The Library Militant: Caledon Library Newstag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2007-09-11:/blog/92010-03-08T22:50:11ZMovable Type Commercial 4.25By Whitman, Biweekly! March 9thtag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2010:/blog//9.3402010-03-08T22:48:39Z2010-03-08T22:50:11ZJJ Drinkwater
Tuesday March 9th, 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.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week:
SUDDENLY out of its stale and drowsy lair, the lair of slaves, Like lightning Europe le'pt forth . . . . half startled at itself, Its feet upon the ashes and the rags . . . . Its hands tight to the throats of kings.
O hope and faith! O aching close of lives! O many a sickened heart! Turn back unto this day, and make yourselves afresh.
And you, paid to defile the People . . . . you liars mark: Not for numberless agonies, murders, lusts, For court thieving in its manifold mean forms, Worming from his simplicity the poor man's wages; For many a promise sworn by royal lips, And broken, and laughed at in the breaking, Then in their power not for all these did the blows strike of personal revenge . . or the heads of the nobles fall; The People scorned the ferocity of kings.
But the sweetness of mercy brewed bitter destruction, and the frightened rulers come back: Each comes in state with his train . . . . hangman, priest and tax-gatherer . . . . soldier, lawyer, jailer and sycophant.
Yet behind all, lo, a Shape, Vague as the night, draped interminably, head front and form in scarlet folds, Whose face and eyes none may see, Out of its robes only this . . . . the red robes, lifted by the arm, One finger pointed high over the top, like the head of a snake appears.
Meanwhile corpses lie in new-made graves . . . . bloody corpses of young men: The rope of the gibbet hangs heavily . . . . the bullets of princes are flying . . . . the creatures of power laugh aloud, And all these things bear fruits . . . . and they are good.
Those corpses of young men, Those martyrs that hang from the gibbets . . . those hearts pierced by the gray lead, Cold and motionless as they seem . . live elsewhere with unslaughter'd vitality.
They live in other young men, O kings, They live in brothers, again ready to defy you: They were purified by death . . . . They were taught and exalted.
Not a grave of the murdered for freedom but grows seed for freedom . . . . in its turn to bear seed, Which the winds carry afar and re-sow, and the rains and the snows nourish.
Not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose, But it stalks invisibly over the earth . . whispering counseling cautioning.
Liberty let others despair of you . . . . I never despair of you.
Is the house shut? Is the master away? Nevertheless be ready . . . . be not weary of watching, He will soon return . . . . his messengers come anon.
]]>
By Whitman, Biweekly! February 23rdtag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2010:/blog//9.3372010-02-21T21:08:06Z2010-02-21T21:09:49ZJJ Drinkwater
Tuesday February 23rd, 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.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week:
A YOUNG man came to me with a message from his brother, How should the young man know the whether and when of his brother? Tell him to send me the signs.
And I stood before the young man face to face, and took his right hand in my left hand and his left hand in my right hand, And I answered for his brother and for men . . . . and I answered for the poet, and sent these signs.
Him all wait for . . . . him all yield up to . . . . his word is decisive and final, Him they accept . . . . in him lave . . . . in him perceive themselves as amid light, Him they immerse, and he immerses them.
Beautiful women, the haughtiest nations, laws, the landscape, people and animals, The profound earth and its attributes, and the unquiet ocean, All enjoyments and properties, and money, and whatever money will buy, The best farms . . . . others toiling and planting, and he unavoidably reaps, The noblest and costliest cities . . . . others grading and building, and he domiciles there; Nothing for any one but what is for him . . . . near and far are for him, The ships in the offing . . . . the perpetual shows and marches on land are for him if they are for any body.
He puts things in their attitudes, He puts today out of himself with plasticity and love, He places his own city, times, reminiscences, parents, brothers and sisters, associ- ations employment and politics, so that the rest never shame them afterward, nor assume to command them.
He is the answerer, What can be answered he answers, and what cannot be answered he shows how it cannot be answered.
A man is a summons and challenge, It is vain to skulk . . . . Do you hear that mocking and laughter? Do you hear the ironical echoes?
Books friendships philosophers priests action pleasure pride beat up and down seeking to give satisfaction; He indicates the satisfaction, and indicates them that beat up and down also.
Whichever the sex . . . whatever the season or place he may go freshly and gently and safely by day or by night, He has the passkey of hearts . . . . to him the response of the prying of hands on the knobs.
His welcome is universal . . . . the flow of beauty is not more welcome or universal than he is, The person he favors by day or sleeps with at night is blessed.
Every existence has its idiom . . . . every thing has an idiom and tongue; He resolves all tongues into his own, and bestows it upon men . . and any man translates . . and any man translates himself also: One part does not counteract another part . . . . He is the joiner . . he sees how they join.
He says indifferently and alike, How are you friend? to the President at his levee, And he says Good day my brother, to Cudge that hoes in the sugarfield; And both understand him and know that his speech is right.
