America - I Sing of You

20th January, 2009 - Posted by Maude -

Dear Miss Maudie,

On this day I bring you old, friendly, gigantic, expansive, American words. I know these words have been out of fashion for some time and I have held myself through it, gladly, without complaint, for all things have their time - including words.

For a time, the definition of American has come from one small, loud group who knew truly one slice of American but only one slice that cannot be the breadth of American at all. Today I remind you of the girth of America, the America that we have known for all this time but held our tongues. Today we release the tongues of all America, to Sing America, to be of and for and about America in us, around us, and all that we are. America! Once again, I Sing of You!

With Undying Affection,

Walt Whitman

To Think of Time

[1]

To think of time . . . . to think through the retrospection,
To think of today . . and the ages continued henceforward.
Have you guessed you yourself would not continue? Have you
dreaded those earth-beetles?
Have you feared the future would be nothing to you?

Is today nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing?
If the future is nothing they are just as surely nothing.

To think that the sun rose in the east . . . . that men and
women were flexible and real and alive . . . . that every
thing was real and alive;
To think that you and I did not see feel think nor bear our
part,
To think that we are now here and bear our part.

Song of Myself
[16]

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the
wise,
Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,
Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,
Stuffed with the stuff that is coarse, and stuffed with the
stuff that is fine,
One of the great nations, the nation of many nations–the
smallest the same and the largest the same,
A southerner soon as a northerner, a planter nonchalant
and hospitable,
A Yankee bound my own way . . . . ready for trade . . . .
my joints the limberest joints on earth and the sternest
joints on earth,
A Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my
deerskin leggings,
A boatman over the lakes or bays or along coasts . . . . a
Hoosier, a Badger, a Buckeye,
A Lousianian or Georgian, a poke-easy from sandhills
and pines,
At home on Canadian snowshoes or up in the bush, or
with fisherman off Newfoundland,
At home in the fleet of iceboats, sailing with the rest and
tacking,
At home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of
Maine or the Texan ranch,
Comrade of Californians . . . . comrade of free
northwesterners, loving their big proportions,
Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen–comrade of all who
shake hands and welcome to drink and meat:
A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfulest,
A novice beginning experient of myriads of seasons,
Of every hue and trade and rank, of every caste and
religion,
Not merely of the New World but of Africa Europe or
Asia . . . . a wandering savage,
A farmer, mechanic, or artist . . . . a gentleman, sailor,
lover or quaker,
A prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician or
priest.

I resist anything better than my own diversity,
And breathe the air and leave plenty after me,
And am not stuck up, and am in my place.

The moth and the fisheggs are in their place,
The suns I see and the suns I cannot see are in their place,
The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.

1 Comment

Maude

January 20th, 2009 at 5:48 am    


Dear Walt,

Thank you for the words. It was lovely to see you again these past few days and I’m sure the gang will enjoy you and America once again.

Love,
Maude

Leave a reply

Name *

Mail *

Website