SOCHARSTVI
LEAVES OF GRASS
by: Walt Whitman
SONG OF MYSELF
1 / 52
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.
Have we forgotten Whitman’s grass? His plea, calling us to celebrate life’s pleasures both meek and proud?
Knowledge and beauty can be found in the humblest of subjects- if, you are willing to look. Whitman looked. He saw Leaves of Grass. His eye was keen; at times singular and penetrating, at times boundless, sweeping. Whitman was not however, passively perceptive. His quiet contemplation found expression in the written word. Those humble observations, carefully crafted, detail Whitman’s love of life. Whitman’s grass bows to the whimsical breeze, accepting life as it is- both grand and horrible. The blades upon which Whitman philosophized are individual and unique. Each blade, each leaf, each spear of summer grass had it’s own epic to narrate. Yet, he also saw the grass on a larger scale. Boundless. Sublime. He saw a landscape of our collective minds, rooted as they are in same soil. Starved and cracked though this soil may now be, our foundation, sublime nature, has not changed over time. It waits patiently for refreshment and rejuvenation from the sporadic rains of humanism. Our delicate soil has been cracked, plagued by ideology, doctrine, and the desire to bow to the past, without reference to value. These plagues have siphoned the once brilliant hues from our emerald sea and poison our future. It is time to bury these foolish human endeavors, allow them to rot deep beneath our roots, sacrifice them to the unborn profits of the future, for it is this continued reinterpretation of our values and practices which will lead us, step by step, away from the chasm of Apocalypse. Today I take up, not a shovel, but a scalpel and watering can. Then, on hands and knees, I will tend to the small parcel around me, a parcel to which I will eventually give everything.
by: Walt Whitman
SONG OF MYSELF
1 / 52
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.
Have we forgotten Whitman’s grass? His plea, calling us to celebrate life’s pleasures both meek and proud?
Knowledge and beauty can be found in the humblest of subjects- if, you are willing to look. Whitman looked. He saw Leaves of Grass. His eye was keen; at times singular and penetrating, at times boundless, sweeping. Whitman was not however, passively perceptive. His quiet contemplation found expression in the written word. Those humble observations, carefully crafted, detail Whitman’s love of life. Whitman’s grass bows to the whimsical breeze, accepting life as it is- both grand and horrible. The blades upon which Whitman philosophized are individual and unique. Each blade, each leaf, each spear of summer grass had it’s own epic to narrate. Yet, he also saw the grass on a larger scale. Boundless. Sublime. He saw a landscape of our collective minds, rooted as they are in same soil. Starved and cracked though this soil may now be, our foundation, sublime nature, has not changed over time. It waits patiently for refreshment and rejuvenation from the sporadic rains of humanism. Our delicate soil has been cracked, plagued by ideology, doctrine, and the desire to bow to the past, without reference to value. These plagues have siphoned the once brilliant hues from our emerald sea and poison our future. It is time to bury these foolish human endeavors, allow them to rot deep beneath our roots, sacrifice them to the unborn profits of the future, for it is this continued reinterpretation of our values and practices which will lead us, step by step, away from the chasm of Apocalypse. Today I take up, not a shovel, but a scalpel and watering can. Then, on hands and knees, I will tend to the small parcel around me, a parcel to which I will eventually give everything.
posted by Cottonbloggin at 2:30 PM
2 comments
