October 2009 Archives
By Whitman, Biweekly!
Tuesday November 3rd, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gheardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" will provide an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we'll spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series will also give those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
Here is what we'll discuss this week
***LEAVES OF GRASS***
COME closer to me,
Push close my lovers and take the best I possess,
Yield closer and closer and give me the best you possess.
This is unfinished business with me . . . . how is it with you?
I was chilled with the cold types and cylinder and wet paper between us.
I pass so poorly with paper and types . . . . I must pass with the contact of bodies
and souls.
I do not thank you for liking me as I am, and liking the touch of me . . . . I know that
it is good for you to do so.
Were all educations practical and ornamental well displayed out of me, what would
it amount to?
Were I as the head teacher or charitable proprietor or wise statesman, what would
it amount to?
Were I to you as the boss employing and paying you, would that satisfy you?
The learned and virtuous and benevolent, and the usual terms;
A man like me, and never the usual terms.
Neither a servant nor a master am I,
I take no sooner a large price than a small price . . . . I will have my own whoever
enjoys me,
I will be even with you, and you shall be even with me.
If you are a workman or workwoman I stand as nigh as the nighest that works in
the same shop,
If you bestow gifts on your brother or dearest friend, I demand as good as your
brother or dearest friend,
If your lover or husband or wife is welcome by day or night, I must be personally as
If you have become degraded or ill, then I will become so for your sake;
If you remember your foolish and outlawed deeds, do you think I cannot remember
my foolish and outlawed deeds?
If you carouse at the table I say I will carouse at the opposite side of the table;
If you meet some stranger in the street and love him or her, do I not often meet
strangers in the street and love them?
If you see a good deal remarkable in me I see just as much remarkable in you.
Why what have you thought of yourself?
Is it you then that thought yourself less?
Is it you that thought the President greater than you? or the rich better off than
you? or the educated wiser than you?
Because you are greasy or pimpled—or that you was once drunk, or a thief, or
diseased, or rheumatic, or a prostitute—or are so now—or from frivolity or
impotence—or that you are no scholar, and never saw your name in print . . . .
do you give in that you are any less immortal?
Souls of men and women! it is not you I call unseen, unheard, untouchable and
untouching;
It is not you I go argue pro and con about, and to settle whether you are alive or
no;
I own publicly who you are, if nobody else owns . . . . and see and hear you, and
what you give and take;
What is there you cannot give and take?
I see not merely that you are polite or whitefaced . . . . married or single . . . .
citizens of old states or citizens of new states . . . . eminent in some profession
. . . . a lady or gentleman in a parlor . . . . or dressed in the jail uniform . . . .
or pulpit uniform,
Not only the free Utahan, Kansian, or Arkansian . . . . not only the free Cuban . . .
not merely the slave . . . . not Mexican native, or Flatfoot, or negro from
Africa,
Iroquois eating the warflesh—fishtearer in his lair of rocks and sand . . . .
Esquimaux in the dark cold snowhouse . . . . Chinese with his transverse eyes
. . . . Bedowee—or wandering nomad—or tabounschik at the head of his
droves,
Grown, half-grown, and babe—of this country and every country, indoors and out-
doors I see . . . . and all else is behind or through them.
The wife—and she is not one jot less than the husband,
The daughter—and she is just as good as the son,
The mother—and she is every bit as much as the father.
Offspring of those not rich—boys apprenticed to trades,
Young fellows working on farms and old fellows working on farms;
The naive . . . . the simple and hardy . . . . he going to the polls to vote . . . . he
who has a good time, and he who has a bad time;
Mechanics, southerners, new arrivals, sailors, mano'warsmen, merchantmen, coast-
ers,
All these I see . . . . but nigher and farther the same I see;
None shall escape me, and none shall wish to escape me.
I bring what you much need, yet always have,
I bring not money or amours or dress or eating . . . . but I bring as good;
And send no agent or medium . . . . and offer no representative of value—but offer
the value itself.
There is something that comes home to one now and perpetually,
It is not what is printed or preached or discussed . . . . it eludes discussion and
print,
It is not to be put in a book . . . . it is not in this book,
It is for you whoever you are . . . . it is no farther from you than your hearing and
sight are from you,
It is hinted by nearest and commonest and readiest . . . . it is not them, though it is
endlessly provoked by them . . . . What is there ready and near you now?
