Off.

When I heard the learn’d astronomer,

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,

When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,

When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,

Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

Walt Whitman

Happy Birthday, William James

Whitman, William James, 1903

Good-humor is a philosophic state of mind; it seems to say to Nature that we take her no more seriously than she takes us. I maintain that one should always talk of philosophy with a smile.

William James, born on this day in 1842, from The Varieties of Religious Experience

Strong.

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,

Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,

The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,

The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,

The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,

The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

Walt Whitman

Concentrate.

SONG of MYSELF, 51

The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them.

And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?

Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,

(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.

Who has done his day’s work? who will soonest be through with his supper?

Who wishes to walk with me?

Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?

Walt Whitman

Hats matter.

Multitudes.

Johnston, Walt Whitman, 1890

51

The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them.

And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?

Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,

(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.

Who has done his day’s work? who will soonest be through with his supper?

Who wishes to walk with me?

Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?

Walt Whitman

Hats matter, kids.

"Waltz Whitman"

Yo-Yo Ma, Stuart Duncan, Edgar Meyer, and His Royal Highness of Histrionics pay tribute ...

Proceed.

The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them.

And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?

Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,

(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.

Who has done his day’s work? Who will soonest be through with his supper?

Who wishes to walk with me?

Will you speak before I am gone? Will you prove already too late?

Walt Whitman

Own.

Doisneau, The Child and Dove, 1979

Whoever you are! Motion and reflection are especially for you,

The divine ship sails the divine sea for you.

Whoever you are! You are he or she for whom the earth is solid and liquid,

You are he or she for whom the sun and moon hang in the sky,

For none more than you are the present and the past,

For none more than you is immortality.

Each man to himself and each woman to herself, is the word of the past and present, and the true word of immortality;

No one can acquire for another—not one,

Not one can grow for another—not one.

The song is to the singer, and comes back most to him,

The teaching is to the teacher, and comes back most to him,

The murder is to the murderer, and comes back most to him,

The theft is to the thief, and comes back most to him,

The love is to the lover, and comes back most to him,

The gift is to the giver, and comes back most to him—it cannot fail,

The oration is to the orator, the acting is to the actor and actress not to the audience,

And no man understands any greatness or goodness but his own, or the indication of his own.

I swear the earth shall surely be complete to him or her who shall be complete,

The earth remains jagged and broken only to him or her who remains jagged and broken.

Walt Whitman

Ever-Enduring.

As I ponder'd in silence,

Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long,

A Phantom arose before me, with distrustful aspect,

Terrible in beauty, age, and power,

The genius of poets of old lands,

As to me directing like flame its eyes,

With finger pointing to many immortal songs,

And menacing voice, What singest thou? it said;

Knowest thou not, there is but one theme for ever-enduring  

  Bards?

Walt Whitman, from “Inscriptions” in Leaves of Grass

Ceaselessly.

A noiseless patient spider,

I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,

Mark'd how to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,

It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself.

Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,

Surrounded, detatched, in measureless oceans of space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them.

Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,

Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

Walt Whitman

Know.

Phillips and Taylor, Walt Whitman, 1873

MIRACLES

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,

Or stand under trees in the woods,

Or talk by day with anyone I love, or sleep in the bed at night with anyone I love,

Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,

Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

Or watch honey bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,

Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,

Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,

Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,

Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,

The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships with the men in them,

What stranger miracles are there?

Walt Whitman

To.

O to attract by more than attraction!

How it is I know not—yet behold! the something which

     obeys none of the rest,

It is offensive, never defensive—yet how magnetic it draws.

O to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies

     undaunted!

To be entirely alone with them, to find how much one can

     stand!

To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, face to face!

To mount the scaffold, to advance to the muzzles of guns

     with perfect nonchalance!

To be indeed a God!

O to sail to sea in a ship!

To leave this steady unendurable land,

To leave the tiresome sameness of the streets, the sidewalks

     and the houses,

To leave you O solid motionless land, and entering a

     ship,

To sail and sail and sail!

