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I am possess'd!Embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering,See myself in prison shaped like another man,And feel the dull unintermitted pain.For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch,It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night.Not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail but I am handcuff'd to himand walk by his side,(I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweaton my twitching lips.)Not a youngster is taken for larceny but I go up too, and am triedand sentenced.Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the last gasp,My face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl, away from me people retreat.Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them,I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg.38Enough!
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The Game has an simple aim- kill the enemy before they kill you.Take turns shooting until only one team remains.Arrow shows whose turn it is.
This is the source of the first poetry placed on DayPoems. Tina Blue's Beginner's Guide to Prosody, exactly what the title says, and well worth reading. Epicanthic Fold: "If a guy somewhere in Asia makes a blog and no one reads it, does it really exist?" popomo.net, miniature, minimalist-inspired sculptures created from industrial cereamics, an art project at Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon. pink.popomo.net, More projects from Portland oarena.net, Furby, Eliza, Mr_Friss and Miss_Friss. Save Point 0.8.1, a Portland, Oregon, exhibit, Aug.
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John Cochrane - The Grumpy Economist
I see you,You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair,Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies,It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to thesun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch,They do not think whom they souse with spray.12The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knifeat the stall in the market,I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat inthe fire.From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements,The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.13The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swagsunderneath on its tied-over chain,The negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady andtall he stands pois'd on one leg on the string-piece,His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens overhis hip-band,His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hataway from his forehead,The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black ofhis polish'd and perfect limbs.I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there,I go with the team also.In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well asforward sluing,To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,Absorbing all to myself and for this song.Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, whatis that you express in your eyes?It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant andday-long ramble,They rise together, they slowly circle around.I believe in those wing'd purposes,And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional,And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else,And the in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me,And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me.14The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night,Ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation,The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close,Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, thechickadee, the prairie-dog,The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats,The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings,I see in them and myself the same old law.The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections,They scorn the best I can do to relate them.I am enamour'd of growing out-doors,Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods,Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes andmauls, and the drivers of horses,I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out.What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me,Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns,Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me,Not asking the sky to come down to my good will,Scattering it freely forever.15The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplanewhistles its wild ascending lisp,The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner,The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm,The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready,The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar,The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel,The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe andlooks at the oats and rye,The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case,(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother'sbed-room;)The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manuscript;The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,What is removed drops horribly in a pail;The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods bythe bar-room stove,The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat,the gate-keeper marks who pass,The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though I donot know him;)The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on theirrifles, some sit on logs,Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee,As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views themfrom his saddle,The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for theirpartners, the dancers bow to each other,The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to themusical rain,The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins andbead-bags for sale,The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shuteyes bent sideways,As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown forthe shore-going passengers,The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds itoff in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago borneher first child,The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in thefactory or mill,The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's leadflies swiftly over the note-book, the sign-painter is letteringwith blue and gold,The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at hisdesk, the shoemaker waxes his thread,The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers follow him,The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions,The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, (how the whitesails sparkle!)The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray,The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser higglingabout the odd cent;)The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clockmoves slowly,The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open'd lips,The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy andpimpled neck,The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink toeach other,(Miserable!
To link to this poem, put the URL below into your page:Song of Myself by Walt WhitmanPlain for PrintingWalt Whitman: Song of MyselfThe DayPoems Poetry CollectionTimothy Bovee, editorwww.daypoems.net Click on the bonsai for the next poem.DayPoems ForumClick to submit poems to DayPoems, comment on DayPoems or a poem within, comment on other poetry sites, update links, or simply get in touch.
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Lista Automatica 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z [[CDROM] Win Magazine n. 225 - Dicembre 2016 - ITA [Lista di Sezione .To link to this poem, put the URL below into your page: Song of Myself by Walt Whitman Plain for Printing
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