As grass dries under a winter sun

I am reading Whitman and I honestly don't know what to make
of him and his absolutely untrammeled, "as honest as homespun"
writing.

To be precise, I am reading "Song of Myself", a "long" poem that
defeats any attempts (not that I -- not that well read -- am trying)
to genrify or label; but is evidently a magnum opus of consciousness,
frankness and time.

Incidentally, this book has inspired (among others) other poetic
magnum opuses, other long poems like Relationship by Shri Jayanta
Mahapatra, which is yet another piece of work that defeats any
attempts to genrify or label.

But (like Song of Myself) just leaves you stunned.

Speaking of Song of Myself this is a poem that shouts out its
outdoorsiness, its location in the wide open spaces and the lap of
nature. And his ability to connect with the elements, an oracle like
ability to hear the epiphanies lost to more cultured and civilized
sensibilities.

Like when he sees and gives voice to a whole universe of soul and
meaning when he writes about grass. One wonders how much of this is
about the poet uncovering basic truths (that given time, mood and
similar approach you and I could too)and how much of this is about the
articulation of his own views. In a way he paints up a narrative in
which the canvas is both a landscape and a portrait at the same time.

There are some peculiarities (apart from a tone that could seem
intimately fraternal or mildly homosexual -- depending on how you view
it) that are strikingly idiosyncratic -- usage of epsilons (four dots
and not three as is the norm these days) and a treatment that blends
the grandiloquent and the pedestal-seeking in equal measure. But then,
this is Walt Whitman, and in all probability that profundity, that
uninhibited wealth of wordiness is what made him the trendsetter that
he is.

Incidentally, this poem was untitled and part of the book Leaves of Grass
(the very name indicative of the poet's amazing eye* as a naturalist)
and was self-published him when he was around 35. Fittingly enough, the
cover has a sketch of the poet, looking very rugged and outdoorsy and
very much part of an age that did not bother too much about sunscreen
(with a high SPF factor, mind) or hair dye.

Fittingly enough (from a reader's perspective) I write this as grass
dries all around me, turning golden brown by degrees -- from a rain-fed
green -- and the sun loses its burning intensity, turning evenings into
dapples of golden light.

The right time for indulging in profundity for drawing portraits and
landscapes.


* -- Do I mean "depth of field" ? Ah, well....

Song of Myself (6)

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!