Latest quotes | Random quotes | Vote! | Latest comments | Add quote

Ruben Dario

A Roosevelt

Es con voz de la Biblia, o verso de Walt Whitman,
que habría que llegar hasta ti, Cazador!
Primitivo y moderno, sencillo y complicado,
con un algo de Washington y cuatro de Nemrod.
Eres los Estados Unidos,
eres el futuro invasor
de la América ingenua que tiene sangre indígena,
que aún reza a Jesucristo y aún habla en español.

Eres soberbio y fuerte ejemplar de tu raza;
eres culto, eres hábil; te opones a Tolstoy.
Y domando caballos, o asesinando tigres,
eres un Alejandro-Nabucodonosor.
(Eres un profesor de energía,
como dicen los locos de hoy.)
Crees que la vida es incendio,
que el progreso es erupción;
en donde pones la bala
el porvenir pones.
No.

Los Estados Unidos son potentes y grandes.
Cuando ellos se estremecen hay un hondo temblor
que pasa por las vértebras enormes de los Andes.
Si clamáis, se oye como el rugir del león.
Ya Hugo a Grant le dijo: «Las estrellas son vuestras».
(Apenas brilla, alzándose, el argentino sol
y la estrella chilena se levanta...) Sois ricos.
Juntáis al culto de Hércules el culto de Mammón;
y alumbrando el camino de la fácil conquista,
la Libertad levanta su antorcha en Nueva York.

Mas la América nuestra, que tenía poetas
desde los viejos tiempos de Netzahualcoyotl,
que ha guardado las huellas de los pies del gran Baco,
que el alfabeto pánico en un tiempo aprendió;
que consultó los astros, que conoció la Atlántida,
cuyo nombre nos llega resonando en Platón,
que desde los remotos momentos de su vida
vive de luz, de fuego, de perfume, de amor,
la América del gran Moctezuma, del Inca,
la América fragante de Cristóbal Colón,
la América católica, la América española,
la América en que dijo el noble Guatemoc:
«Yo no estoy en un lecho de rosas»; esa América
que tiembla de huracanes y que vive de Amor,
hombres de ojos sajones y alma bárbara, vive.
Y sueña. Y ama, y vibra; y es la hija del Sol.
Tened cuidado. ¡Vive la América española!
Hay mil cachorros sueltos del León Español.
Se necesitaría, Roosevelt, ser Dios mismo,
el Riflero terrible y el fuerte Cazador,
para poder tenernos en vuestras férreas garras.

Y, pues contáis con todo, falta una cosa: ¡Dios!

To Roosevelt

The voice that would reach you, Hunter, must speak
in Biblical tones, or in the poetry of Walt Whitman.
You are primitive and modern, simple and complex;
you are one part George Washington and one part Nimrod.
You are the United States,
future invader of our naive America
with its Indian blood, an America
that still prays to Christ and still speaks Spanish.

You are strong, proud model of your race;
you are cultured and able; you oppose Tolstoy.
You are an Alexander-Nebuchadnezzar,
breaking horses and murdering tigers.
(You are a Professor of Energy,
as current lunatics say).

You think that life is a fire,
that progress is an irruption,
that the future is wherever
your bullet strikes.
No.

The United States is grand and powerful.
Whenever it trembles, a profound shudder
runs down the enormous backbone of the Andes.
If it shouts, the sound is like the roar of a lion.
And Hugo said to Grant: 'The stars are yours.'
(The dawning sun of the Argentine barely shines;
the star of Chile is rising..) A wealthy country,
joining the cult of Mammon to the cult of Hercules;
while Liberty, lighting the path
to easy conquest, raises her torch in New York.

But our own America, which has had poets
since the ancient times of Nezahualcóyolt;
which preserved the footprint of great Bacchus,
and learned the Panic alphabet once,
and consulted the stars; which also knew Atlantic
(whose name comes ringing down to us in Plato)
and has lived, since the earliest moments of its life,
in light, in fire, in fragrance, and in love--
the America of Moctezuma and Atahualpa,
the aromatic America of Columbus,
Catholic America, Spanish America,
the America where noble Cuauthémoc said:
'I am not in a bed of roses'--our America,
trembling with hurricanes, trembling with Love:
O men with Saxon eyes and barbarous souls,
our America lives. And dreams. And loves.
And it is the daughter of the Sun. Be careful.
Long live Spanish America!
A thousand cubs of the Spanish lion are roaming free.
Roosevelt, you must become, by God's own will,
the deadly Rifleman and the dreadful Hunter
before you can clutch us in your iron claws.

