yourself.

It's not far, it's within reach

Maybe you've been around since you were born and didn't know

Maybe it's everywhere in the water and on land.

Own your mistakes, dear son, and I'll do mine, and let's hurry,

Wonderful cities and free nations we will seek on our way.

When you get tired, give me the two bales and put the breath of your hand on my hip,

And in due time you shall do me the same service,

Because once we started, we never lied again.

Today before dawn I climbed a hill and looked at the crowded sky,

And I said to my spiritWhen we become the ones surrounding these spheres and the pleasure and knowledge of all within, will we be fulfilled and content?

And my spirit saidNo, we just line up this elevator to come by and keep going.

You ask me questions too and I hear you

I answer that I can not answer, you have to find out for yourself.

Sit down a little dear son,

Here's a biscuit to eat and here's milk to drink

But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you goodbye and open the gate for your departure from here.

For too long you dreamed miserable dreams

Now I'm washing the gum out of your eyes

You have to get used to the bright light and every moment of your life.

For a long time you waded timidly holding a board on the bank,

Now I want you to be a daring swimmer

Jump into the middle of the sea, get up again, wave at me, scream and run laughing with your hair.

I am the teacher of athletes,

Whoever opens a box for me that is wider than mine proves the breadth of mine,

He honors my style more than he learns to destroy the teacher.

The boy I love does not become a man by derived power, but in his own right,

evil instead of virtuous out of conformity or fear,

In love with his girlfriend, enjoying his steak

Unrequited love or a little cut in it, worse than sharp steel cuts,

First ride, fight, hit the mark, sail a boat, sing a song or play the banjo,

I prefer scars and beards and pockmarked faces to all soaps

And the well tanned to those who protect themselves from the sun.

I teach by deviating from myself, but who can deviate from me?

I follow you who you are from the present,

My words itch in your ears until you understand them.

I don't say these things for a dollar or to fill time while waiting for a boat

(You talk as much as me, I act like your tongue,

Bound in her mouth, mine is beginning to untie.)

I swear I'll never speak of love or death in a house again

And I swear I will never translate myself, only for whoever stays with me privately in the open air.

If you want to understand me, go up or to the sea,

The nearest mosquito is an explanation and a drop or wave motion is a key,

The mouth, the rudder, the saw follow my words.

No closed room or school can communicate with me,

But beasts and little children are better than them.

The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well,

The lumberjack who takes ax and pitcher has to carry me with him all day

The farmer who plows the field feels good when he hears my voice,

On ships sailing my words I walk with fishermen and sailors and I love them.

The soldier in camp or on the march is mine,

Many come to me on the night before the coming battle, and I will not forsake them,

On this solemn night (it may be the last) those who know me seek me out.

My face rubs against the face of the hunter lying alone on his blanket

The driver who thinks of me doesn't mind the jerk of his car,

The young mother and the old mother understand me,

The girl and the woman put the needle down for a moment and forget where they are,

You and everyone would take back what I told you.

I said that the soul is no more than the body

And I said that the body is no more than the soul

And nothing, not even God, is greater for anyone than to be themselves,

And he who walks a meter without compassion goes to his own funeral in his shroud,

And me or you with no penny pocket can buy the country's choice,

And looking with the eye or showing a bean in its pod confuses learning forever,

And there is no trade or employment, but the young man who follows him may become a hero,

And there is no object so soft that it is not an axis for the rotated universe,

And I say to every man or woman: keep your soul cool and composed before a million universes.

And I say to the people: Don't be curious about God,

Because I, who am curious about everyone, am not curious about God,

(No set of terms can express how at peace I am with God and death.)

I hear and see God in every object, but I don't understand God one bit,

I also don't understand who can be more wonderful than me.

Why would I want to see God better than I do today?

I see something of God every twenty-four hours, and then every moment

In the faces of men and women I see God and in my own face in the mirror,

I find letters from God lying in the street and each signed in the name of God

And I leave them where they are 'cause I know wherever I go

Others will come on time forever and ever.

And as for you, Death, and your bitter embrace of mortality, there's no use trying to trouble me.

Without blinking, the acoucheur comes to his work,

I see the old man's hand squeezing, receiving, supporting,

I recline on the sills of exquisite flexible doors,

And mark the exit, and mark the relief and escape.

And as for you, corpse, I think you're good shit, but that doesn't offend me,

I smell the white roses fragrant and growing,

I reach for the leafy lips, I reach for the polished melon breasts.

And as for your life, I acknowledge that you are the residue of many deaths,

(No doubt I've died ten thousand times.)

I hear you whispering there, oh stars in the sky,

O suns - O herbs of the graves - O eternal transfers and promotions,

If you don't say anything, how can I say something?

