A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?....I do not know what it is any
more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child....the produced babe of the
vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphyic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of grass.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and from
offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colourless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end
to arrest it,
And cease the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward....and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
By Walt Whitman from Song of Myself
Blogger doesn't let me insert space breaks, my apologies!
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Song of Myself (6)
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About Me
- Anand Vishwanadha
- Hello and welcome! I am someone who is passionate about poetry and motorcycling and I read and write a lot (writing, for me has been a calling, a release and a career). My debut collection of English poems, "Moving On" was published by Coucal Books in December 2009. It can be ordered here My second poetry collection, Ink Dries can be ordered here Leave a comment or do write to me at ahighwayman(at)gmail(dot)com.
Take A Look See
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Meet Annie the author8 years ago
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Poems online3 years ago
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Alice Munro: Marathons in Sprint6 months ago
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Another Rakshabandhan – without any suraksha2 months ago
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Dreaming of Ladakh10 months ago
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An Even Dozen4 years ago
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Indian in Space: A phony Socialist trick12 years ago
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Recipe – Easy Apple Halwa4 years ago
Blog Archive
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2011
(76)
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▼
October
(13)
- As grass dries under a winter sun
- Song of Myself (6)
- Neighbourhood
- Delhi -- Vignettes of this and that
- A lust for life and close encounters with the beau...
- A tribute to Jagjit Singh, the master of melancholy
- Come Again (Shit, What Did I Miss) ?
- Another Pessoan page
- To (and fro) from the City Beautiful
- Deccan Diary
- Delhi Diary
- Orange City and a train to Delhi
- Tripping on food -- on a train to Nagpur
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▼
October
(13)
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- ॐ नमः शिवाय
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