He walks with perfect ease in the capitol, He walks among the Congress . . . . and one representative says to another, Here is our equal appearing and new.
Then the mechanics take him for a mechanic, And the soldiers suppose him to be a captain . . . . and the sailors that he has followed the sea, And the authors take him for an author . . . . and the artists for an artist, And the laborers perceive he could labor with them and love them; No matter what the work is, that he is one to follow it or has followed it, No matter what the nation, that he might find his brothers and sisters there.
The English believe he comes of their English stock, A Jew to the Jew he seems . . . . a Russ to the Russ . . . . usual and near . . removed from none.
Whoever he looks at in the traveler's coffeehouse claims him, The Italian or Frenchman is sure, and the German is sure, and the Spaniard is sure . . . . and the island Cuban is sure.
The engineer, the deckhand on the great lakes or on the Mississippi or St Law- rence or Sacramento or Hudson or Delaware claims him.
The gentleman of perfect blood acknowledges his perfect blood, The insulter, the prostitute, the angry person, the beggar, see themselves in the ways of him . . . . he strangely transmutes them, They are not vile any more . . . . they hardly know themselves, they are so grown.
You think it would be good to be the writer of melodious verses, Well it would be good to be the writer of melodious verses; But what are verses beyond the flowing character you could have? . . . . or beyond beautiful manners and behaviour? Or beyond one manly or affectionate deed of an apprenticeboy? . . or old woman? . . or man that has been in prison or is likely to be in prison? ]]>
By Whitman, Biweekly! February 9thtag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2010:/blog//9.3342010-02-07T19:12:10Z2010-02-07T19:13:45ZJJ Drinkwater
Tuesday February 9th, 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.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week:
SAUNTERING the pavement or riding the country byroad here then are faces, Faces of friendship, precision, caution, suavity, ideality, The spiritual prescient face, the always welcome common benevolent face, The face of the singing of music, the grand faces of natural lawyers and judges broad at the backtop, The faces of hunters and fishers, bulged at the brows . . . . the shaved blanched faces of orthodox citizens, The pure extravagant yearning questioning artist's face, The welcome ugly face of some beautiful soul . . . . the handsome detested or despised face, The sacred faces of infants . . . . the illuminated face of the mother of many children, The face of an amour . . . . the face of veneration, The face as of a dream . . . . the face of an immobile rock, The face withdrawn of its good and bad . . a castrated face, A wild hawk . . his wings clipped by the clipper, A stallion that yielded at last to the thongs and knife of the gelder.
Sauntering the pavement or crossing the ceaseless ferry, here then are faces; I see them and complain not and am content with all.
Do you suppose I could be content with all if I thought them their own finale?
This now is too lamentable a face for a man; Some abject louse asking leave to be . . cringing for it, Some milknosed maggot blessing what lets it wrig to its hole.
This face is a dog's snout sniffing for garbage; Snakes nest in that mouth . . I hear the sibilant threat.
This face is a haze more chill than the arctic sea, Its sleepy and wobbling icebergs crunch as they go.
This is a face of bitter herbs . . . . this an emetic . . . . they need no label, And more of the drugshelf . . laudanum, caoutchouc, or hog's lard.
This face is an epilepsy advertising and doing business . . . . its wordless tongue gives out the unearthly cry, Its veins down the neck distend . . . . its eyes roll till they show nothing but their whites, Its teeth grit . . the palms of the hands are cut by the turned-in nails, The man falls struggling and foaming to the ground while he speculates well.
This face is bitten by vermin and worms, And this is some murderer's knife with a halfpulled scabbard.
This face owes to the sexton his dismalest fee, An unceasing deathbell tolls there.
Those are really men! . . . . the bosses and tufts of the great round globe.
Features of my equals, would you trick me with your creased and cadaverous march? Well then you cannot trick me.
I see your rounded never-erased flow, I see neath the rims of your haggard and mean disguises. Splay and twist as you like . . . . poke with the tangling fores of fishes or rats, You'll be unmuzzled . . . . you certainly will.
I saw the face of the most smeared and slobbering idiot they had at the asylum, And I knew for my consolation what they knew not; I knew of the agents that emptied and broke my brother, The same wait to clear the rubbish from the fallen tenement; And I shall look again in a score or two of ages, And I shall meet the real landlord perfect and unharmed, every inch as good as myself.
The Lord advances and yet advances: Always the shadow in front . . . . always the reached hand bringing up the laggards.
Out of this face emerge banners and horses . . . . O superb! . . . . I see what is coming, I see the high pioneercaps . . . . I see the staves of runners clearing the way, I hear victorious drums.
This face is a lifeboat; This is the face commanding and bearded . . . . it asks no odds of the rest; This face is flavored fruit ready for eating; This face of a healthy honest boy is the programme of all good.
These faces bear testimony slumbering or awake, They show their descent from the Master himself.
Off the word I have spoken I except not one . . . . red white or black, all are deific, In each house is the ovum . . . . it comes forth after a thousand years.