And though you have everything, you are lacking one thing:
God!

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Related quotes

Walt Whitman

For erratic style he leads van,
Wildly, wayward Walt Whitman.

*Mathew Arnold saw fit to say that Longfellow was not
the National Poet of America, but we presume few believed
him; one of Longfellows grandest pieced the scene is laid in
Canada.

It is a tale of love divine;
Charming faithful Evangeline.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

FROM- ezra-pound- and walt whitman -THE ARTS -BY WAEL MOREICHEH

MOREICHEH..... FROM ERZA POUND AND WALT WHITMAN - THE ARTS O`NO
HOW i can love world of girls HOW I CAN LOVE YOU LONELY
IT`S? ? ? ? ? CAN NOT KNOW
ANY DIFFERENT BETWEEN WAR AND peace in time second world war
AND THAT`S PART FROM CIA IN LONDON
WHEN LOVER RAIN DOWN VALLEY CAN RAINBOW
TOUCH MY LADY LOVE RUSH HOURS AND HOT.LOVE

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Just Thinking About Walt Whitman

In the lunch hour alleys of the city,
We ate our Mexican food with the mild sauce,
Not wanting to raise the heat of our conversations;
Our plans were a rock concert at a small venue
Where the pretty but slightly plump girls scream
Drunken love to the lead singer,
And the tall man with the fresh tan
Hangs out in the back aisle scoping out the chicks;
And a few people begin to dance with missile-happy,
Excited legs spraying all over the place,
And I just want everyone to be joyful
Without punk rocking the scene with any consonantal violence,
And I always want to dig the waitress passing out the beers,
She tends to have cute, short black hair and some hip tattoo;
If I’m already sober, she will give me a free coffee
And I’ll sit in a dimly-lit back corner all lonely
And try to write a melancholy poem about her eyes;
If I’m slightly inebriated, she’ll smile and get an easy tip
And then tell me to behave myself;
Someone will bring pizza and get all-tomato stained
In the shuffle and flow of the night,
And then, when I go outside, I’ll have a fistful
Of quarters and dimes to give to the homeless guys
In some small way to pay back my debt to society
For letting me read Walt Whitman undisturbed on Sundays.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

An Apple from Walt Whitman

There's never been a poet where I live,
but I grew up in the shade of Whitman's name:
born in West Hills—our hills—he would have walked
our paths along the crest. I walked Whitman Road,
crashed the Whitman Drive-In, stole a book
from the sci-fi rack at the Melville-Whitman Pharmacy,
even played lacrosse against Whitman High;
we lost three times, the guys from Halfway Hollow,
to young men with Whitman in white on their varsity jackets.

My mother tells a story about Thanksgiving,
back when kids went begging in rags and blackface:
how Carrie Wicks's sister said she got
an apple from Walt Whitman, right at his house,
an old man with a beard. The big kids laughed,
knowing the white-haired caretaker was no one.

I set no foot inside the Whitman House
or Leaves of Grass till after I went away,
but I'm better having grown up with the name,
the house and hills of a poet everyone knew,
a poet big enough in the mothers' stories
for a girl to believe he came to the door with a long
white beard and smiled and handed her an apple.

If a poet the size of Whitman named our few
square miles and a few in Jersey it's going to take
a lot more big ones to hand us all a welcome
sweet as a Thanksgiving apple from Walt Whitman,
white-haired care-taker, seed of mothers' stories,
Appleseed of our poetry: nourishment, shade.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Federico García Lorca

Ode to Walt Whitman

By the East River and the Bronx
boys were singing, exposing their waists
with the wheel, with oil, leather, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners taking silver from the rocks
and children drawing stairs and perspectives.

But none of them could sleep,
none of them wanted to be the river,
none of them loved the huge leaves
or the shoreline's blue tongue.

By the East River and the Queensboro
boys were battling with industry
and the Jews sold to the river faun
the rose of circumcision,
and over bridges and rooftops, the mouth of the sky emptied
herds of bison driven by the wind.

But none of them paused,
none of them wanted to be a cloud,
none of them looked for ferns
or the yellow wheel of a tambourine.

As soon as the moon rises
the pulleys will spin to alter the sky;
a border of needles will besiege memory
and the coffins will bear away those who don't work.

