Yesterday, basking in good weather & on how well I felt after hibernating for so long,
I walked to the train station and visited my second-hand bookstore three stations
down. Purchased one amazing find–and what a find!
Bantam Classic, Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman.
Well, if it wasn’t for the yellowed pages, I’d swear this was a new book: It has
nor a pencil mark nor dog-earing. It was just there on the shelf, waiting for me.
And, a big factor now, is the print is of a good size I can read. I’m ecstatic!
And so today, feeling so energized, I made a short recording of myself reading
one section from Song of Myself, at pretty much the start of the 489-page long
book. (lots of words for my money).
Please listen quietly, like a whisper: I hope you enjoy it.
A Child Said, What Is The Grass? Poem by Walt Whitman
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
Source: Poem Hunter
I appreciate you listening/reading along.
Have a great rest of the week.
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Thank you for sharing this in your sweet voice, Selma <3
~David
I appreciate you, David.
🤗
Beautifully rendered Selma. A very profound poem.
Happy you liked it, Sadje.
It’s beautiful 🤩
XX 🤗
🩷🩷🩷
Beautiful & indeed poem. So sweet your voice clip.
I appreciate you, Raj.
glad you are feeling happy out of hibernation and thank you for sharing the poem
Blessings. I appreciate you Beth.
Inspirational poem, grass can be a rainbow of things.
Yes, a whole rainbow. 🤗
❤️
I think so too. Thanks, Diana.
💞
Wow! Thank you for sharing that with us. Beautiful.
It’s my pleasure, Bridgette. Thanks for appreciating. 🤗
I enjoyed hearing you read , Selma, in answer to the question, “what is the grass?”
Thanks so dearly for reading Lynn. I’m still hoarse and achy but I felt like making that audio anyway.
Leaves of grass is a wonderful collection.
Bless you Lynn. Xo