Walt Whitman

"Re-examine all that you have been told . . . dismiss that which insults your soul." --Walt Whitman


#5 pieces of 'Walt'

"Walt" (trg, 7-02-2001)how is it that a man can both love a woman, and alsoa man?or, as i've noticed, girls have often loved boys, onlylater discovering their preference of a girl;Walt was much more free than we,writing of the lovely youngman's fingers run through his beard, andthe amorous delight of kissinga luscious lady's breast and of tasting her sweet flowerson a river's bank;he was both a lady's manand a man's man, liking a brawlor a sprawl, and neverbeing ashamed when he'd ask for more -- naturally, healso was quick to reciprocate, ifone would barely request; in our timeof enlightenmenthe'd be marginalized because of his love of living, though all like to claim him'till he's read aloud, andhis intended unhidden nuances are heard,perhaps for the first time; thenthe sound of throats being cleared -- no punintended -- are the nearest to words that are heard;he seemed to understandthat the warmth of lover is betterthan a friend when one is young; yet, whenwe grow older, we desirethe pleasure of a lone friend, whethera lover or not.

‘Walt ‘ (trg, 12/20/02)
‘Come close to me,’
the aged sage teases.
An almost youth
smiles,
easily acquiesces,
really no different than ancient Rome.
His wisdom etched frame
next to his supple pink torso;
someone should have
placed them on canvas.
Classic reclining,
one runs his hands
through his mentor’s beard,
while the friend
reaches for his love’s hand.
Here I see
masculine man’s man and tender feminine
intuition wedded comfortably.
Poet strokes his pen
over his once empty page,
creating his masterwork.
Man, one without a facial hair
or years’ wrinkles
is as glad
as I for Walt’s strokes.
‘Walt III’ (trg. 9/22/03)

No lame duck here,
a pacifism without any punch.
Many young men lay under his care,
men who thought it righteous to kill their kin.
A writer who’s a nurse,
a man’s man who’s a man’s man.
He would not fare well today,
in our political correct lifestyles.
Neither his appearance nor his word craft
would be queer enough.
He knew the freedom of being who you are,
no need to measure up or down to one group or another.
He befriended soldiers, coal miners, farmers, ship captains and crew,
writers, painters, actors, women, men, the well educated and the not.
He celebrated humanity in all of its form,
from the basest to the most glorious,
evil is within our hearts by choice.
-- So is innocence.
I would take a walk with him.
Would you?
The cushion of a pail breast
and post-Raphael stomach, he appreciated.
The firmness of a young male friend he too liked.
For him, most often,
the more real the person the more amorous.
A shy confidence allures the desiring and desirable,
noise gets in the way of hearing.
You, yes - you,
come close and reveal your thighs.
Allow me to press my lips against these your shafts.
Rivers will flow, overflow,
and those that have been pent up for a time
will find it difficult to locate a bank to rest upon.
Walt was a man, a pacifist who fought for the lame.

‘I had a dream’ (trg, 4/07/2004)
I had a dream
where all people loved each other,
the Altar was barely a euphemism,
not waiting for heaven or hell; a little late then.
Eros, Agape and Cupid need no introduction or introductions.
You do know that to copulate with a dark-skinned person, once,
was to have sex outside of your species?
…Unless you too were dark-skinned.
(This is where tanning products erupted.)
I awoke with my extensive facial hair follicles drenched with love,
knowing that if this was Hell that I’d be glad to stay;
if Heaven, I’ll prostrate, the correct word here, gladly,
for eternity.
There were no nocturne contortions; my back wasn’t thrown.
There is a certain arch, even if in fantasy, that liberates,
frees the captive fears of being unspent;
here I sing the song of ‘From pent up aching rivers,’
Walt’s muse in true human experience,
gender was not his bent, such queries are useless
save for the one unwilling to look into the mirror.
He’d blow the minds of those who think
heterosexuality and homosexuality are in fact different, neither
have anything to do with gender, only species;
then he’d blow his too.
Ah, to live in a world where communion is common as choice,
a Chalice to sip the last drops from, with, licking the edge,
making sure that nothing is left wanting.
‘God,’ and ‘Lord have mercy,’ communicate,
the Moon and Earth dance all night, giving way to the dawn,
where the dew of the Rain Forrest is delightfully redundant.
Those who know this Beauty
know the egoism that is swallowed up by eroticism;
here’s the subject of the dance,
matters not whether it’s slow or faster.
You do know that to dance is to anticipate copulation, until recently
only done with the same gender?
…Unless you donned drag.
(This is where Rock & Roll was spawned.)
I awoke to find my dream eclipsed by the Sunlight.
Or, I fell asleep.

‘Walt Whitman, straight to the aid’ (trg, 6/05/04)

Straight to the aid of dying Confederates or Yankees, if need be,
no one asked him of his bedroom habits.
Women, voluptuous exquisite icons of beauty, applauded him.
He them.
Men, young lanky, tight stomached or dandies of his age, posed with him.
He them.
No one ran from being photographed with him,
believers and unbelievers both respected his character.
Words, euphemisms of the 21st century clouding one’s fear, were not thrown his way;
this man’s man could beat their butts save for his love of people.
Stand him next to our contemporary athletes,
he’d be the more masculine without their need to fit into the frame.
As a Person he spoke, as a Man he spoke, as a Creature he spoke,
as an American he sang all of our tunes,
as a Poet he observed the rhythm of creation,
freely following its natural path in the place of contrived rhymes,
rowing the streams of consciousness.
Today’s Poets might presume to edit his work away, too many words they’d say;
twenty years after their death will they or their words be remembered?
Then there are his narrative sentences, oh my God, with more than ten words,
I beg you to reconstruct them into minimalist lines;
but whose sentences would they be?
A lover of the written and spoken word,
unheard of that one would be without the other,
this lover could recline with a missive and read it aloud with a friend
or chant for others a recent traditionalist Poet of meter, applauding them both.
Pensive, not he, to be true to himself;
yes, though, if he might harm an innocent soul.
God was more real than real to him;
God as used to control people was more horrid than horrid.
Hymns sung in harmony with every creature in God’s Earth made sense.
Dirges are only appropriate for those whose collars need to be tightened.
Worship is the irony of self-indulgence;
we freely, so to speak, offer it to someone who acknowledges this wryness.
Straight to the heart and soul he cuts a path worth walking,
a godlike snowy-bearded Artist captivates my imagination.
He’d laugh at this usage of metaphors in reference to him, saying,
‘Buggers ought never be thrown accolades, they only go to their heads.’