New York, mire,
New York, mire and death.
What angel is hidden in your cheek?
Whose perfect voice will sing the truths of wheat?
Who, the terrible dream of your stained anemones?

Not for a moment, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies,
nor your corduroy shoulders frayed by the moon,
nor your thighs pure as Apollo's,
nor your voice like a column of ash,
old man, beautiful as the mist,
you moaned like a bird
with its sex pierced by a needle.
Enemy of the satyr,
enemy of the vine,
and lover of bodies beneath rough cloth...

Not for a moment, virile beauty,
who among mountains of coal, billboards, and railroads,
dreamed of becoming a river and sleeping like a river
with that comrade who would place in your breast
the small ache of an ignorant leopard.

Not for a moment, Adam of blood, Macho,
man alone at sea, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
because on penthouse roofs,
gathered at bars,
emerging in bunches from the sewers,
trembling between the legs of chauffeurs,
or spinning on dance floors wet with absinthe,
the faggots, Walt Whitman, point you out.

He's one, too! That's right! And they land
on your luminous chaste beard,
blonds from the north, blacks from the sands,
crowds of howls and gestures,
like cats or like snakes,
the faggots, Walt Whitman, the faggots,
clouded with tears, flesh for the whip,
the boot, or the teeth of the lion tamers.

He's one, too! That's right! Stained fingers
point to the shore of your dream
when a friend eats your apple
with a slight taste of gasoline
and the sun sings in the navels
of boys who play under bridges.

But you didn't look for scratched eyes,
nor the darkest swamp where someone submerges children,
nor frozen saliva,
nor the curves slit open like a toad's belly
that the faggots wear in cars and on terraces
while the moon lashes them on the street corners of terror.

You looked for a naked body like a river.
Bull and dream who would join wheel with seaweed,
father of your agony, camellia of your death,
who would groan in the blaze of your hidden equator.

Because it's all right if a man doesn't look for his delight
in tomorrow morning's jungle of blood.
The sky has shores where life is avoided
and there are bodies that shouldn't repeat themselves in the dawn.

Agony, agony, dream, ferment, and dream.
This is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
Bodies decompose beneath the city clocks,
war passes by in tears, followed by a million gray rats,
the rich give their mistresses
small illuminated dying things,
and life is neither noble, nor good, nor sacred.

Man is able, if he wishes, to guide his desire
through a vein of coral or a heavenly naked body.
Tomorrow, loves will become stones, and Time
a breeze that drowses in the branches.

That's why I don't raise my voice, old Walt Whitman,
against the little boy who writes
the name of a girl on his pillow,
nor against the boy who dresses as a bride
in the darkness of the wardrobe,
nor against the solitary men in casinos
who drink prostitution's water with revulsion,
nor against the men with that green look in their eyes
who love other men and burn their lips in silence.

But yes against you, urban faggots,
tumescent flesh and unclean thoughts.
Mothers of mud. Harpies. Sleepless enemies
of the love that bestows crowns of joy.

Always against you, who give boys
drops of foul death with bitter poison.
Always against you,
Fairies of North America,
Pájaros of Havana,
Jotos of Mexico,
Sarasas of Cádiz,
Apios of Seville,
Cancos of Madrid,
Floras of Alicante,
Adelaidas of Portugal.

Faggots of the world, murderers of doves!
Slaves of women. Their bedroom bitches.
Opening in public squares like feverish fans
or ambushed in rigid hemlock landscapes.

No quarter given! Death
spills from your eyes
and gathers gray flowers at the mire's edge.
No quarter given! Attention!
Let the confused, the pure,
the classical, the celebrated, the supplicants
close the doors of the bacchanal to you.

And you, lovely Walt Whitman, stay asleep on the Hudson's banks
with your beard toward the pole, openhanded.
Soft clay or snow, your tongue calls for
comrades to keep watch over your unbodied gazelle.

Sleep on, nothing remains.
Dancing walls stir the prairies
and America drowns itself in machinery and lament.
I want the powerful air from the deepest night
to blow away flowers and inscriptions from the arch where you sleep,
and a black child to inform the gold-craving whites
that the kingdom of grain has arrived.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Ode For Walt Whitman

A Translation for Steve Jonas

Along East River and the Bronx
The kids were singing, showing off their bodies
At the wheel, at oil, the rawhide, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners were drawing silver out of boulders
While children made perspective drawings of stairways.

