Leaves of Grass

I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately. Walt Whitman has come to the surface. My god. That man uses a lot of words. I have made it through Leaves of Grass, one of his last works and published after his death. It’s a HUGE, long poem of ramblings regarding, I think, the celebration of life and of being human, loving, the ability to love, etc. Completely….LONG. That’s the best word for it.

One section caught my eye and seemed to speak to me and my current state of mind. It’s below, in pink. I think it speaks of the primal mind, of the idea of genetic memory, and how we are all part of the same thing. To mean it means that the things I think are part of me and that because I am Divine (capital D), it’s all mean to be what it is. Maybe God (or the Tao or whatever connective tissue energy we refer to as God) really does act/look/feel like us. Maybe we’re just as it’s supposed to be. There is no flaw. There is no perfection. There simply is.

Excerpt from Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman, 1900 (you can look up the whole thing at Bartleby.com)

Through me many long dumb voices;
Voices of the interminable generations of slaves;
Voices of prostitutes, and of deform’d persons;
Voices of the diseas’d and despairing, and of thieves and dwarfs;
Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion,
And of the threads that connect the stars—and of wombs, and of the father-stuff,
And of the rights of them the others are down upon;
Of the trivial, flat, foolish, despised,
Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung.

Through me forbidden voices;
Voice of sexes and lusts—voices veil’d, and I remove the veil;
Voices indecent, by me clarified and transfigur’d.

I do not press my fingers across my mouth;
I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart;
Copulation is no more rank to me than death is.

I believe in the flesh and the appetites;
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.

Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from;
The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer;
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.

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