From the murky pond that lies in the autumn forest,

Of the moon descending the cliffs of the whispering twilight,

Throw, splendor of day and dawn - throw in the black stalks rotting in the mud,

Plunge into the meaningless moans of dry limbs.

I rise from the moon, I rise from the night

I perceive that the ghastly brilliance is the reflected rays of the midday sun,

And it ends in the stable and in the middle of the big or small descent.

There it is in me - I don't know what it is - but I know that it is in me.

Drained and sweaty - calm and cold then my body,

I sleep - I sleep a lot.

I don't know - it's nameless - it's an unspoken word,

It's not in any dictionary, expression, symbol.

Something she sways on more than the earth I sway on

For her, creation is the friend whose embrace wakes me.

Maybe I can say more. contours! I pray for my brothers and sisters.

Do you see O my brothers and sisters?

It is not chaos or death - it is form, union, plan - it is eternal life - it is bliss.

Past and present wither - I filled them, emptied them,

And continue to fill in my next crease of the future.

listeners up! what do you have to trust me

Look me in the face as I smell the nightside

(Speak honestly or no one will listen to you, and I'll stay a minute longer.)

Am I contradicting myself?

Well then I contradict myself

(I'm big, I contain a lot.)

I focus on the ones nearby, I'll wait outside the front door.

Who did the day's work? Who will finish their dinner early?

Who wants to walk with me?

will you speak before i go Will you prove it's already too late?

The spotted hawk flies by and accuses me, complains of my gossip and idleness.

I'm not domesticated at all, I'm also untranslatable,

I let my barbaric yawns sound over the roofs of the world.

The last darkness of the day holds for me

He hurls my image after the rest and true as one in the wilderness of shadows,

Lead me to steam and twilight.

I walk like air swinging my white hair in the uncontrolled sun

I pour my meat into strudels and drape them in lacy indentations.

I surrender to the earth to grow from the grass I love

If you want me again, look for me under the soles of your boots.

You'll hardly know who I am or what I mean

But I'll still be good health to you

And filter and fiber your blood.

If you don't pick me up first, stay encouraged

Miss me, one place looks for the other

I'll stop somewhere and wait for you.

FAQs

What is Walt Whitman's message in Song of Myself? ›

What is the main theme of Song of Myself? Song of Myself glorifies the self, body, and soul. In the poem, Whitman emphasizes the unity of finding himself with tangible and intangible aspects of the universe.

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Why is Song of Myself important? ›

He used 'Song of Myself' to explore those ideas while preaching self-knowledge, liberty and acceptance for all. With its free-form and loose structure, its compelling rhythms, multiple themes and shifting narrators, 'Song of Myself' is widely considered one of the first truly modern poems.

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Is Song of Myself part of Leaves of Grass? ›

"Song of Myself" is a poem by Walt Whitman (1819–1892) that is included in his work Leaves of Grass. It has been credited as "representing the core of Whitman's poetic vision."

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What kind of poem is Song of Myself? ›

The term "free verse" was popularized by 20th century poets like William Carlos Williams and Allen Ginsberg whom Whitman inspired. The term means "a poem with no regular form or meter." If that's the definition, then "Song of Myself" is free verse.

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What is the controversy of Song of Myself? ›

But "Song of Myself" wasn't without its controversies. The poem's frank depictions of sexuality and eroticism earned it a somewhat scandalous reputation. Whitman's contemporary, the equally influential poet Emily Dickinson, wrote about Whitman in one her letters, saying: "You speak of Mr. Whitman.

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What is the central idea of Walt Whitman's poem? ›

In this poem, Whitman compares man to animals. It is the souls of animals that are meant to reflect the truth in humanity. The central idea of this poem is to highlight the difference between human beings and animals.

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What is the conclusion of Song of Myself? ›

This concept is evident through the poet's concluding statement. He indicates that he wishes to finally 'sound my (his) barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world' (Whitman 63). This confession – coming at the end of the poet's composition, indicates that the poet has yet to refine his work.

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What is the short summary of Song of Myself? ›

“Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman celebrates the theme of democracy and the oneness of mankind, specifically the American people. As well, it represents Transcendentalist thought concerning mankind's common soul. The poem also focuses on the theme that life is a journey to uncover one's self, one's identity.

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Why is it called Song of Myself? ›

It was called A Poem of Walt Whitman, an American until he changed it in 1881 to Song of Myself , a reflection of the work's broader implications: that the divine spirit resides within all of us, and that we have knowledge about ourselves that "transcends" the world around us.

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What does the color green represent in Song of Myself? ›

Green is the color of hope. Or, it could be like God's handkerchief, just a little something to remember him by. Or, it could be the child of all the other plants. Or, it could be a "hieroglyphic," a kind of writing that symbolizes the equality of all people and things.

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Why was Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass controversial? ›

Whitman's poems about the joys of life contain references to sexual relationships, including same-sex relationships, that were considered shocking at the time. The book stirred protests similar to current outcries over books seen as controversial by some conservative politicians and parents.