But no one went to sleep
No one wanted to be a river
No one loved the big leaves, no one
The blue tongue of the coastline.

Along East River into Queens
The kids were wrestling with industry.
The Jews sold circumcision’s rose
To the faun of the river.
The sky flowed through the bridges and rooftops—
Herds of buffalo the wind was pushing.

But none of them would stay.
No one wanted to be cloud. No one
Looked for the ferns
Or the yellow wheel of the drum.

But if the moon comes out
The pulleys will slide around to disturb the sky
A limit of needles will fence in your memory
And there will be coffins to carry out your unemployed.

New York of mud,
New York of wire fences and death,
What angel do you carry hidden in your cheek?
What perfect voice will tell you the truth about wheat
Or the terrible sleep of your wet-dreamed anemones?

Not for one moment, beautiful old Walt Whitman,
Have I stopped seeing your beard full of butterflies
Or your shoulders of corduroy worn thin by the moon
Or your muscles of a virgin Apollo
Or your voice like a column of ashes
Ancient and beautiful as the fog.

You gave a cry like a bird
With his prick pierced through by a needle
Enemy of satyrs
Enemy of the grape
And lover of bodies under rough cloth.
Not for one moment, tight-cocked beauty,
Who in mountains of coal, advertisements, and railroads
Had dreamed of being a river and of sleeping like one
With a particular comrade, one who could put in your bosom
The young pain of an ignorant leopard.
Not for one moment, blood-Adam, male,
Man alone in the sea, beautiful
Old Walt Whitman.
Because on the rooftops
Bunched together in bars
Pouring out in clusters from toilets
Trembling between the legs of taxi-drivers
Or spinning upon platforms of whiskey
The cocksuckers, Walt Whitman, were counting on you.

That one also, also. And they throw themselves down on
Your burning virgin beard,
Blonds of the North, negroes from the seashore,
Crowds of shouts and gestures
Like cats or snakes
The cocksuckers, Walt Whitman, the cocksuckers,
Muddy with tears, meat for the whip,
Tooth or boot of the cowboys.

That one also, also. Painted fingers
Sprout out along the beach of your dreams
And you give a friend an apple
Which tastes faintly of gas-fumes
And the sun sings a song for the bellybuttons
Of the little boys who play games below bridges.

But you weren’t looking for the scratched eyes
Or the blackswamp-country where children are sinking
Or the frozen spit
Or the wounded curves like a toad’s paunch
Which cocksuckers wear in bars and night-clubs
While the moon beats them along the corners of terror.

You were looking for a naked man who would be like a river
Bull and dream, a connection between the wheel and the seaweed,
Be father for your agony, your death’s camellia
And moan in the flames of your hidden equator.
For it is just that a man not look for his pleasure
In the forest of blood of the following morning.
The sky has coastlines where life can be avoided
And some bodies must not repeat themselves at sunrise.

Agony, agony, dream, leaven, and dream.
That is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
The dead decompose themselves under the clock of the cities.
War enters weeping, with a million gray rats.
The rich give to their girlfriends
Tiny illuminated dyings
And life is not noble, or good, or sacred.

A man is able if he wishes to lead his desire
Through vein of coral or the celestial naked.
Tomorrow his loves will be rock and Time
A breeze that comes sleeping through their clusters.

That is why I do not cry out, old Walt Whitman,
Against the little boy who writes
A girl’s name on his pillow,
Or the kid who puts on a wedding dress
In the darkness of a closet
Or the lonely men in bars
Who drink with sickness the waters of prostitution
Or the men with green eyelids
Who love men and scald their lips in silence,
But against the rest of you, cocksuckers of cities,
Hard-up and dirty-brained,
Mothers of mud, harpies, dreamless enemies
Of the Love that distributes crowns of gladness.

Against the rest of you always, who give the kids
Drippings of sucked-off death with sour poison.
Against the rest of you always
Fairies of North America,
Pajaros of Havana,
Jotos of Mexico,
Sarasas of Cadiz,
Apios of Seville,
Cancos of Madrid,
Adelaidas of Portugal,
Cocksuckers of all the world, assassins of doves,
Slaves of women, lapdogs of their dressing tables,
Opening their flys in parks with a fever of fans
Or ambushed in the rigid landscapes of poison.
Let there be no mercy. Death
Trickles from all of your eyes, groups
Itself like gray flowers on beaches of mud.
Let there be no mercy. Watch out for them.
Let the bewildered, the pure,
The classical, the appointed, the praying
Lock the gates of this Bacchanalia.

