Of Manhattan the son
so described Walt Whitman himself, i.e, a kosmos, i.e., me in his "Leaves of Grass". Of course in the next few verses:
"Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest."
he also gave a pretty accurate summary of who I am today , sans "breeding". For that I will have to wait for the "touch" that will lead to:
Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare waist, Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pasture-fields, Immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away,
Yes, the touch of a woman who waits for me:
A woman waits for me—she contains all, nothing is lacking, Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were lacking.
Sex contains all,
Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,
Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal milk;
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,
All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth,
All the governments, judges, gods, follow’d persons of the earth,
These are contain’d in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of itself.
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It is I, you women—I make my way,
I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable—but I love you,
I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,
I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States—I press with slow rude muscle,
I brace myself effectually—I listen to no entreaties,
I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated within me.
Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself, In you I wrap a thousand onward years, On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America, The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls, new artists, musicians, and singers, The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn, I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings, I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you interpenetrate now, I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now, I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death, immortality, I plant so lovingly now.
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Or maybe not. Maybe I will just be a stepson of Manhattan, and will bury myself in some smoky New Jersey town like Hoboken, across the Hudson River from the gilttering spires of Manhattan, and maybe the loveless I too will breed, if only words, like this writer has done, drunk on New York, when I get there in a few months time.
My Daily Notes
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Sharanya
Hi, x-posting this comment so that you'll see it (sorry it's not on this post spceifically)... Thought you might be interested in puisipoesy.blogspot.com - it's a poetry collablog (I contribute). Do drop by! :)
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