Cooper’s Hawk — Photo-Artistry by kenne
And I say to any man or woman,
Let your soul stand cool and composed
Before a million universes.
— Walt Whitman
Archive for the ‘Walt Whitman’ Tag
Cooper’s Hawk Photo-Artistry 1 comment
Yucca Plant At I-10 Reststop 6 comments
Yucca Plant At I-10 Reststop — HDR 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 wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.
The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.
— from Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman
Share this:
Madidi National Park Sunset Leave a comment
Madidi National Park (Bolivia) Sunset Along The Beni River (9/19/19) — 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,
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.
— from Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman
Share this:
“I Contain Multitudes” Leave a comment
“I Contain Multitudes” –Photo-Artistry by kenne
“Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then,
I contradict myself;
I am large –
I contain multitudes.”
* * * * *
“I’m just like Anne Frank, like Indiana Jones
And them British bad boys, The Rolling Stones
I go right to the edge, I go right to the end
I go right where all things lost are made good again
I sing the songs of experience like William Blake
I have no apologies to make
Everything’s flowing all at the same time
I live on the boulevard of crime
I drive fast cars, and I eat fast foods
I contain multitudes”
— Bob Dylan
Share this:
Fear Not O Muse! On This Thanksgiving Day Leave a comment
HDR Image by kenne
Fear not O Muse! truly new ways and days receive, surround you,
I candidly confess a queer, queer race, of novel fashion,
And yet the same old human race, the same within, without,
Faces and hearts the same, feelings the same, yearning the same,
The same old love, beauty, and use the same.
— Walt Whitman
Share this:
Silverpuff Art Leave a comment
Silverpuff Wildflower — Photo-Artistry by kenne
“I exist as I am, that is enough.”
— Walt Whitman
Share this:
Tucson Mountains Panorama 2 comments
Tucson Mountains West of Tucson, Arizona — Panorama by kenne
“Afoot and lighthearted I take to the open road, healthy, free, the world before me.”
―
Share this:
Missing Spring Festivals 1 comment
Missing Spring Festivals — Image by kenne
I have said the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one that one’s self is,
And I say to any man or women,
Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.
— Walt Whitman
Share this:
Celebrating Walt Whitman 3 comments
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
Share this:
A Clear Midnight 2 comments
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
Share this:
Cape Hatteras Light Station 1 comment
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
Share this:
Thoughts Abound In These Times Leave a comment
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
Share this:
Cartoon du Jour 2 comments
In this age of coronavirus, we are discovering joy in the minuscule and routine.
Sergio García Sánchez, The New York Times Book Review
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.
— from “Song of Myself ” by Walt Whitman
Share this:
I Don’t Hear America Singing 3 comments
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
Share this:
The Open Road 1 comment
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
Becoming is Superior to Being 