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Who is the speaker in the poem Song of Myself? ›

Let's start off with the basics: our speaker, who is actually named Walt Whitman, declares that he's going to celebrate himself in this poem. He then invites his soul to hang out and stare at a blade of grass.

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What are the metaphors in Song of Myself? ›

The speaker uses a metaphor comparing the grass to “the beautiful uncut hair of graves.” This metaphor is important since it illustrates the idea that earth is a grave because the soil is made up partly of decomposed bodies. The idea of dead life supporting new life is a crucial theme throughout the poem.

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What are the symbols of Song of Myself? ›

Grass is the central symbol of “Song of Myself,” and it represents the divinity contained in all living things. Although no traditional form is apparent, the logical manner in which the poet returns to his image of grass shows that “Song of Myself” was planned to have an order and unity of idea and image.

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What does the first stanza of Song of Myself mean? ›

Whitman states what he's going to do in the poem: celebrate himself. This practice might seem a little arrogant, but we'll just go with it. (It turns out, that he's celebrating not only himself, but all of humanity.) He lays out some of his ground rules: we're going to believe ("assume") whatever he believes.

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Is Song of Myself about slavery? ›

These two passages from Whitman's epic poem "Song of Myself" are part of a recurring pattern in the poem of concern with slavery. In some ways, "Song of Myself" can be read as a slave-escape narrative, where the narrator gradually comes to identify with the slave and ultimately experiences his pain as he is captured.

What paradox is at the heart of Song of Myself? ›

The self of "Song of Myself" is paradoxical in other ways as well: it is both mutable and immutable; it is both part of and separate from worldly existence; it is both individ- ual and universal; it is both body and soul; it participates, yet also witnesses.

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What is the most controversial music video of all time? ›

1. 'Lemon Incest' – Serge Gainbourg. Yes, there's no doubt that Serge Gainsbourg's song, 'Lemon Incest' is still one of the most controversial music videos (and songs) of all time. The video caused controversy when it was released in 1984, but the song itself still managed to reach number two in the charts.

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What are some key themes in Walt Whitman's poetry? ›

Within his poetry, Whitman highlights the following Transcendentalist themes, among others: democracy, the supremacy of self and nature, universal communion of all people, the mystery of life and death, and the spirituality found in nature.

What is the message in a song? ›

Songwriters like to talk about a song's message — the backstory we pick up from the lyrics. There's a common belief that the best songs are the ones that present a cogent, powerful (even if subtle) message.

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What is the moral of the story the Song of Songs? ›

So the song works on two levels—it's celebrating human's desire for intimacy and pointing to humanity's ultimate purpose: to be united with God and his wisdom.

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What is the main point of Song of Songs? ›

The literal subject of the Song of Songs is love and sexual longing between a man and a woman, and it has little (or nothing) to say about the relationship of God and man; in order to find such a meaning it was necessary to resort to allegory, treating the love that the Song celebrates as an analogy for the love ...

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What does Song of Myself say about identity? ›

Whitman sees his identity split into at least three components: his everyday personality, the more inner "self" or "Me Myself," and the universal "Soul." He was attracted to the American Transcendentalist idea of the "Oversoul," or the soul that is somehow part of or connected to all other souls in the world.

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Which statement best describes the theme Song of Myself? ›

Which statement best describes the theme of "Song of Myself"? There is room for many experiences and, indeed, selves within one self.

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What is true about the speaker in Song of Myself? ›

He speaks for his soul but stands apart from it. He's a good friend of you, the reader. He is constantly addressing the reader as "you." He seems to think that you and he are on a journey together, and that he's your guide. He challenges your sense of pride and tries to goad you into thinking for yourself.

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Is Song of Myself about death? ›

In Song of Myself, Walt Whitman suggests that death is immaterial because the natural cycles of rebirth mean that our physical selves and spiritual legacies are recycled.

Is Song of Myself realism or romanticism? ›

“Song of Myself” contains elements of both romanticism and realism; Section XV, however, focuses on the realistic aspects of city life in 1855.

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What is the central symbol in Song of Myself? ›

Grass, a central symbol of this epic poem, suggests the divinity of common things. The nature and significance of grass unfold the themes of death and immortality, for grass is symbolic of the ongoing cycle of life present in nature, which assures each man of his immortality.

What does Whitman mean when he says my tongue every atom of my blood? ›

In this line, Whitman is referring to every tiny particle that exists in the Universe. He is saying that everybody shares the world, together in harmony with each other....

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What does Section 8 of Song of Myself mean? ›

In this section, Whitman describes his experience with all kinds of people and situations, as if to justify his claim to be the companion of all people. He has seen everything from little kids to "suicides" that have just shot themselves.