Archive for the ‘Walt Whitman’ Tag
Lowell Mick White Reading at the 2008 Walt Whitman Birthday Celebration in Conroe, Texas — Image by kenne
A Supermarket in California
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I
walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-
conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the
neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping
at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in
the tomatoes!—and you, García Lorca, what were you doing
down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking
among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork
chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following
you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary
fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and
never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour.
Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add
shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue
automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what
America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you
got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear
on the black waters of Lethe?
— Allen Ginsberg
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A Full Moon Night In The Sonoran Desert — Photo-Artistry by kenne
A Clear Midnight
This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best.
Night, sleep, death and the stars.
— Walt Whitman
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Cape Hatteras Light Station (04/08/07) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
“While rises in the west the coastwise range,
slowly the hushed land —
Combustion at the astral core — the dorsal change
Of energy — convulsive shift of sand …
But we, who round the capes, the promontories
Where strange tongues vary messages of surf
Below grey citadels, repeating to the stars
The ancient names — return home to our own
Hearths, there to eat an apple and recall
The songs that gypsies dealt us at Marseille
Or how the priests walked — slowly through Bombay —
Or to read you, Walt, — knowing us in thrall”
— from 4. Cape Hatteras by Hart Crane
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Thoughts Abound — Photo-Artistry by kenne
3.
OF persons arrived at high positions, ceremonies,
wealth, scholarships, and the like;
To me, all that those persons have arrived at, sinks
away from them, except as it results to their
Bodies and Souls,
So that often to me they appear gaunt and naked;
And often, to me, each one mocks the others, and
mocks himself or herself,
And of each one, the core of life, namely happiness,
is full of the rotten excrement of maggots,
And often, to me, those men and women pass unwit-
tingly the true realities of life, and go toward
false realities,
And often, to me, they are alive after what custom has
served them, but nothing more,
And often, to me, they are sad, hasty, unwaked son-
nambules, walking the dusk.
— from “Thoughts” by Walt Whitman
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In this age of coronavirus, we are discovering joy in the minuscule and routine.
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars,
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d’oeuvre for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depressed head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels,
And I could come every afternoon of my life to look at the farmer’s girl boiling her iron tea-kettle and baking shortcake.
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Tucson Clouds Social Distancing — Image by kenne
In ‘I Hear America Singing’ Walt Whitman was celebrating the various songs of his fellow Americans singing as they go about the work: the mechanics, the carpenter, the mason, the boatman, the deckhand, the shoemaker, the hatter, the wood-cutter, the ploughboy, the mother, the ‘young wife at work’, the seamstress or washerwoman.
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
The coronavirus has pushed the mute button, silencing our singing and only we can bring it back when again we will hear America Singing,
— kenne
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The Open Road — Image by kenne
“Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading me wherever I choose…
Allons! whoever you are! come forth!
You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you….
Allons! be not detain’d!…
Allons! the road is before us!”
— Walt Whitman
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Catalina Sunset (View from Mica Mountain of the Santa Catalina Mountains) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Whatever satisfies the soul is truth.
— Walt Whitman
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Ocotillo and Sparrow — Image by kenne
Simplicity is the glory of expression.
— Walt Whitman
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White Prickly Poppies Have A Natural Crinked Look (Near a High Desert Highway)– Image by kenne
Without
disdain
for the gifts
of the earth,
the capital’s
abundant curves,
or the purple
initial
of wisdom,
you
taught me
to be an American,
you lifted my eyes
to books,
toward
the treasure
of the grain:
broad poet,
across the
clarity
of the plains,
you made me see
the high mountain
as my guardian.
Out of the subterranean
echo
you collected
everything
for me,
everything that grew,
you gathered the harvest
galloping through the alfalfa,
cut the poppies for me,
followed the rivers
to arrive in the kitchen
by afternoon.
— from Ode to Walt Whitman by Pablo Neruda
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Last night the Montgomery County Literary Arts Council held its annual Walt Whitman Birthday Party Celebration. Having been part of the first Writers in Performance series Whitman Celebration, to say I miss not being there would be an understatement. So, I’ve gone back to my archives to share the celebration from ten years ago.