You may read in many languages and read nothing about it;
You may read the President's message and read nothing about it there,
Nothing in the reports from the state department or treasury department . . . . or in
the daily papers, or the weekly papers,
Or in the census returns or assessors' returns or prices current or any accounts of
stock.
The sun and stars that float in the open air . . . . the appleshaped earth and we upon
it . . . . surely the drift of them is something grand;
I do not know what it is except that it is grand, and that it is happiness,
And that the enclosing purport of us here is not a speculation, or bon-mot or
reconnoissance,
And that it is not something which by luck may turn out well for us, and without
luck must be a failure for us,
And not something which may yet be retracted in a certain contingency.
The light and shade—the curious sense of body and identity—the greed that
with perfect complaisance devours all things—the endless pride and out-
stretching of man— unspeakable joys and sorrows,
The wonder every one sees in every one else he sees . . . . and the wonders that fill
each minute of time forever and each acre of surface and space forever,
Have you reckoned them as mainly for a trade or farmwork? or for the profits of
a store? or to achieve yourself a position? or to fill a gentleman's leisure or a
lady's leisure?
Have you reckoned the landscape took substance and form that it might be painted
in a picture?
Or men and women that they might be written of, and songs sung?
Or the attraction of gravity and the great laws and harmonious combinations and
the fluids of the air as subjects for the savans?
Or the brown land and the blue sea for maps and charts?
Or the stars to be put in constellations and named fancy names?
Or that the growth of seeds is for agricultural tables or agriculture itself?
Old institutions . . . . these arts libraries legends collections—and the practice
handed along in manufactures . . . . will we rate them so high?
Will we rate our prudence and business so high? . . . . I have no objection,
I rate them as high as the highest . . . . but a child born of a woman and man I rate
beyond all rate.
We thought our Union grand and our Constitution grand;
I do not say they are not grand and good—for they are,
I am this day just as much in love with them as you,
But I am eternally in love with you and with all my fellows upon the earth.
We consider the bibles and religions divine . . . . I do not say they are not divine,
I say they have all grown out of you and may grow out of you still,
It is not they who give the life . . . . it is you who give the life;
Leaves are not more shed from the trees or trees from the earth than they are shed
out of you.
The sum of all known value and respect I add up in you whoever you are;
The President is up there in the White House for you . . . . it is not you who are
here for him,
The Secretaries act in their bureaus for you . . . . not you here for them,
The Congress convenes every December for you,
Laws, courts, the forming of states, the charters of cities, the going and coming of
commerce and mails are all for you.
All doctrines, all politics and civilization exurge from you,
All sculpture and monuments and anything inscribed anywhere are tallied in you,
The gist of histories and statistics as far back as the records reach is in you this
hour—and myths and tales the same;
If you were not breathing and walking here where would they all be?
The most renowned poems would be ashes . . . . orations and plays would be
vacuums.
All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it;
Did you think it was in the white or gray stone? or the lines of the arches and
cornices?
All music is what awakens from you when you are reminded by the instruments,
It is not the violins and the cornets . . . . it is not the oboe nor the beating drums—
nor the notes of the baritone singer singing his sweet romanza . . . . nor those
of the men's chorus, nor those of the women's chorus,
It is nearer and farther than they.
Will the whole come back then?
Can each see the signs of the best by a look in the lookingglass? Is there nothing
greater or more?
Does all sit there with you and here with me?
Tuesday November 3rd, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gheardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" will provide an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we'll spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series will also give those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
Here is what we'll discuss this week
***LEAVES OF GRASS***
COME closer to me,
Push close my lovers and take the best I possess,
Yield closer and closer and give me the best you possess.
This is unfinished business with me . . . . how is it with you?
I was chilled with the cold types and cylinder and wet paper between us.
I pass so poorly with paper and types . . . . I must pass with the contact of bodies
and souls.
I do not thank you for liking me as I am, and liking the touch of me . . . . I know that
it is good for you to do so.
Were all educations practical and ornamental well displayed out of me, what would
it amount to?
Were I as the head teacher or charitable proprietor or wise statesman, what would
it amount to?
Were I to you as the boss employing and paying you, would that satisfy you?