Spots or cracks at the windows do not disturb me, Tall and sufficient stand behind and make signs to me; I read the promise and patiently wait.
This is a fullgrown lily's face, She speaks to the limber-hip'd man near the garden pickets, Come here, she blushingly cries . . . . Come nigh to me limber-hip'd man and give me your finger and thumb, Stand at my side till I lean as high as I can upon you, Fill me with albescent honey . . . . bend down to me, Rub to me with your chafing beard . . rub to my breast and shoulders.
The old face of the mother of many children: Whist! I am fully content. Lulled and late is the smoke of the Sabbath morning, It hangs low over the rows of trees by the fences, It hangs thin by the sassafras, the wildcherry and the catbrier under them.
I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree, I heard what the run of poets were saying so long, Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white froth and the water-blue.
Behold a woman! She looks out from her quaker cap . . . . her face is clearer and more beautiful than the sky.
She sits in an armchair under the shaded porch of the farmhouse, The sun just shines on her old white head.
Her ample gown is of creamhued linen, Her grandsons raised the flax, and her granddaughters spun it with the distaff and the wheel.
The melodious character of the earth! The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go and does not wish to go! The justified mother of men! ]]>
By Whitman, Biweekly! January 26thtag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2010:/blog//9.3322010-01-23T21:21:10Z2010-01-23T21:26:42ZJJ Drinkwater
Tuesday January 26th, 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.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week:
This is the nucleus . . . after the child is born of woman the man is born of woman, This is the bath of birth . . . this is the merge of small and large and the outlet again. Be not ashamed women . . your privilege encloses the rest . . it is the exit of the rest, You are the gates of the body and you are the gates of the soul.
The female contains all qualities and tempers them . . . . she is in her place . . . . she moves with perfect balance, She is all things duly veiled . . . . she is both passive and active . . . . she is to con- ceive daughters as well as sons and sons as well as daughters.
As I see my soul reflected in nature . . . . as I see through a mist one with inexpress- ible completeness and beauty . . . . see the bent head and arms folded over the breast . . . . the female I see, I see the bearer of the great fruit which is immortality . . . . the good thereof is not tasted by roues, and never can be.
The male is not less the soul, nor more . . . . he too is in his place, He too is all qualities . . . . he is action and power . . . . the flush of the known universe is in him, Scorn becomes him well and appetite and defiance become him well, The fiercest largest passions . . bliss that is utmost and sorrow that is utmost be- come him well . . . . pride is for him, The fullspread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul; Knowledge becomes him . . . . he likes it always . . . . he brings everything to the test of himself, Whatever the survey . . whatever the sea and the sail, he strikes soundings at last only here, Where else does he strike soundings except here?
The man's body is sacred and the woman's body is sacred . . . . it is no matter who, Is it a slave? Is it one of the dullfaced immigrants just landed on the wharf?
Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the welloff . . . . just as much as you, Each has his or her place in the procession.
All is a procession, The universe is a procession with measured and beautiful motion.
Do you know so much that you call the slave or the dullface ignorant? Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight . . . and he or she has no right to a sight? Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffused float, and the soil is on the surface and water runs and vegetation sprouts for you . . and not for him and her?
A slave at auction! I help the auctioneer . . . . the sloven does not half know his business. Gentlemen look on this curious creature, Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for him, For him the globe lay preparing quintillions of years without one animal or plant, For him the revolving cycles truly and steadily rolled.
In that head the allbaffling brain, In it and below it the making of the attributes of heroes.
Examine these limbs, red black or white . . . . they are very cunning in tendon and nerve; They shall be stript that you may see them.
Exquisite senses, lifelit eyes, pluck, volition, Flakes of breastmuscle, pliant backbone and neck, flesh not flabby, goodsized arms and legs, And wonders within there yet.
Within there runs his blood . . . . the same old blood . . the same red running blood; There swells and jets his heart . . . . There all passions and desires . . all reachings and aspirations: Do you think they are not there because they are not expressed in parlors and lecture-rooms?
This is not only one man . . . . he is the father of those who shall be fathers in their turns, In him the start of populous states and rich republics, Of him countless immortal lives with countless embodiments and enjoyments.
How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring through the centuries? Who might you find you have come from yourself if you could trace back through the centuries?
A woman at auction, She too is not only herself . . . . she is the teeming mother of mothers, She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers.
Her daughters or their daughters' daughters . . who knows who shall mate with them? Who knows through the centuries what heroes may come from them?
In them and of them natal love . . . . in them the divine mystery . . . . the same old beautiful mystery.
Have you ever loved a woman? Your mother . . . . is she living? . . . . Have you been much with her? and has she been much with you? Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all nations and times all over the earth?
If life and the soul are sacred the human body is sacred; And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood untainted, And in man or woman a clean strong firmfibred body is beautiful as the most beautiful face.
Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the fool that corrupted her own live body? For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves.
Who degrades or defiles the living human body is cursed, Who degrades or defiles the body of the dead is not more cursed.