And you, beautiful Walt Whitman, sleep on the banks of the Hudson
With your beard toward the pole and your palms open
Soft clay or snow, your tongue is invoking
Comrades to keep vigil over your gazelle without body.
Sleep, there is nothing left here.
A dance of walls shakes across the prairies
And America drowns itself with machines and weeping.
Let the hard air of midnight
Sweep away all the flowers and letters from the arch in which you sleep
And a little black boy announce to the white men of gold
The arrival of the reign of the ear of wheat.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Eres Como El Aire

Eres como el agua
Que entre los dedos se va
Eres como el aire
Que no se puede tocar
Eres y no eres
Estas y no estas
Te tengo y no te tengo
En realidad
Eres como el humo
Que del fuego se va
Eres como el cielo
Que no se puede alcanzar
Eres y no eres
Estas y no estas
Te tengo y no te tengo
En realidad
Que alta esta la luna
Y tu que lejos estas
Te quiero prisionera
Pero como apresar el mar
Que alta esta la luna
Y tu que lejos estas
Naciste aventurera
Y no te puedo controlar
Eres como el tiempo
Que no se puede frenar
Eres como una noche
Que con el dia se va
Eres y no eres
Estas y no estas
Te tengo y no te tengo
En realidad
En realidad
Que alta esta la luna
Y tu que lejos estas
Te quiero prisionera
Pero como apresar el mar
Que alta esta la luna
Y tu que lejos estas
Naciste aventurera
Y no te puedo controlar
Que alta esta la luna
Y tu que lejos estas
Te quiero prisionera
Pero como apresar el mar
Que alta esta la luna
Y tu que lejos estas
Naciste aventurera
Si te quiero que mas da...
Que mas da...
Aaaa...
U...

song performed by Ricky MartinReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Dmelo

Qu tengo que hacer para tener
En mi labios esos tus labiecitos bonitos
Qu te tengo que hacer para tener
De tu sabor un poquito
Qu tengo que hacer para tener
En mis manos ese tu cuerpecito bonito
Qu tengo que hacer para tener
De tu sabor un poquito
Esta noche yo te quiero conocer
Y estoy seguro de que tu tambin
Esta noche a mi me quieres conocer
Asi que ya no hay tiempo que perder
Qu tengo que hacer para sentir
Entre mis piernas el roce de tus piernas divinas
Qu tengo que hacer para sentir
De tu olor un poquito
Qu tengo que hacer para llegar
Hasta la magia que ocultas en tu selva divina
Qu tengo que hacer para llegar
A mi lugar favorito
Esta noche yo te quiero conocer
Y estoy seguro de que tu tambin
Esta noche a m i me quieres conocer
Asi que ya no hay tiempo que perder
Tu ya sabes lo que quiero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Mira nena soy sincero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Sin excusas ni rodeos
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Eso es todo lo que quiero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Hola que tal nena como estas
Me llamo Juan tu
De donde eres donde vives
Trabajas o estudias
Viniste sola o viniste con tu novio
Ah que no no tienes novio
Ah que bien eso me suena a mi mucho mejor
Porque no vamos entonces a bailar
Perdn mejor debo decir primero que quieres tomar?

song performed by JuanesReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Damelo