The learned and virtuous and benevolent, and the usual terms;
A man like me, and never the usual terms.
Neither a servant nor a master am I,
I take no sooner a large price than a small price . . . . I will have my own whoever
enjoys me,
I will be even with you, and you shall be even with me.
If you are a workman or workwoman I stand as nigh as the nighest that works in
the same shop,
If you bestow gifts on your brother or dearest friend, I demand as good as your
brother or dearest friend,
If your lover or husband or wife is welcome by day or night, I must be personally as
If you have become degraded or ill, then I will become so for your sake;
If you remember your foolish and outlawed deeds, do you think I cannot remember
my foolish and outlawed deeds?
If you carouse at the table I say I will carouse at the opposite side of the table;
If you meet some stranger in the street and love him or her, do I not often meet
strangers in the street and love them?
If you see a good deal remarkable in me I see just as much remarkable in you.
Why what have you thought of yourself?
Is it you then that thought yourself less?
Is it you that thought the President greater than you? or the rich better off than
you? or the educated wiser than you?
Because you are greasy or pimpled—or that you was once drunk, or a thief, or
diseased, or rheumatic, or a prostitute—or are so now—or from frivolity or
impotence—or that you are no scholar, and never saw your name in print . . . .
do you give in that you are any less immortal?
Souls of men and women! it is not you I call unseen, unheard, untouchable and
untouching;
It is not you I go argue pro and con about, and to settle whether you are alive or
no;
I own publicly who you are, if nobody else owns . . . . and see and hear you, and
what you give and take;
What is there you cannot give and take?
I see not merely that you are polite or whitefaced . . . . married or single . . . .
citizens of old states or citizens of new states . . . . eminent in some profession
. . . . a lady or gentleman in a parlor . . . . or dressed in the jail uniform . . . .
or pulpit uniform,
Not only the free Utahan, Kansian, or Arkansian . . . . not only the free Cuban . . .
not merely the slave . . . . not Mexican native, or Flatfoot, or negro from
Africa,
Iroquois eating the warflesh—fishtearer in his lair of rocks and sand . . . .
Esquimaux in the dark cold snowhouse . . . . Chinese with his transverse eyes
. . . . Bedowee—or wandering nomad—or tabounschik at the head of his
droves,
Grown, half-grown, and babe—of this country and every country, indoors and out-
doors I see . . . . and all else is behind or through them.
The wife—and she is not one jot less than the husband,
The daughter—and she is just as good as the son,
The mother—and she is every bit as much as the father.
Offspring of those not rich—boys apprenticed to trades,
Young fellows working on farms and old fellows working on farms;
The naive . . . . the simple and hardy . . . . he going to the polls to vote . . . . he
who has a good time, and he who has a bad time;
Mechanics, southerners, new arrivals, sailors, mano'warsmen, merchantmen, coast-
ers,
All these I see . . . . but nigher and farther the same I see;
None shall escape me, and none shall wish to escape me.
I bring what you much need, yet always have,
I bring not money or amours or dress or eating . . . . but I bring as good;
And send no agent or medium . . . . and offer no representative of value—but offer
the value itself.
There is something that comes home to one now and perpetually,
It is not what is printed or preached or discussed . . . . it eludes discussion and
print,
It is not to be put in a book . . . . it is not in this book,
It is for you whoever you are . . . . it is no farther from you than your hearing and
sight are from you,
It is hinted by nearest and commonest and readiest . . . . it is not them, though it is
endlessly provoked by them . . . . What is there ready and near you now?
You may read in many languages and read nothing about it;
You may read the President's message and read nothing about it there,
Nothing in the reports from the state department or treasury department . . . . or in
the daily papers, or the weekly papers,
Or in the census returns or assessors' returns or prices current or any accounts of
stock.
The sun and stars that float in the open air . . . . the appleshaped earth and we upon
it . . . . surely the drift of them is something grand;
I do not know what it is except that it is grand, and that it is happiness,
And that the enclosing purport of us here is not a speculation, or bon-mot or
reconnoissance,
And that it is not something which by luck may turn out well for us, and without
luck must be a failure for us,
And not something which may yet be retracted in a certain contingency.
