Posted by: Trisha Leigh | April 27, 2011

Lazy Blogging FTW

I’m feeling a bit tired, dear readers. More than that, my brain is exhausted from dealing with revisions on my novel, which, by the way, my agent and I have renamed. In the Autumn is now The Last Year, and I have to say, I’m kind of loving the new vibe.

At any rate, all my abundant synapses are tied up brainstorming new words. I’ve got nothing left for my blog.

But you know who does? Walt Whitman.

I’m treating you to one of my favorite poems, by one of my favorite poets. Here you go, and please, I’d love your thoughts in the comments.

SPONTANEOUS ME by Walt Whitman

Spontaneous me, Nature,

The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with,

The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder,

The hillside whiten’d with blossoms of the mountain ash,

The same late in autumn, the hues of red, yellow, drab, purple, and light and dark green,

The rich coverlet of the grass, animals and birds, the private untrimm’d bank, the primitive apples, the pebble-stones,

Beautiful dripping fragments, the negligent list of one after another as I happen to call them to me or think of them,

The real poems, (what we call poems being merely pictures,)

The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me,

This poem drooping shy and unseen that I always carry, and that all men carry,

(Know once for all, avow’d on purpose, wherever are men like me, are

our lusty lurking masculine poems,)

Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding, love-climbers, and the climbing sap,

Arms and hands of love, lips of love, phallic thumb of love, breasts of love, bellies press’d and glued together with love,

Earth of chaste love, life that is only life after love,

The body of my love, the body of the woman I love, the body of the man, the body of the earth,

Soft forenoon airs that blow from the south-west,

The hairy wild-bee that murmurs and hankers up and down, that gripes the full-grown lady-flower, curves upon her with amorous firm legs, takes his will of her, and holds himself tremulous and tight till he is satisfied;

The wet of woods through the early hours,

Two sleepers at night lying close together as they sleep, one with an arm slanting down across and below the waist of the other,

The smell of apples, aromas from crush’d sage-plant, mint, birch-bark,

The boy’s longings, the glow and pressure as he confides to me what he was dreaming,

The dead leaf whirling its spiral whirl and falling still and content to the ground,

The no-form’d stings that sights, people, objects, sting me with,

The hubb’d sting of myself, stinging me as much as it ever can anyone,

The sensitive, orbic, underlapp’d brothers, that only privileged feelers may be intimate where they are,

The curious roamer the hand roaming all over the body, the bashful withdrawing of flesh where the fingers soothingly pause and edge themselves,

The limpid liquid within the young man,

The vex’d corrosion so pensive and so painful,

The torment, the irritable tide that will not be at rest,

The like of the same I feel, the like of the same in others,

The young man that flushes and flushes, and the young woman that flushes and flushes,

The young man that wakes deep at night, the hot hand seeking to repress what would master him,

The mystic amorous night, the strange half-welcome pangs, visions, sweats,

The pulse pounding through palms and trembling encircling fingers, the young man all color’d, red, ashamed, angry;

The souse upon me of my lover the sea, as I lie willing and naked,

The merriment of the twin babes that crawl over the grass in the sun, the mother never turning her vigilant eyes from them,

The walnut-trunk, the walnut-husks, and the ripening or ripen’d long-round walnuts,

The continence of vegetables, birds, animals,

The consequent meanness of me should I skulk or find myself indecent, while birds and animals never once skulk or find themselves indecent,

The great chastity of paternity, to match the great chastity of maternity,

The oath of procreation I have sworn, my Adamic and fresh daughters,

The greed that eats me day and night with hungry gnaw, till I saturate what shall produce boys to fill my place when I am through,

The wholesome relief, repose, content,

And this bunch pluck’d at random from myself,

It has done its work–I toss it carelessly to fall where it may.

Sigh. Just let it soak in for a minute. Or five.

Also: Happy Birthday to my friend Sean Ferrell. I owe you a drink (without frills).

What I’m watching right this minute: Enchanted. Yes, again.

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Responses

  1. I love the new title, Trisha!

    This was gorgeous. Thank you.

    • Thank you, I’m glad you like it. Both things 🙂

  2. Whitman. Nice. 🙂

    And I love the new title!

    • Thank you! It’s always weird at first, to think of it with a different title but I never expected to keep the first one. I’ve been warned of title mayhem by too many wise author friends 🙂

  3. Wow! I’m a Whitman virgin no more. (I feel like Oprah and her Dickens; I can’t believe I’ve never actually looked at him.) 19th century eroticism – my goodness, makes this old man blush a little. Thanks for the no-holds-barred, full-monty introduction. Tantric almost. A passionate, utterly non-cynical (see your previous post: “If we stop believing…”) meditation on the human condition. Here is a man that reverently understands transendance comes as the human heart expandes without restraint into the human form and its environment; talk about one with nature, one with your lover, one with God. This man has NOT stopped believing. Form is a dead end, a dry, drifting leaf, unless … it is fully embraced, accepted unconditionally, for it is HERE, this is where we as spirit reside; we are God’s temple. So go ahead, run through the temple screaming and naked; rub yourself in the mud and soap and “souce” of your lovers; muss up your hair and connect with the spirit infusing the forms that surround you, that spills like Niagra (and now-a-days, like Viagra!) Falls into the world around you. That is the space in which fairy tales come true.


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