Robin

Whoever you are, holding me now in hand,
Without one thing, all will be useless,
I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.

Who is he that would become my follower?
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?

The way is suspicious - the result uncertain, perhaps destructive;
You would have to give up all else - I alone would expect to be
your god, sole and exclusive,
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
The whole past theory of your life, and all comformity to
the lives around you, would have to be abandon'd;
Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself any
further - Let go your hand from my shoulders,
Put me down, and depart on your way.

Or else, by stealth, in some wood, for trial,
Or back of a rock, in the open air,
(For in any roof'd room of a house I emerge not-
nor in company,
And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn,
or dead,)
But just possibly with you on a high hill-
first watching lest any person, for miles
around, approach unawares,
Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of
the sea, or some quiet island,

Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,
With the comrade's long-dwelling kiss, or the new
husband's kiss,
For I am the new husband, and I am the comrade.

Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or rest upon
your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus, merely touching you, is enough - is best,
And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep and
be carried away eternally.

But these leaves conning, you con at peril,
For these leaves, and me, you will not understand,
They will elude you at first, and still more afterward-
I will certainly elude you,
Even while you think you had unquestionably
cought me, behold!
Already you see I have escaped from you.

For it is not for what I have put into it that I have
written this book,
Nor by reading it you will acquire it,
Nor do those know me best who admire me, and
vauntingly praise me,
Nor will the candidates for my love, (unless at most
a very few,) prove victorious,
Nor will my poems do good only - they will do just
as much evil, perhaps more;
For all is useless without that which you may guess
at many times and not hit - that which I hinted at;
Therefore release me, and depart on your way.

- Walt Whitman

Robin

O me, mans of slack faith so long,
Standing aloof, denying portions so long,
Only aware today of compact all-diffused truth,
Discovering today there is no lie or form of lie, and can be none,
but grows as inevitably upon itself as the truth does upon
itself,
Or as any law of the earth or any natural production of the earth
does.

(This is curious and may not be realized immediately, but it must
be realized,
I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally with the rest,
And that the universe does.)

Where has fail'd a perfect return indifferent of lies or the truth?
Is it upon the ground, or in water or fire? or in the spirit of man?
or in the meat and blood?

Meditating among liars and retreating sternly into myself, I see
that there are really no liars or lies after all,
And that nothing fails its perfect return, and that what are called
lies are perfect returns,
And that eacht thing exactly represents itself and what has pre-
ceded it,
And that the thruth includes all, and is compact just as much as
space is compact,
And that there is no flaw or vacuum in the amount of the truth -
but that all is truth without exception ;
And henceforth I will go celebrate any thing I see or am,
And sing laugh and deny nothing.

- Walt Whitman

Mu

Walt Whitman ist cool

(sorry fürs Dazwischenlabern)

Robin

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd
the earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin
of all poems,
You shall possess the good of earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the specters in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.

- Walt Whitman


ja, find ihn auch cool, irgendwie recht ausdruckstark (oder wie man dem auch sagen will..)

Mu

fast so cool wie D.H. Lawrence

unglaublich, dass die beiden Amerikaner waren )

(aber ist ja auch ein Weilchen her...)

Robin

Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet
and hands,
Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners
troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
Your true soul and body appears before me,
They stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops, work,
farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating, drinking,
suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my
poem,
I whisper with lips close to your ear,
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than
you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb,
I should have made my way straight to you long ago,
I should have blabb'd nothing but you, I should have chanted
nothing but you.

I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you,
None has understood you, but I understand you,
None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to your-
self,
None but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in
you,
None but would subordinate you, I only am he who will never
consent to subordinate you,
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God,
beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups and the centre-figure
of all,
From the head of the centre-figure spreading a nimbus of gold-
color'd light,
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nim-
bus of gold-color'd light,
From my hand from the brain of every man and woman it streams,
effulgently flowing forever.

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you !
You have not known what you are, you have slumber'd upon
yourself all your life,
Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time,
What you have done returns already in mockeries,
(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mock-
eries, what is their return?)

The mockeries are not you,
Underneath them and within them I see you lurk,
I pursue you where none else has pursued you,
Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom'd
routine, if these coneal you from others or from yourself,
they do not conceal you from me,
The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these
balk others they do not balk me,
The pert apparel, the deform'd attitude, drunkenness, greed, pre-
mature death, all these I part aside.

There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in
you,
There is no virtue, no beauty in man or woman, but as good is in
you,
No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you,
No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.

As for me, I give nothing to any one except I give the like care-
fully to you,
I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I
sing the songs of the glory of you.

Whoever you are ! claim your own at hazard !
These shows of the East and West are tame compared to you,
There immense meadows, these interminable rivers, you are
immense and interminable as they,

These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of appar-
ent dissolution, you are he or she who is master or mistress
over them,
Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain,
passion, dissolution.

The hopples fall from your ankls, you find an unfailing sufficiency,
Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest,
whatever you are promulges itself,
Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing
is scanted,
Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are
picks its way.

- Walt Withman

Robin

WHY, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Wheter 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 any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one 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 wonderfullness 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 men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

- Walt Withman