The light and shade—the curious sense of body and identity—the greed that
with perfect complaisance devours all things—the endless pride and out-
stretching of man— unspeakable joys and sorrows,
The wonder every one sees in every one else he sees . . . . and the wonders that fill
each minute of time forever and each acre of surface and space forever,
Have you reckoned them as mainly for a trade or farmwork? or for the profits of
a store? or to achieve yourself a position? or to fill a gentleman's leisure or a
lady's leisure?
Have you reckoned the landscape took substance and form that it might be painted
in a picture?
Or men and women that they might be written of, and songs sung?
Or the attraction of gravity and the great laws and harmonious combinations and
the fluids of the air as subjects for the savans?
Or the brown land and the blue sea for maps and charts?
Or the stars to be put in constellations and named fancy names?
Or that the growth of seeds is for agricultural tables or agriculture itself?
Old institutions . . . . these arts libraries legends collections—and the practice
handed along in manufactures . . . . will we rate them so high?
Will we rate our prudence and business so high? . . . . I have no objection,
I rate them as high as the highest . . . . but a child born of a woman and man I rate
beyond all rate.
We thought our Union grand and our Constitution grand;
I do not say they are not grand and good—for they are,
I am this day just as much in love with them as you,
But I am eternally in love with you and with all my fellows upon the earth.
We consider the bibles and religions divine . . . . I do not say they are not divine,
I say they have all grown out of you and may grow out of you still,
It is not they who give the life . . . . it is you who give the life;
Leaves are not more shed from the trees or trees from the earth than they are shed
out of you.
The sum of all known value and respect I add up in you whoever you are;
The President is up there in the White House for you . . . . it is not you who are
here for him,
The Secretaries act in their bureaus for you . . . . not you here for them,
The Congress convenes every December for you,
Laws, courts, the forming of states, the charters of cities, the going and coming of
commerce and mails are all for you.
All doctrines, all politics and civilization exurge from you,
All sculpture and monuments and anything inscribed anywhere are tallied in you,
The gist of histories and statistics as far back as the records reach is in you this
hour—and myths and tales the same;
If you were not breathing and walking here where would they all be?
The most renowned poems would be ashes . . . . orations and plays would be
vacuums.
All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it;
Did you think it was in the white or gray stone? or the lines of the arches and
cornices?
All music is what awakens from you when you are reminded by the instruments,
It is not the violins and the cornets . . . . it is not the oboe nor the beating drums—
nor the notes of the baritone singer singing his sweet romanza . . . . nor those
of the men's chorus, nor those of the women's chorus,
It is nearer and farther than they.
Will the whole come back then?
Can each see the signs of the best by a look in the lookingglass? Is there nothing
greater or more?
Does all sit there with you and here with me?
Story Session at the Falling Anvil - 4th Annual Ghost Story Night
Sponsored by the Caledon Library and the Clan of Seafarers and Storytellers,
Monday October 26 , 2009
5pm - 8pm SLT
The Falling Anvil Public House, Caledon Tamrannoch
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Tamrannoch/230/108/22
Ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged furries, and things that go bump in the night, tales of horror and the supernatural, and all things strange and uncanny are welcome at this story session.
Sponsored by the Caledon Library and the Clan of Seafarers and Storytellers,
Monday October 26 , 2009
5pm - 8pm SLT
The Falling Anvil Public House, Caledon Tamrannoch
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Tamrannoch/230/108/22
Ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged furries, and things that go bump in the night, tales of horror and the supernatural, and all things strange and uncanny are welcome at this story session.
By Whitman, Biweekly!
Tuesday October 20th, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gheardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" will provide an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we'll spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series will also give those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
This week, we will continue our discussion of "Song of Myself," the first poem to Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass.
Here is the passage we'll discuss
By Whitman, Bi-Weekly
4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
Sit awhile wayfarer,
Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,
But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes I will certainly kiss you
with my goodbye kiss and open the gate for your egress hence.
Long enough have you dreamed contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your
life
Long have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, and rise again and nod to me and shout, and
laughingly dash with your hair.
I am the teacher of athletes,
He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my own,
He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.
The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power but in his own
right,
Wicked, rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear,
Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak,
Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than a wound cuts,
First rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's eye, to sail a skiff, to sing a song or play
on the banjo,
Preferring scars and faces pitted with smallpox over all latherers and those that
keep out of the sun.
I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?