]]>
To Move in Measure - exhibit opening tag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2009:/blog//9.3252010-01-15T23:05:00Z2010-01-15T23:03:20ZJJ Drinkwater
Exhibit Opening and Conversation with the Curator January 17th 1-3pm SLT Jack & Elaine Whitehorn Memorial Library, Caledon Victoria City http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/59/196/23
Miss Leslie Weston and Mr. JJ Drinkwater invite you to join us to welcome in our newest exhibit
Using primary sources from the John M. Ward Collection at The Houghton Library, Harvard University, this exhibit provides a glimpse into the social dance world of the 19th century. Waltzes, polkas, schottisches! Come see how it was really done.
The 19th century was a period of immense change in the ballrooms of Europe and America. Dance orchestras were no longer the prerogative of royal courts, and dance became a vital social pastime of all classes. Complicated choreographed group dances gave way to intimate couple dances, and as in Second Life, a good deal of courting activity moved into the social dance arena.
The John M. Ward Collection of social dance provides a superior opportunity to view some of the many aspects of social dance during this period, from the dances themselves, to the instruction, choreography, venues, musicians, and music. If you have ever wondered about the reality of dance in Almack's Assembly Rooms, Jane Austen, or Madame Bovary, this exhibit is for you.
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Exhibit Opening - To Move in Measuretag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2010:/blog//9.3302010-01-15T23:04:49Z2010-01-15T23:06:32ZJJ Drinkwater
To Move in Measure: Social dance of the 19th century Exhibit Opening and Conversation with the Curator January 17th 1-3pm SLT Jack & Elaine Whitehorn Memorial Library, Caledon Victoria City http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/59/196/23
Miss Leslie Weston and Mr. JJ Drinkwater invite you to join us to welcome in our newest exhibit, and discourse upon all this Terpsichorean.
Using
primary sources from the John M. Ward Collection at The Houghton
Library, Harvard University, this exhibit provides a glimpse into the
social dance world of the 19th century. Waltzes, polkas,
schottisches! Come see how it was really done.
The 19th century
was a period of immense change in the ballrooms of Europe and America.
Dance orchestras were no longer the prerogative of royal courts, and
dance became a vital social pastime of all classes. Complicated
choreographed group dances gave way to intimate couple dances, and as
in Second Life, a good deal of courting activity moved into the social
dance arena.
The John M. Ward Collection of social dance
provides a superior opportunity to view some of the many aspects of
social dance during this period, from the dances themselves, to the
instruction, choreography, venues, musicians, and music. If you have
ever wondered about the reality of dance in Almack's Assembly Rooms,
Jane Austen, or Madame Bovary, this exhibit is for you. ]]>
Wind in the Willows Listening Party January 9thtag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2010:/blog//9.3262010-01-02T01:35:16Z2010-01-02T01:37:32ZJJ Drinkwater
Wind in the Willows All Day Listening Party Saturday, January 9th 10am-5pm 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
Sponsored by the Caledon Library and Rachelville, and produced by Radio Riel ]]>
By Whitman, Biweekly! December 15thtag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2009:/blog//9.3242009-12-14T00:57:24Z2009-12-14T00:59:14ZJJ Drinkwater
By Whitman, Biweekly! Tuesday December 15th, 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.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week:
Leaves of Grass.
I WANDER all night in my vision, Stepping with light feet . . . . swiftly and noiselessly stepping and stopping, Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers; Wandering and confused . . . . lost to myself . . . . ill-assorted . . . . contradictory, Pausing and gazing and bending and stopping.
How solemn they look there, stretched and still; How quiet they breathe, the little children in their cradles.
The wretched features of ennuyees, the white features of corpses, the livid faces of drunkards, the sick-gray faces of onanists, The gashed bodies on battlefields, the insane in their strong-doored rooms, the sacred idiots, The newborn emerging from gates and the dying emerging from gates, The night pervades them and enfolds them.
The married couple sleep calmly in their bed, he with his palm on the hip of the wife, and she with her palm on the hip of the husband, The sisters sleep lovingly side by side in their bed, The men sleep lovingly side by side in theirs, And the mother sleeps with her little child carefully wrapped.
The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison . . . . the runaway son sleeps,
The murderer that is to be hung next day . . . . how does he sleep? And the murdered person . . . . how does he sleep?
The female that loves unrequited sleeps, And the male that loves unrequited sleeps; The head of the moneymaker that plotted all day sleeps, And the enraged and treacherous dispositions sleep.
I stand with drooping eyes by the worstsuffering and restless, I pass my hands soothingly to and fro a few inches from them; The restless sink in their beds . . . . they fitfully sleep.
The earth recedes from me into the night, I saw that it was beautiful . . . . and I see that what is not the earth is beautiful.
I go from bedside to bedside . . . . I sleep close with the other sleepers, each in turn; I dream in my dream all the dreams of the other dreamers, And I become the other dreamers.
I am a dance . . . . Play up there! the fit is whirling me fast.