Walt Whitman

Love.

With apologies to Uncle Walt and his Preface to Leaves of Grass ...

This is what you shall do: Love the grill and charcoal and the fire, despise boneless, skinless chicken breasts, give tastes to every one that asks, stand up for the chicken skin and butter, devote your income and labor to applewood chunks, hate barbeque sauce, argue not concerning wings, have patience and indulgence toward the white wine, take off your grill’s lid to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated propane users and with the young and with the turkey-dog-feeding mothers of families, light these fires in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told on YouTube or TikTok or by Gordon Bourdain, dismiss whatever insults your tongue, and your chicken thigh shall be a great poem and have the richest smokiness not only in its taste but in the silent wafts of its scent and color and on your fingertips and in every motion and joint of your tongs. . . . The griller shall not spend his time in unneeded trimming of fat. He shall know that the charcoal is always ready banked and lit . . . . others may not know it but he shall. He shall go directly to the beer frig. His thermometer shall master the trust of everything he touches  . . .  and shall master all temps and timing.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Walt

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 a 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.

Walt Whitman, born on this day in 1819

Loaf.

Poets muse a lot. Or as Whitman, no mean fisherman, said, “I loaf and invite my soul.” Mostly loaf.

Jim Harrison, from "The Violators"

Resist.

Brady, Walt Whitman, 1865

To The States, or any one of them, or any city of

The States, Resist much, obey little,

Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved,

Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city, of this

earth, ever afterward resumes its liberty.

Walt Whitman

Happy Birthday, Whitman

SONG of the OPEN ROAD, 6

Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear it would not amaze me,

Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear'd it would not astonish me.

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,

It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.

Here a great personal deed has room,

(Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men,

Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms law and mocks all authority and all argument against it.)

Here is the test of wisdom,

Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,

Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not having it,

Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,

Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content,

Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things;

Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul.

Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,

They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing currents.

Here is realization,

Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him,

The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.

Only the kernel of every object nourishes;

Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me?

Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?

Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion'd, it is apropos;

Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers?

Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls?

Walt Whitman, born on this day in 1819

PBS' In Search of Walt Whitman

"The Early Years"

"The Civil War and Beyond"

Singing.

Klimt, Tranquil Pond (Egelsee near Golling, Salzburg), 1899

These, I, singing in spring, collect for lovers,

(For who but I should understand lovers, and all their sorrow and joy?

And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)

Collecting, I traverse the garden, the world—but soon I pass the gates,

Now along the pond-side—now wading in a little, fearing not the wet,

Now by the post-and-rail fences, where the old stones thrown there, pick’d from the fields, have accumulated,

(Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones, and partly cover them—Beyond these I pass,)

Far, far in the forest, before I think where I go,

Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence,

Alone I had thought—yet soon a troop gathers around me,

Some walk by my side, and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck,

They, the spirits of dear friends, dead or alive—thicker they come, a great crowd, and I in the middle,

Collecting, dispensing, singing in spring, there I wander with them,

Plucking something for tokens—tossing toward whoever is near me;

Here! lilac, with a branch of pine,

Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pull’d off a live-oak in Florida, as it hung trailing down,

Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage,

And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pondside,

(O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me—and returns again, never to separate from me,

And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades—this Calamus-root shall,

Interchange it, youths, with each other! Let none render it back!)

And twigs of maple, and a bunch of wild orange, and chestnut,

And stems of currants, and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar:

These, I, compass’d around by a thick cloud of spirits,

Wandering, point to, or touch as I pass, or throw them loosely from me,

Indicating to each one what he shall have—giving something to each;

But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve,

I will give of it—but only to them that love, as I myself am capable of loving.

Walt Whitman

Resist.

To the States or any one of them, or any city of the States, 

Resist much, obey little,

Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved,

Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth, 

Ever afterward resumes its liberty.

Walt Whitman

Forth.

The untold want by life and land ne’er granted,

Now voyager sail thou forth to seek and find.

Walt Whitman