I follow you whoever you are from the present hour;
My words itch at your ears till you understand them.
I do not say these things for a dollar, or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat;
It is you talking just as much as myself . . . . I act as the tongue of you,
It was tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.
I swear I will never mention love or death inside a house,
And I swear I never will translate myself at all, only to him or her who privately
stays with me in the open air.
If you would understand me go to the heights or water- shore,
The nearest gnat is an explanation and a drop or the motion of waves a key,
The maul the oar and the handsaw second my words.
No shuttered room or school can commune with me,
But roughs and little children better than they.
The young mechanic is closest to me . . . . he knows me pretty well,
The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with him all day,
The farmboy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice,
In vessels that sail my words must sail . . . . I go with fishermen and seamen, and
love them,
My face rubs to the hunter's face when he lies down alone in his blanket,
The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon,
The young mother and old mother shall comprehend me,
The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where they are,
They and all would resume what I have told them.
I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's-self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral, dressed in
his shroud,
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning of all
times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a
hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe,
And any man or woman shall stand cool and supercilious before a million universes.
And I call to mankind, Be not curious about God,
For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,
No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death.
I hear and behold God in every object, yet I understand God not in the least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.
Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass;
I find letters from God dropped in the street, and every one is signed by God's name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that others will punctually come for-
ever and ever.
And as to you death, and you bitter hug of mortality . . . . it is idle to try to alarm
me.
To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes,
I see the elderhand pressing receiving supporting,
I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors . . . . and mark the outlet, and
mark the relief and escape.
And as to you corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me,
I smell the white roses sweetscented and growing,
I reach to the leafy lips . . . . I reach to the polished breasts of melons.
And as to you life, I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,
No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.
I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
O suns . . . . O grass of graves . . . . O perpetual transfers and promotions . . . . if
you do not say anything how can I say anything?
Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,
Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,
Toss, sparkles of day and dusk . . . . toss on the black stems that decay in the muck,
Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.
I ascend from the moon . . . . I ascend from the night,
And perceive of the ghastly glitter the sunbeams reflected,
And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small.
There is that in me . . . . I do not know what it is . . . . but I know it is in me.
Wrenched and sweaty . . . . calm and cool then my body becomes;
I sleep . . . . I sleep long.
I do not know it . . . . it is without name . . . . it is a word unsaid,
It is not in any dictionary or utterance or symbol.
Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.
Perhaps I might tell more . . . . Outlines! I plead for my brothers and sisters.
Do you see O my brothers and sisters?
It is not chaos or death . . . . it is form and union and plan . . . . it is eternal life . . . .
it is happiness.
The past and present wilt . . . . I have filled them and emptied them,
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Listener up there! Here you . . . . what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
Talk honestly, for no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then . . . . I contradict myself;
I am large . . . . I contain multitudes.
I concentrate toward them that are nigh . . . . I wait on the door-slab.
Who has done his day's work and will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?
Will you speak before I am gone? Will you prove already too late?
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me . . . . he complains of my gab and my
loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed . . . . I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadowed wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air . . . . I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop some where waiting for you
Tuesday October 20th, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gheardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" will provide an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we'll spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series will also give those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
This week, we will continue our discussion of "Song of Myself," the first poem to Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass.
Here is the passage we'll discuss
By Whitman, Bi-Weekly
4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
Sit awhile wayfarer,
Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,
But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes I will certainly kiss you
with my goodbye kiss and open the gate for your egress hence.
Long enough have you dreamed contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your
life
Long have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, and rise again and nod to me and shout, and
laughingly dash with your hair.
I am the teacher of athletes,
He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my own,
He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.
The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power but in his own
right,
Wicked, rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear,
Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak,
Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than a wound cuts,
First rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's eye, to sail a skiff, to sing a song or play
on the banjo,
Preferring scars and faces pitted with smallpox over all latherers and those that
keep out of the sun.
I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?
I follow you whoever you are from the present hour;
My words itch at your ears till you understand them.
I do not say these things for a dollar, or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat;
It is you talking just as much as myself . . . . I act as the tongue of you,
It was tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.
I swear I will never mention love or death inside a house,
And I swear I never will translate myself at all, only to him or her who privately
stays with me in the open air.