I am the everlaughing . . . . it is new moon and twilight, I see the hiding of douceurs . . . . I see nimble ghosts whichever way I look, Cache and cache again deep in the ground and sea, and where it is neither ground or sea. Well do they do their jobs, those journeymen divine, Only from me can they hide nothing and would not if they could; I reckon I am their boss, and they make me a pet besides, And surround me, and lead me and run ahead when I walk, And lift their cunning covers and signify me with stretched arms, and resume the way; Onward we move, a gay gang of blackguards with mirthshouting music and wild- flapping pennants of joy.
I am the actor and the actress . . . . the voter . . the politician, The emigrant and the exile . . the criminal that stood in the box, He who has been famous, and he who shall be famous after today, The stammerer . . . . the wellformed person . . the wasted or feeble person.
I am she who adorned herself and folded her hair expectantly, My truant lover has come and it is dark.
Double yourself and receive me darkness, Receive me and my lover too . . . . he will not let me go without him.
I roll myself upon you as upon a bed . . . . I resign myself to the dusk.
He whom I call answers me and takes the place of my lover, He rises with me silently from the bed.
Darkness you are gentler than my lover . . . . his flesh was sweaty and panting, I feel the hot moisture yet that he left me.
My hands are spread forth . . I pass them in all directions, I would sound up the shadowy shore to which you are journeying.
Be careful, darkness . . . . already, what was it touched me? I thought my lover had gone . . . . else darkness and he are one, I hear the heart-beat . . . . I follow . . I fade away.
O hotcheeked and blushing! O foolish hectic! O for pity's sake, no one must see me now! . . . . my clothes were stolen while I was abed, Now I am thrust forth, where shall I run?
Pier that I saw dimly last night when I looked from the windows, Pier out from the main, let me catch myself with you and stay . . . . I will not chafe you; I feel ashamed to go naked about the world, And am curious to know where my feet stand . . . . and what is this flooding me, childhood or manhood . . . . and the hunger that crosses the bridge between.
The cloth laps a first sweet eating and drinking, Laps life-swelling yolks . . . . laps ear of rose-corn, milky and just ripened: The white teeth stay, and the boss-tooth advances in darkness, And liquor is spilled on lips and bosoms by touching glasses, and the best liquor afterward.
I descend my western course . . . . my sinews are flaccid, Perfume and youth course through me, and I am their wake.
It is my face yellow and wrinkled instead of the old woman's, I sit low in a strawbottom chair and carefully darn my grandson's stockings.
It is I too . . . . the sleepless widow looking out on the winter midnight, I see the sparkles of starshine on the icy and pallid earth.
A shroud I see—and I am the shroud . . . . I wrap a body and lie in the coffin; It is dark here underground . . . . it is not evil or pain here . . . . it is blank here, for reasons.
It seems to me that everything in the light and air ought to be happy; Whoever is not in his coffin and the dark grave, let him know he has enough.
I see a beautiful gigantic swimmer swimming naked through the eddies of the sea, His brown hair lies close and even to his head . . . . he strikes out with courageous arms . . . . he urges himself with his legs. I see his white body . . . . I see his undaunted eyes; I hate the swift-running eddies that would dash him headforemost on the rocks.
What are you doing you ruffianly red-trickled waves? Will you kill the courageous giant? Will you kill him in the prime of his middle age?
Steady and long he struggles; He is baffled and banged and bruised . . . . he holds out while his strength holds out, The slapping eddies are spotted with his blood . . . . they bear him away . . . . they roll him and swing him and turn him: His beautiful body is borne in the circling eddies . . . . it is continually bruised on rocks, Swiftly and out of sight is borne the brave corpse.
I turn but do not extricate myself; Confused . . . . a pastreading . . . . another, but with darkness yet.
The beach is cut by the razory ice-wind . . . . the wreck-guns sound, The tempest lulls and the moon comes floundering through the drifts.
I look where the ship helplessly heads end on . . . . I hear the burst as she strikes . . I hear the howls of dismay . . . . they grow fainter and fainter.
I cannot aid with my wringing fingers; I can but rush to the surf and let it drench me and freeze upon me.
I search with the crowd . . . . not one of the company is washed to us alive; In the morning I help pick up the dead and lay them in rows in a barn. Now of the old war-days . . the defeat at Brooklyn; Washington stands inside the lines . . he stands on the entrenched hills amid a crowd of officers, His face is cold and damp . . . . he cannot repress the weeping drops . . . . he lifts the glass perpetually to his eyes . . . . the color is blanched from his cheeks, He sees the slaughter of the southern braves confided to him by their parents.
The same at last and at last when peace is declared, He stands in the room of the old tavern . . . . the wellbeloved soldiers all pass through,
The officers speechless and slow draw near in their turns, The chief encircles their necks with his arm and kisses them on the cheek, He kisses lightly the wet cheeks one after another . . . . he shakes hands and bids goodbye to the army.
Now I tell what my mother told me today as we sat at dinner together, Of when she was a nearly grown girl living home with her parents on the old home- stead.