— kenne
Whitman’s Birthday Party Comes Early This Year (May 1, 2008)
What started with only a hand-full of people gathering at Barnes & Nobel bookstore each May 30th to read their favorite Walt Whitman poems and share a birthday cake, has now evolved into notably “the” Whitman birthday party. Yet many in our community who love Whitman’s poetry would not expect the Montgomery campus of Lone Star College and a small group of Parsons disciples, (the Montgomery County Literary Arts Council) to attract a notable list of Whitman experts and Houston area poets to present a symposium/birthday party on Whitman’s work and the man. Therefore, I was not surprised when after receiving information (Walt Whitman, 2008 Panel) sent to a friend on the May 1st event would reply, “. . . I’m impressed! You have people who were
- Dave Parsons
part of the April 14th PBS American Experience on Walt Whitman — right here in
Montgomery County, Texas? But then, if you know Dave Parsons, “Why not?”
Dave’s passion for Whitman, and poetry, in general, continue to be the driving force behind this annual event. So, no wonder this year’s party was unquestionably the best. As has been the practice the last few years, the event begins in the afternoon on the Lone Star College campus with a panel presentation and discussion, followed in the evening with the birthday party celebrating his poetry. This year the party took place at Cornelli’s Villa Italia restaurant on the square in Conroe. Continuing the tradition, over twenty published poets, creative writing professors and community literary leaders read their favorite Walt Whitman poems. Additionally, this year Dave arranged for the performance of Whitman’s favorite Opera selections. 
For the first time, to coordinate the event timing with the spring schedule, presenters, and the party location, the party event was moved ahead by almost a month. Although some may question moving the party to Cornelli’s Villa Italia from the Corner Pub, just down the street, all would agree, Walt would be at home at either location.
kenne
(Courier Article — whitmanpartyarticle)
See more photos here.
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Cactus Wren Nest in a Cholla (Sabino Canyon) — Image by kenne
The whole theory of the universe
is directed unerringly to one individual
– namely You.
— Walt Whitman
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This image was taken in the Cox Butterfly & Orchid Pavilion by kenne
On this day after election day, 2016, I am surrounding myself with beauty and Whitman. If we think we just experienced a bitter campaign focusing in the candidate’s shortcoming, then you need to read Whitman’s poem, Election Day, November, 1884 — The more things change, the more they remain the same.
ELECTION DAY, NOVEMBER, 1884.
If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest
scene and show,
‘Twould not be you, Niagara—nor you, ye limitless prairies—nor
your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
Nor you, Yosemite—nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyser-
loops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,
Nor Oregon’s white cones—nor Huron’s belt of mighty lakes—
nor Mississippi’s stream:
—This seething hemisphere’s humanity, as now, I’d name—the
still small voice vibrating—America’s choosing day,
(The heart of it not in the chosen—the act itself the main, the
quadriennial choosing,)
The stretch of North and South arous’d—sea-board and inland
—Texas to Maine—the Prairie States—Vermont, Virginia,
California,
The final ballot-shower from East to West—the paradox and con-
flict,
The countless snow-flakes falling—(a swordless conflict,
Yet more than all Rome’s wars of old, or modern Napoleon’s:)
the peaceful choice of all,
Or good or ill humanity—welcoming the darker odds, the dross:
—Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify—while the
heart pants, life glows:
These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,
Swell’d Washington’s, Jefferson’s, Lincoln’s sails.
— Walt Whitman
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Beebalm Wildflower (Oracle Ridge Trail, August 5, 2016)– Image by kenne
I’m reading Whitman this morning and one my favorite selections is the first stanza in
“Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking,” one sentence, twenty-two lines long.
Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child
leaving his bed wander’d alone, bareheaded, barefoot,
Down from the shower’d halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if
they were alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
From your memories sad brother, from the fitful risings and
fallings I heard,
From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if
with tears,
From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in
the mist,
From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease,
From the myriad thence-arous’d words,
From the word stronger and more delicious than any,
From such as now they start the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,
Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly,
A man, yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them,
A reminiscence sing.
— Walt Whitman
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A trail near Rose Canyon Lake in the Santa Catalina Mountains — Computer Painting by kenne
Baby come walk with me
around the lake
where I will do
anything for you —
delaying not, hurrying not.
Baby come walk with me
around the lake
where no previous day
will be like this —
delaying not, hurrying not.
Baby come walk with me
around the lake
sharing moments of bliss
and transcendental longings —
delaying not, hurrying not.
Baby come walk with me
around the lake
reading Wallace Stevens
and escape by metaphor —
delaying not, hurrying not.
Baby come walk with me
around the lake
outlining the contours
of our experience —
delaying not, hurrying not.
Baby come walk with me
around the lake
creating our own cosmos
resembling the Creation —
delaying not, hurrying not.
— kenne
(“delaying not, hurrying not” from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman)
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