Que tengo hacer para tener
En mis labios esos tus labecitos bonitos
Que tengo que hacer para tener
De tu sabor un poquito
Que tengo que hacer para tener
En mis manos ese tu cuerpecito bonito
Que tengo que hacer para tener
De tu sabor un poquito
Esta noche yo te quiero conocer
Y estoy seguro de que tu tambien
Esta noche a mi me quieres conocer
Asi que ya no hay tiempo que perder
Uh oh oh oh Uh oh oh oh
Que tengo hacer para sentir
Entre mis piernas el roce de tus piernas divinas
Que tengo que hacer para sentir
De tu olor un poquito
Que tengo hacer para llegar
Hasta la magia que ocultas en tu selva divina
Que tengo hacer para llegar
A mi lugar favorito
Esta noche yo te quiero conocer
Y estoy seguro de que tu tambien
Esta noche a mi me quieres conocer
Asi que ya no hay tiempo que perder
Tu ya sabes lo que quiero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Mira nena soy sincero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Sin excusas ni rodeos
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Eso es todo lo que quiero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Hola que tal nena como estas? Me llamo Juan y tu?
De donde eres donde vives trabajas o estudias
Viniste sola o viniste con tu novio?
Ah que no no tienes novio?
Ah que bien eso me suena a mucho mejor
Porque no vamos entonces a bailar
Perdon mejor debo decir primero que quieres tomar?
Esta noche yo te quiero conocer
Y estoy seguro de que tu tambien
Esta noche a mi me quieres conocer
Asi que ya no hay tiempo que perder
Tu ya sabes lo que quiero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Mira nena soy sincero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Sin excusas ni rodeos
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Eso es todo lo que quiero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
---guitar solo---
Uh oh oh oh Uh oh oh oh
Uh oh oh oh Uh oh oh oh
Tu ya sabes lo que quiero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Mira nena soy sincero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Sin excusas ni rodeos
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Eso es todo lo que quiero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Tu ya sabes lo que quiero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Mira nena soy sincero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Sin excusas ni rodeos
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero
Eso es todo lo que quiero
Damelo damelo dame lo que quiero

song performed by JuanesReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Grass (inspired by Whitman's A child asks what is grass)

grass gently waves,
sways, twists and swirls
with the gentle breeze
in a thousand steps and styles
god's merciful and caring hands

a bewildered young soul
asked ' what is grass? '
wrote lucky Whitman
who was so inspired by
the boy that he wrote
a long poem about life and death

well what is grass?

a genius mind would gather
it is god clothing his earth, men
his way of crocheting to cover up
nudity of his every land

and he so loves the task
he twists and dances in pleasure
as his breathe sweeps over the grass

there is music of joy
everywhere that his hand touches
- as he expends stitch by stitch
inch by inch to spread his cheer

to think of a man without clothes?
how a child would run
for cover on mere sight

grass is god's grace for the child
the mountains, the plains, us

how crude, barren, run down,
they would look without
the gentle and refreshing
green green grass

the grass that would
sweep us off
our feet for a dance
anytime of the day

well then let's answer the child
question: what is grass?

whitman's child would learn that
each blade is god's finger
as he signs a convenant in green
of his continuous care for us

his laughter sweeps over the grass
the way breeze does to our heart

inspired by

A child said, What is the grass?
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 hieroglyphic,
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 graves.
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 mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless 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?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show 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 ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward....and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.
Walt Whitman

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

I have never read a line of Walt Whitman.

quote by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Federico Garcia Lorca

Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.

classic quote by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Walt Whitman, he who laid end to end words never seen in each other's company before outside of a dictionary.

quote by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

I always knew in my heart Walt Whitman's mind to be more like my own than any other man's living. As he is a very great scoundrel this is not a pleasant confession.

quote by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Multiple Choice III: American Literature

please choose one only: Walt Whitman

1) was queer and wrote Leaves Of Grass

2) was queer but wrote Leaves Of Grass

3) was simply queer

4) had a blisterig affair with Thomas Eakins

5) none of the above

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman's Caution

TO The States, or any one of them, or any city of The States,
Resist much, obey little;
Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved;
Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city, of this earth, ever
afterward resumes its liberty.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

emotional discourse, deconstructing Walt Whitman

THIS
pondering the themes thou
is thy hour and the stars.
O Soul,
Away from books,
Thee fully forth emerging,
lovest
best.
flight into the wordless,
away from art,
Night, sleep, the day erased
silent,

thy free
gazing,
, the lesson done,

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

The Splendid Silent Sun

'Give me the splendid silent sun,
with all his beams full-dazzling.'
Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)

i have seen what
you have seen
and it is too much of
a good thing
to be called
wonderful,
the dazzling the
silence
the resplendent
sun amidst
the breasts of the
hills.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Ezra Pound

A Pact

I make a pact with you, Walt Whitman -
I have detested you long enough.
I come to you as a grown child
Who has had a pig-headed father;
I am old enough now to make friends.
It was you that broke the new wood,
Now is a time for carving.
We have one sap and one root -
Let there be commerce between us.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Critics

At a misty lake
Twelve critics asked
Old William Blake,
What is poetry?

As evening descended
The poet produced a ginger
And pointed to the moon
But they saw only
His finger.

Then an optimistic man
Recited Walt Whitman
To his sole companion
A young stallion.

And the keen
Sentient horse
Heard more
Than the prose.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
 

Search


Recent searches | Top searches