Walt Whitman the Mystic - Printable Version

Walt Whitman the Mystic - Printable Version

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Walt Whitman the Mystic - native - 03-03-2012

I was reading his book Leaves of Grass last night, and the words seemed to come alive in the magical sense. He clearly was attuned to the present moment, beingness, and unity. For me, he seems to be addressing the need to abandon knowing, and enter into the realm of pure being. And for those who haven't read it, here is only part of the first poem, which goes on for 44 pages..

[Song of Myself]

I celebrate 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.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes....the shelves are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume....it has no taste of the distillation....it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever....I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echos, ripples, and buzzed whispers....loveroot, silkthread, crotch and vince,
My respiration and inspiration....the beating of my heart....the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and darkcolored searocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belched words of my voice....words loosed to the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses....a few embraces....a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hillsides,
The feeling of health....the full-noon trill....the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have you reckoned the earth much?
Have you practiced so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun....there are millions of suns left,
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand....nor look through the eyes of the dead....nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.

I have heard what the talkers were talking....the talk of the beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance....Always substance and increase,
Always a knit of identity....always distinction....always a breed of life.

To elaborate is no avail....Learned and unlearned feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure....plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul....and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

Lack one lacks both....and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst, age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied....I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As God comes a loving bedfellow and sleeps at my side all night and close on the peep of the day,
And leaves for me baskets covered with white towels bulging the house with their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the contents of one, and exactly the contents of two, and which is ahead?

Another short one addressing the same theme..

[When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer]

When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts, the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

RE: Walt Whitman the Mystic - Ruth - 03-04-2012

Oh wow - Now I'm going to have to dig up the Leaves of Grass and read it again. It has been a very, very long time. Thank you for the reminder!

RE: Walt Whitman the Mystic - Plenum - 03-04-2012

Beat! Beat! Drums!
Walt Whitman

Beat! beat! drums!--Blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows--through doors--burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation;
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet--no happiness must he have now with
his bride;
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or gathering his
grain;
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums--so shrill you bugles blow.

Beat! beat! drums!--Blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities--over the rumble of wheels in the streets:
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers
must sleep in those beds;
No bargainers' bargains by day--no brokers or speculators--Would they
continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the
judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums--you bugles wilder blow.

Beat! beat! drums!--Blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley--stop for no expostulation;
Mind not the timid--mind not the weeper or prayer;
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the
hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums--so loud you bugles blow.

RE: Walt Whitman the Mystic - βαθμιαίος - 03-04-2012

That sounds like a war poem. Was he trying to rouse the northern states in the civil war? I know he was a fan of Lincoln's. (O Captain, my Captain.)

RE: Walt Whitman the Mystic - native - 03-04-2012

That's what Wikipedia says. You're welcome Ruth!