A red squaw came one breakfasttime to the old homestead, On her back she carried a bundle of rushes for rushbottoming chairs; Her hair straight shiny coarse black and profuse halfenveloped her face, Her step was free and elastic . . . . her voice sounded exquisitely as she spoke. My mother looked in delight and amazement at the stranger, She looked at the beauty of her tallborne face and full and pliant limbs, The more she looked upon her she loved her, Never before had she seen such wonderful beauty and purity; She made her sit on a bench by the jamb of the fireplace . . . . she cooked food for her, She had no work to give her but she gave her remembrance and fondness.
The red squaw staid all the forenoon, and toward the middle of the afternoon she went away; O my mother was loth to have her go away, All the week she thought of her . . . . she watched for her many a month, She remembered her many a winter and many a summer, But the red squaw never came nor was heard of there again.
Now Lucifer was not dead . . . . or if he was I am his sorrowful terrible heir; I have been wronged . . . . I am oppressed . . . . I hate him that oppresses me, I will either destroy him, or he shall release me.
Damn him! how he does defile me, How he informs against my brother and sister and takes pay for their blood, How he laughs when I look down the bend after the steamboat that carries away my woman.
Now the vast dusk bulk that is the whale's bulk . . . . it seems mine, Warily, sportsman! though I lie so sleepy and sluggish, my tap is death.
A show of the summer softness . . . . a contact of something unseen . . . . an amour of the light and air; I am jealous and overwhelmed with friendliness, And will go gallivant with the light and the air myself, And have an unseen something to be in contact with them also.
O love and summer! you are in the dreams and in me, Autumn and winter are in the dreams . . . . the farmer goes with his thrift, The droves and crops increase . . . . the barns are wellfilled.
Elements merge in the night . . . . ships make tacks in the dreams . . . . the sailor sails . . . . the exile returns home, The fugitive returns unharmed . . . . the immigrant is back beyond months and years; The poor Irishman lives in the simple house of his childhood, with the wellknown neighbors and faces, They warmly welcome him . . . . he is barefoot again . . . . he forgets he is welloff; The Dutchman voyages home, and the Scotchman and Welchman voyage home . . and the native of the Mediterranean voyages home; To every port of England and France and Spain enter wellfilled ships; The Swiss foots it toward his hills . . . . the Prussian goes his way, and the Hungarian his way, and the Pole goes his way, The Swede returns, and the Dane and Norwegian return.
The homeward bound and the outward bound, The beautiful lost swimmer, the ennuyee, the onanist, the female that loves unre- quited, the moneymaker, The actor and actress . . those through with their parts and those waiting to commence, The affectionate boy, the husband and wife, the voter, the nominee that is chosen and the nominee that has failed, The great already known, and the great anytime after to day, The stammerer, the sick, the perfectformed, the homely, The criminal that stood in the box, the judge that sat and sentenced him, the fluent lawyers, the jury, the audience, The laugher and weeper, the dancer, the midnight widow, the red squaw, The consumptive, the erysipalite, the idiot, he that is wronged, The antipodes, and every one between this and them in the dark, I swear they are averaged now . . . . one is no better than the other, The night and sleep have likened them and restored them. I swear they are all beautiful, Every one that sleeps is beautiful . . . . every thing in the dim night is beautiful, The wildest and bloodiest is over and all is peace.
Peace is always beautiful, The myth of heaven indicates peace and night.
The myth of heaven indicates the soul; The soul is always beautiful . . . . it appears more or it appears less . . . . it comes or lags behind,
It comes from its embowered garden and looks pleasantly on itself and encloses the world; Perfect and clean the genitals previously jetting, and perfect and clean the womb cohering, The head wellgrown and proportioned and plumb, and the bowels and joints proportioned and plumb.
The soul is always beautiful, The universe is duly in order . . . . every thing is in its place, What is arrived is in its place, and what waits is in its place; The twisted skull waits . . . . the watery or rotten blood waits, The child of the glutton or venerealee waits long, and the child of the drunkard waits long, and the drunkard himself waits long, The sleepers that lived and died wait . . . . the far advanced are to go on in their turns, and the far behind are to go on in their turns, The diverse shall be no less diverse, but they shall flow and unite . . . . they unite now.
The sleepers are very beautiful as they lie unclothed, They flow hand in hand over the whole earth from east to west as they lie un- clothed; The Asiatic and African are hand in hand . . . . the European and American are hand in hand, Learned and unlearned are hand in hand . . and male and female are hand in hand; The bare arm of the girl crosses the bare breast of her lover . . . . they press close without lust . . . . his lips press her neck, The father holds his grown or ungrown son in his arms with measureless love . . . . and the son holds the father in his arms with measureless love, The white hair of the mother shines on the white wrist of the daughter, The breath of the boy goes with the breath of the man . . . . friend is inarmed by friend, The scholar kisses the teacher and the teacher kisses the scholar . . . . the wronged is made right, The call of the slave is one with the master's call . . and the master salutes the slave, The felon steps forth from the prison . . . . the insane becomes sane . . . . the suffer- ing of sick persons is relieved, The sweatings and fevers stop . . the throat that was unsound is sound . . the lungs of the consumptive are resumed . . the poor distressed head is free, The joints of the rheumatic move as smoothly as ever, and smoother than ever, Stiflings and passages open . . . . the paralysed become supple, The swelled and convulsed and congested awake to themselves in condition, They pass the invigoration of the night and the chemistry of the night and awake.
