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Song of Myself

door Walt Whitman

Andere auteurs: Zie de sectie andere auteurs.

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"This book offers the most comprehensive and detailed reading to date of Song of Myself. One of the most distinguished critics in Whitman Studies, Ed Folsom, and one of the nation's most prominent writers and literary figures, Christopher Merrill, carry on a dialog with Whitman, and with each other, section by section, as they invite readers to enter into the conversation about how the poem develops, moves, improvises, and surprises. Instead of picking and choosing particular passages to support a reading of the poem, Folsom and Merrill take Whitman at his word and interact with "every atom" of his work. The book presents Whitman's final version of the poem, arranged in fifty-two sections; each section is followed by Folsom's detailed critical examination of the passage, and then Merrill offers a poet's perspective, suggesting broader contexts for thinking about both the passage in question and the entire poem"--… (meer)
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Slow work going through this for a slow reader anyway unaccustomed to poetry, as so many individual word choices and phrases demand consideration and thinking. Democratic, dynamic, egalitarian, self-confident, sensual, spiritual, provocative even today.
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.[1]
Self-assurance and self-belief ring out from the opening lines. Also a hint of the interconnectedness that will be developed plenty further.
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.[2]
Drop the mask worn on the stage of social interaction. And a note of physical sensuality.
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.[3]
Don't wait on the future. Live life in this moment.
Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.[3]
We always work to present our best most perfect selves to others. But we're perfect and beautiful anyways, faults warts and all. Don't hide or repress any part of yourself.
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and poke-weed.[5]
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.[6]
An answer to a previously posed question, "What is the grass?" Out of many it is one, e pluribus unum, these lines arguing that all are equal.
I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.[7]
All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.[10]
It's not just all Whitman lolling around in fields and nature. He loves the society of men and women close to the earth as well.
In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.[13]
(The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place,
The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their place,
The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.)[16]
'Everything in its right place'
I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches for conquer'd and slain persons.
Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?
I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.[18]
The outcome is not important, it is the participation in the battle, in life.
Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees![21]
Liquid trees??? Fantastic.
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.[24]
Whitman believes in God as revealed through nature, not through churches or theologies shaped by man, a recurring theme. 'arm-pits aroma finer than prayer'... provocative way for the poet to put it!
Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!...
Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you![24]
Manly wheat and the wind as genitalia rubbing against you. Oh my.
Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs,
Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.[24]
Very nice description of a sunrise.
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars,
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.[31]
Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah,
Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,
Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,
In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix engraved,
With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and image,
Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more,
Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days,
(They bore mites as for unfledg'd birds who have now to rise and fly and sing for themselves,)
Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself, bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see[41]
Old conceptions of the divine have outlived their usefulness to a growing/evolving humanity, which now needs something new.
Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking,
To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning,
Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going.
Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and the chaff for payment receiving,
A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.[42]
The greedy rich, busy with commerce, exploiting their workers, miss out on the real stuff of life.
Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers,
I take my place among you as much as among any,
The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same,
And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all, precisely the same.
I do not know what is untried and afterward,
But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail.[43]
Addressing the 'unbelievers', who thrash about in the sea of doubt and unbelief a few lines earlier. Don't worry about death, what comes afterward comes for all alike, and it will be sufficient.
Every condition promulges not only itself, it promulges what grows after and out of itself,
And the dark hush promulges as much as any.[45]
Reminds me of Rilke.
This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven,
And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied then?
And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond.
Our souls will penetrate unimaginably far after death.
I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat[47]
A joke? Ha!
Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go,
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.[48]
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.[52]
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2d/Whitman-leavesofgrass.gif
If high school students were presented with this image of Whitman instead of one of him as an old man with a long white beard, he would surely strike more interest. ( )
  lelandleslie | Feb 24, 2024 |
J’étais vraiment curieuse de découvrir ce poète américain, un des rares dont le nom a traversé l’atlantique me semble-t-il. Intimidée par l’ampleur de son recueil, je me suis décidée pour ce long poème, emblématique de son œuvre. Et je crois que je m’arrêterai là.
D’accord, le « je » de ce poème doit être vu comme plus général que la seule personne de Whitman, d’accord, il y a du transcendantalisme dans tout ça. Mais j’ai du mal à y voir autre chose qu’une ode à lui-même, une façon assez désagréable de se placer au-dessus de la mêlée : moi j’ai tout vécu (ben oui, puisque je communie avec tous mes frères, pas besoin de souffrir moi-même, ils souffrent pour moi et je m’imagine que je suis à leur place pour dire que moi aussi je souffre, c’est un peu facile, non ?).
Bon, je m’arrête là puisque manifestement, je ne suis pas de ceux qui réussissent à entrer dans l’œuvre de Whitman. J’éprouve pour lui la même sensation désagréable que lorsque j’ai lu [Walden] (que je n’ai pas réussi à finir, d’ailleurs) de [[Thoreau]], tiens lui aussi un transcendantaliste. Je dois avoir une dent contre les idées et le style des écrivains qui gravitent autour de ce mouvement. Je le saurai pour la prochaine fois.
  raton-liseur | Feb 21, 2023 |


What I love about poetry is that there is a lot of room for interpretation. And in those beautiful 80 pages, Whitman did deliver what he promised before getting into the poem:
"You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self."

A must-read for anyone who likes to analyze things. It made me want to be in a book club just to discuss it. I think if I loved poetry a bit more, I might have appreciated it immensely.

A few bits that I personally loved:

"I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and
self-contain'd,
I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of
owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of
years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth."

"Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.) " ( )
  womanwoanswers | Dec 23, 2022 |
8497643488
  archivomorero | Jun 25, 2022 |
Walt Whitman fue un extraordinario poeta estadounidense, que revolucionó el mundo de la palabra durante su época. Sobre todo, con su poema Canto a mí mismo. A pesar de que nació en una familia muy pobre y de que no tuvo estudios, desde temprana edad sintió un profundo amor por las letras. ( )
  TORTOSAGUARDIA | Oct 15, 2021 |
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» Andere auteurs toevoegen (17 mogelijk)

AuteursnaamRolType auteurWerk?Status
Walt Whitmanprimaire auteuralle editiesberekend
Felipe, LeónVoorwoordSecundaire auteursommige editiesbevestigd
Felipe, LeónVertalerSecundaire auteursommige editiesbevestigd
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"This book offers the most comprehensive and detailed reading to date of Song of Myself. One of the most distinguished critics in Whitman Studies, Ed Folsom, and one of the nation's most prominent writers and literary figures, Christopher Merrill, carry on a dialog with Whitman, and with each other, section by section, as they invite readers to enter into the conversation about how the poem develops, moves, improvises, and surprises. Instead of picking and choosing particular passages to support a reading of the poem, Folsom and Merrill take Whitman at his word and interact with "every atom" of his work. The book presents Whitman's final version of the poem, arranged in fifty-two sections; each section is followed by Folsom's detailed critical examination of the passage, and then Merrill offers a poet's perspective, suggesting broader contexts for thinking about both the passage in question and the entire poem"--

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