If you would understand me go to the heights or water- shore,
The nearest gnat is an explanation and a drop or the motion of waves a key,
The maul the oar and the handsaw second my words.
No shuttered room or school can commune with me,
But roughs and little children better than they.
The young mechanic is closest to me . . . . he knows me pretty well,
The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with him all day,
The farmboy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice,
In vessels that sail my words must sail . . . . I go with fishermen and seamen, and
love them,
My face rubs to the hunter's face when he lies down alone in his blanket,
The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon,
The young mother and old mother shall comprehend me,
The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where they are,
They and all would resume what I have told them.
I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's-self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral, dressed in
his shroud,
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning of all
times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a
hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe,
And any man or woman shall stand cool and supercilious before a million universes.
And I call to mankind, Be not curious about God,
For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,
No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death.
I hear and behold God in every object, yet I understand God not in the least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.
Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass;
I find letters from God dropped in the street, and every one is signed by God's name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that others will punctually come for-
ever and ever.
And as to you death, and you bitter hug of mortality . . . . it is idle to try to alarm
me.
To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes,
I see the elderhand pressing receiving supporting,
I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors . . . . and mark the outlet, and
mark the relief and escape.
And as to you corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me,
I smell the white roses sweetscented and growing,
I reach to the leafy lips . . . . I reach to the polished breasts of melons.
And as to you life, I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,
No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.
I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
O suns . . . . O grass of graves . . . . O perpetual transfers and promotions . . . . if
you do not say anything how can I say anything?
Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,
Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,
Toss, sparkles of day and dusk . . . . toss on the black stems that decay in the muck,
Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.
I ascend from the moon . . . . I ascend from the night,
And perceive of the ghastly glitter the sunbeams reflected,
And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small.
There is that in me . . . . I do not know what it is . . . . but I know it is in me.
Wrenched and sweaty . . . . calm and cool then my body becomes;
I sleep . . . . I sleep long.
I do not know it . . . . it is without name . . . . it is a word unsaid,
It is not in any dictionary or utterance or symbol.
Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.
Perhaps I might tell more . . . . Outlines! I plead for my brothers and sisters.
Do you see O my brothers and sisters?
It is not chaos or death . . . . it is form and union and plan . . . . it is eternal life . . . .
it is happiness.
The past and present wilt . . . . I have filled them and emptied them,
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Listener up there! Here you . . . . what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
Talk honestly, for no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then . . . . I contradict myself;
I am large . . . . I contain multitudes.
I concentrate toward them that are nigh . . . . I wait on the door-slab.
Who has done his day's work and will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?
Will you speak before I am gone? Will you prove already too late?
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me . . . . he complains of my gab and my
loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed . . . . I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadowed wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air . . . . I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop some where waiting for you
Caledon Library Folklore lecture by Afsaneh Metaluna
Supernatural Ballads
Tuesday, 13 October, 2009
4:30pm - 5:30pm Tinyville Library, Caledon Tanglewood,
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Tanglewood/23/214/23/
Folklorist Afsenah Metaluna will guide us in a new exploration each month; with illustrative stories and her own commentary she'll expose to our understanding some facet of the rich and varied folklore of the British Isles. These lectures will feature brave heroics and wonder tales from the Celtic regions, Welsh lore including the tales of Arthur and Merlin, stories of the wise and the uncanny from Scotland, and folklore from England comprised of local legends that combine references to beliefs and customs and aspects of daily life, particularly rural life as well as the English ballads and broadsides, which have a strong tradition of their own
This month, we will hear (and hear about) ballads of the strange and spooky things that happen when our world touches the Other World, the place always just out of sight but never far away. Expect to hear about enchanted knights, kidnapped mortals, wild whooping invisible hunters, fairy queens, and all manner of marvels!
Supernatural Ballads
Tuesday, 13 October, 2009
4:30pm - 5:30pm Tinyville Library, Caledon Tanglewood,
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Tanglewood/23/214/23/
Folklorist Afsenah Metaluna will guide us in a new exploration each month; with illustrative stories and her own commentary she'll expose to our understanding some facet of the rich and varied folklore of the British Isles. These lectures will feature brave heroics and wonder tales from the Celtic regions, Welsh lore including the tales of Arthur and Merlin, stories of the wise and the uncanny from Scotland, and folklore from England comprised of local legends that combine references to beliefs and customs and aspects of daily life, particularly rural life as well as the English ballads and broadsides, which have a strong tradition of their own
This month, we will hear (and hear about) ballads of the strange and spooky things that happen when our world touches the Other World, the place always just out of sight but never far away. Expect to hear about enchanted knights, kidnapped mortals, wild whooping invisible hunters, fairy queens, and all manner of marvels!