I too pass from the night; I stay awhile away O night, but I return to you again and love you;
Why should I be afraid to trust myself to you? I am not afraid . . . . I have been well brought forward by you; I love the rich running day, but I do not desert her in whom I lay so long; I know not how I came of you, and I know not where I go with you . . . . but I know I came well and shall go well. I will stop only a time with the night . . . . and rise betimes.
I will duly pass the day O my mother and duly return to you; Not you will yield forth the dawn again more surely than you will yield forth me again, Not the womb yields the babe in its time more surely than I shall be yielded from you in my time. ]]>
Wind in the Willows Listening Party, December 12thtag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2009:/blog//9.3222009-12-06T23:17:56Z2009-12-06T23:19:53ZJJ Drinkwater
Wind in the Willows Listening Party Chapter 12: The Return of Ulysses Saturday, December 12th 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
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
]]>
By Whitman, Biweekly! November 17thtag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2009:/blog//9.3182009-11-14T20:51:47Z2009-11-14T20:53:09ZJJ Drinkwater
Tuesday November 17th, 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:
The old forever new things . . . . you foolish child! . . . . the closest simplest things— this moment with you, Your person and every particle that relates to your person, The pulses of your brain waiting their chance and encouragement at every deed or sight; Anything you do in public by day, and anything you do in secret betweendays, What is called right and what is called wrong . . . . what you behold or touch . . . . what causes your anger or wonder, The anklechain of the slave, the bed of the bedhouse, the cards of the gambler, the plates of the forger; What is seen or learned in the street, or intuitively learned, What is learned in the public school—spelling, reading, writing and ciphering . . . . the blackboard and the teacher's diagrams: The panes of the windows and all that appears through them . . . . the going forth in the morning and the aimless spending of the day; (What is it that you made money? what is it that you got what you wanted?) The usual routine . . . . the workshop, factory, yard, office, store, or desk; The jaunt of hunting or fishing, or the life of hunting or fishing, Pasturelife, foddering, milking and herding, and all the personnel and usages; The plum-orchard and apple-orchard . . . . gardening . . seedlings, cuttings, flowers and vines, Grains and manures . . marl, clay, loam . . the subsoil plough . . the shovel and pick and rake and hoe . . irrigation and draining; The currycomb . . the horse-cloth . . the halter and bridle and bits . . the very wisps of straw, The barn and barn-yard . . the bins and mangers . . the mows and racks: Manufactures . . commerce . . engineering . . the building of cities, and every trade carried on there . . and the implements of every trade, The anvil and tongs and hammer . . the axe and wedge . . the square and mitre and jointer and smoothingplane;
The plumbob and trowel and level . . the wall-scaffold, and the work of walls and ceilings . . or any mason-work: The ship's compass . . the sailor's tarpaulin . . the stays and lanyards, and the ground- tackle for anchoring or mooring, The sloop's tiller . . the pilot's wheel and bell . . the yacht or fish-smack . . the great gay-pennanted three- hundred-foot steamboat under full headway, with her proud fat breasts and her delicate swift-flashing paddles; The trail and line and hooks and sinkers . . the seine, and hauling the seine; Smallarms and rifles . . . . the powder and shot and caps and wadding . . . . the ordnance for war . . . . the carriages: Everyday objects . . . . the housechairs, the carpet, the bed and the counterpane of the bed, and him or her sleeping at night, and the wind blowing, and theindefi- nite noises: The snowstorm or rainstorm . . . . the tow-trowsers . . . . the lodge-hut in the woods, and the still-hunt: City and country . . fireplace and candle . . gaslight and heater and aqueduct; The message of the governor, mayor, or chief of police . . . . the dishes of breakfast or dinner or supper; The bunkroom, the fire-engine, the string-team, and the car or truck behind; The paper I write on or you write on . . and every word we write . . and every cross and twirl of the pen . . and the curious way we write what we think . . . . yet very faintly; The directory, the detector, the ledger . . . . the books in ranks or the bookshelves . . . . the clock attached to the wall, The ring on your finger . . the lady's wristlet . . the hammers of stonebreakers or coppersmiths . . the druggist's vials and jars; The etui of surgical instruments, and the etui of oculist's or aurist's instruments, or dentist's instruments; Glassblowing, grinding of wheat and corn . . casting, and what is cast . . tinroofing, shingledressing, Shipcarpentering, flagging of sidewalks by flaggers . . dockbuilding, fishcuring, ferry- ing; The pump, the piledriver, the great derrick . . the coalkiln and brickkiln, Ironworks or whiteleadworks . . the sugarhouse . . steam-saws, and the great mills and factories; The cottonbale . . the stevedore's hook . . the saw and buck of the sawyer . . the screen of the coalscreener . . the mould of the moulder . . the workingknife of the butcher; The cylinder press . . the handpress . . the frisket and tympan . . the compositor's stick and rule, The implements for daguerreotyping . . . . the tools of the rigger or grappler or sail- maker or blockmaker, Goods of guttapercha or papiermache . . . . colors and brushes . . . . glaziers' im- plements,
