Daily Whitman

sb10065546i-001

Song of Myself

 47
  I am the teacher of athletes,
  He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my own,
  He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.

  The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power,
      but in his own right,
  Wicked rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear,
  Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak,
  Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp steel cuts,
  First-rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's eye, to sail a
      skiff, to sing a song or play on the banjo,
  Preferring scars and the beard and faces pitted with small-pox over
      all latherers,
  And those well-tann'd to those that keep out of the sun.

  I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?
  I follow you whoever you are from the present hour,
  My words itch at your ears till you understand them.

  I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while
      I wait for a boat,
  (It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of you,
  Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd.)

  I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a house,
  And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her
      who privately stays with me in the open air.

  If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore,
  The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves key,
  The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words.

  No shutter'd room or school can commune with me,
  But roughs and little children better than they.

  The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well,
  The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with
      him all day,
  The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice,
  In vessels that sail my words sail, I go with fishermen and seamen
      and love them.

  The soldier camp'd or upon the march is mine,
  On the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not fail them,
  On that solemn night (it may be their last) those that know me seek me.
  My face rubs to the hunter's face when he lies down alone in his blanket,
  The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon,
  The young mother and old mother comprehend me,
  The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where they are,
  They and all would resume what I have told them.

 

Posted on 08/06/2014, in literature, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

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