Wind in the Willows Listening Party
Chapter 10: The Further Adventures of Toad
Saturday, October 10th 10am-11am SLT
On the Riverbank, A Willowy Place, Caledon Tanglewood
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Tanglewood/18/167/23
Come as a character from Kenneth Grahame's novel, The Wind in the Willows, and join us as we listen to, and discuss, a new chapter each month of the adventures of the shy but loyal Mole, the poetical Water Rat, the brave Otter, the gruff but kindly Mr. Badger, the vainglorious Toad, and all the other creatures of wood, stream, and field who populate this much-loved story
This month, we follow Toad, newly escaped from the clutches of The Law, as he travels by Barge, Horse, and, alas, Motorcar, and fails to endear himself to, well, to pretty much anybody.
Big People may join us in Tinyville, or repose in comfort at the Oxbridge Library in Caledon Oxbridge
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Oxbridge/196/96/24
Those who can't be with us in-world are invited to tune in at http://music.radioriel.org
This is a year-long series, the second Saturday of each month, 2009. Sponsored by the Caledon Library and Rachelville, and produced by Radio Riel
Schedule
* Jan 10: The River Bank
* Feb 14: The Open Road
* March 14: The Wild Wood
* April 11: Mr. Badger
* May 9: Dulce Domum
* June 13: Mr. Toad
* July 11: The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
* Aug 8: Toad's Adventures
* Sept 12: Wayfarers All
* Oct 10: The Further Adventures of Toad
* Nov 14: Like Summer Tempests came his Tears
* Dec 12: The Return of Ulysses
* Jan 9, 2010: All Day Programming of the entire book
gentlebeings, your servant
JJ Drinkwater
Chapter 10: The Further Adventures of Toad
Saturday, October 10th 10am-11am SLT
On the Riverbank, A Willowy Place, Caledon Tanglewood
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Tanglewood/18/167/23
Come as a character from Kenneth Grahame's novel, The Wind in the Willows, and join us as we listen to, and discuss, a new chapter each month of the adventures of the shy but loyal Mole, the poetical Water Rat, the brave Otter, the gruff but kindly Mr. Badger, the vainglorious Toad, and all the other creatures of wood, stream, and field who populate this much-loved story
This month, we follow Toad, newly escaped from the clutches of The Law, as he travels by Barge, Horse, and, alas, Motorcar, and fails to endear himself to, well, to pretty much anybody.
He glanced back, and saw to his dismay that they were gaining on him. On he ran desperately, but kept looking back, and saw that they still gained steadily. He did his best, but he was a fat animal, and his legs were short, and still they gained. He could hear them close behind him now. Ceasing to heed where he was going, he struggled on blindly and wildly, looking back over his shoulder at the now triumphant enemy, when suddenly the earth failed under his feet, he grasped at the air, and, splash! he found himself head over ears in deep water, rapid water, water that bore him along with a force he could not contend with; and he knew that in his blind panic he had run straight into the river!
Big People may join us in Tinyville, or repose in comfort at the Oxbridge Library in Caledon Oxbridge
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Oxbridge/196/96/24
Those who can't be with us in-world are invited to tune in at http://music.radioriel.org
This is a year-long series, the second Saturday of each month, 2009. Sponsored by the Caledon Library and Rachelville, and produced by Radio Riel
Schedule
* Jan 10: The River Bank
* Feb 14: The Open Road
* March 14: The Wild Wood
* April 11: Mr. Badger
* May 9: Dulce Domum
* June 13: Mr. Toad
* July 11: The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
* Aug 8: Toad's Adventures
* Sept 12: Wayfarers All
* Oct 10: The Further Adventures of Toad
* Nov 14: Like Summer Tempests came his Tears
* Dec 12: The Return of Ulysses
* Jan 9, 2010: All Day Programming of the entire book
gentlebeings, your servant
JJ Drinkwater