The veneer and gluepot . . the confectioner's ornaments . . the decanter and glasses . . the shears and flatiron; The awl and kneestrap . . the pint measure and quart measure . . the counter and stool . . the writingpen of quill or metal; Billiards and tenpins . . . . the ladders and hanging ropes of the gymnasium, and the manly exercises; The designs for wallpapers or oilcloths or carpets . . . . the fancies for goods for women . . . . the bookbinder's stamps; Leatherdressing, coachmaking, boilermaking, ropetwisting, distilling, signpainting, limeburning, coopering, cottonpicking, The walkingbeam of the steam-engine . . the throttle and governors, and the up and down rods, Stavemachines and plainingmachines . . . . the cart of the carman . . the omnibus . . the ponderous dray; The snowplough and two engines pushing it . . . . the ride in the express train of only one car . . . . the swift go through a howling storm: The bearhunt or coonhunt . . . . the bonfire of shavings in the open lot in the city . . the crowd of children watching; The blows of the fighting-man . . the upper cut and one- two-three; The shopwindows . . . . the coffins in the sexton's wareroom . . . . the fruit on the fruitstand . . . . the beef on the butcher's stall, The bread and cakes in the bakery . . . . the white and red pork in the pork-store; The milliner's ribbons . . the dressmaker's patterns . . . . the tea-table . . the home- made sweetmeats: The column of wants in the one-cent paper . . the news by telegraph . . . . the amusements and operas and shows: The cotton and woolen and linen you wear . . . . the money you make and spend; Your room and bedroom . . . . your piano-forte . . . . the stove and cookpans, The house you live in . . . . the rent . . . . the other tenants . . . . the deposite in the savings-bank . . . . the trade at the grocery, The pay on Saturday night . . . . the going home, and the purchases; In them the heft of the heaviest . . . . in them far more than you estimated, and far less also, In them, not yourself . . . . you and your soul enclose all things, regardless of estima- tion, In them your themes and hints and provokers . . if not, the whole earth has no themes or hints or provokers, and never had.
I do not affirm what you see beyond is futile . . . . I do not advise you to stop, I do not say leadings you thought great are not great, But I say that none lead to greater or sadder or happier than those lead to.
Will you seek afar off? You surely come back at last, In things best known to you finding the best or as good as the best,
In folks nearest to you finding also the sweetest and strongest and lovingest, Happiness not in another place, but this place . . not for another hour, but this hour, Man in the first you see or touch . . . . always in your friend or brother or nighest neighbor . . . . Woman in your mother or lover or wife, And all else thus far known giving place to men and women.
When the psalm sings instead of the singer, When the script preaches instead of the preacher, When the pulpit descends and goes instead of the carver that carved the supporting desk, When the sacred vessels or the bits of the eucharist, or the lath and plast, procreate as effectually as the young silversmiths or bakers, or the masons in their overalls, When a university course convinces like a slumbering woman and child convince, When the minted gold in the vault smiles like the nightwatchman's daughter, When warrantee deeds loafe in chairs opposite and are my friendly companions, I intend to reach them my hand and make as much of them as I do of men and women. ]]>
Wind in the Willows Listening Party, November 14thtag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2009:/blog//9.3172009-11-13T22:51:10Z2009-11-13T22:53:01ZJJ Drinkwater
Wind in the Willows Listening Party Chapter 11: Like Summer Tempests came his Tears Saturday, November 14th 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
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 ]]>
By Whitman, Biweekly! November 3rdtag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2009:/blog//9.3132009-10-27T02:16:06Z2009-10-27T02:22:56ZJJ Drinkwater
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? ]]>
4th Annual Ghost Story Session, Oct 26thtag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2009:/blog//9.3112009-10-21T20:25:06Z2009-10-25T04:09:41ZJJ Drinkwater
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.
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By Whitman, Biweekly! October 20thtag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2009:/blog//9.3102009-10-17T20:22:27Z2009-10-17T20:24:19ZJJ Drinkwater
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 ]]>
Supernatural Ballads - A lecture by Afsaneh Metalunatag:www.thelibrarymilitant.net,2009:/blog//9.3072009-10-10T20:27:03Z2009-10-11T23:50:25ZCaledon Library Folklore lecture by Afsaneh MetalunaSupernatural BalladsTuesday, 13 October, 20094:30pm - 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...JJ Drinkwater
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! ]]>
