Daily Whitman

Earth Human Peace (3)

Song of Myself

  Flaunt of the sunshine I need not your bask—lie over!
  You light surfaces only, I force surfaces and depths also.

  Earth! you seem to look for something at my hands,
  Say, old top-knot, what do you want?

  Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot,
  And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot,
  And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and days.

  Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity,
  When I give I give myself.

  You there, impotent, loose in the knees,
  Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you,
  Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets,
  I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare,
  And any thing I have I bestow.

  I do not ask who you are, that is not important to me,
  You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you.

  To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean,
  On his right cheek I put the family kiss,
  And in my soul I swear I never will deny him.

  On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes.
  (This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics.)

  To any one dying, thither I speed and twist the knob of the door.
  Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed,
  Let the physician and the priest go home.

  I seize the descending man and raise him with resistless will,
  O despairer, here is my neck,
  By God, you shall not go down! hang your whole weight upon me.

  I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up,
  Every room of the house do I fill with an arm'd force,
  Lovers of me, bafflers of graves.

  Sleep—I and they keep guard all night,
  Not doubt, not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you,
  I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself,
  And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you is so.

Posted on 01/06/2014, in literature, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

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