Today was sortof a wash due to an impromptu hangover, and also incidentally sortof awash with sentiment since I spent a large portion of it re-reading Song of Myself for maybe the 30th time. I'd forgotten how long that poem is, and how wonderful. I'm not even halfway through it, taking my time with each line and relishing in them, and already the familiar wave of humility and grace and wonder is taking me. I know it's a bit rotten to say this, but there are elements of almost every poem I've ever written in Song of Myself. I wonder if maybe I subconsciously internalize my favorite poems and squeeze remnants of them into the things I write. There are hints of Ginsberg in some of my poems too, not surprising since he worshipped Whitman like I do. Anyway, I am in no way at ALL comparing the crappy little lives of my poems to the legends of the Greats, but I'm thankful and wistful today to feel touched and connected by something so much bigger than me, so much bigger than the world - yet completely inseparable from everything.
I just came across this particular stanza and almost felt like crying:
What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me,
Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns,
Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me,
Not asking the sky to come down to my good will,
Scattering it freely forever.
I don't know what I would do without words, without poetry. I wonder if other people in the world are fortunate enough to be as moved by something as I am by simple words. It's like the whole meaning of life for me is enveloped by this overwhelming feeling...sadness and euphoria, longing and resignation, wisdom and curiosity. It's the sweet and the sour, man. The sweet and the sour. I love you, Walt Whitman. Thanks for making me feel human again.
No comments:
Post a Comment