Best Whitman Poems
I am the wind
the textured curl of clouds
those specks of glitter
silver and gold are my
illustrative gleams
the foiling wings
that flutter and flap
feathers ripe with color
complementing all rosy hills
a rolling kiss a splash of
blush a dash of spicy dish
the pepper and the salt
of a morning's stirring serving
see me in the meadows
there where wildflowers overflowing
bees and butterflies how they gaily
bob take lick like little children
at the serving tops of apples candied
making funny faces where those more
tart chasing rainbow tails the
fond remnants of showers
I made this day for you
now do me honor
save some acres from your cities
and roads
one or two at the least
as I keep sacred
your plot through the heavens
Categories:
whitman, christian, earth, environment, inspirational,
Form:
Free verse
The answer has been my motivation,
keeping me awake through the night,
keeping me in love with my passion,
the language of my forefathers,
The answer has been given, inspiring
those before and after his own words,
Yet it rests clear as day in one
of Uncle Walt's most prized pieces,
The answer is my reason for choosing
to be any and all that I am,
The answer is the most beautiful
phrase known to my amateur ears,
The answer, I say, as he comforts me,
as I begin to tear up from his guidance,
"To contribute a verse"
"To contribute a verse!"
I answer proudly to my most revered teacher,
And as if new sight has been given to me,
wiping eyes, I make a promise to my fallen idols,
Saying with the fury of fire in my follicles
"To contribute a verse, and by a child's love,
a man's honor, a student's respect, and a writer's creed,
I intend to...I must...
I shall...I promise..."
With new confidence I am child and man,
With new hope I am afraid and fearless
A child of my ancestors, a man of my word,
Afraid of failure, yet fearless on my journey,
An impossible journey that ends at death,
For death decides if my promise is protected,
Waking to see the world as a blank page,
I will blindly find my way to immortality,
Not for glory, not for honor,
Not for praise, nor for fame,
Merely for a promise to yesterday,
and a responsibility to tomorrow,
With hope, I walk toward the unknown,
unafraid of the outcome of my travels,
With intentions of contributing a verse,
and more importantly, finding myself ,
within my own words...
Categories:
whitman, dedication, inspirational, passion, thank
Form:
Free verse
* There is one person I would bring back in a heartbeat, and that's my favorite human being of all-time, Walt Whitman - he literally changed my life with his poetry, and brought true beauty and joy to my life. Never underestimate the power of words. *
__________________________________________________
Oh, My Dear Walter, how your words have slayed,
Humbled me, broken me, molded and remade.
To taste of your world, see above or below it,
Wit of a wordsmith, wry pith of a poet ...
To so construe love without using the phrase,
Scrawl the sinew of war, yet delight in the days.
To yawp of the grass - journeywork of the stars,
Help revivify a nation, attend to its scars.
Find grace among horrors, sift beauty from death,
The soul-pull of tides - briny buss of their breath.
To habit us all ... to the dazzle of light,
Celebrate ourselves, bequeath us the night.
Ask recurring questions of romance and life,
Of presidents, bootsoles, and a moldering strife.
Demons and mockingbirds, Paumanok's dunes ...
The pale, horrid witness of unstinted moons.
'Twas sad-blown, a bugle, convulsed, was a drum,
Yet exquisite, the dirge for a soldier and son.
The sorrow of clouds in a ravening sky,
The weep of a child should the Pleiades die.
Knit airy-fresh words, with uncommon phrases,
Draw Apollo and Neptune in all of their phases.
Be there adoration as hapless as mine?
Yet no soul more ardently leveled, supine ...
No writer has reached deeper into my heart,
Idioms and phrases ... such allurement, impart.
Ah, yes, what I'd give to have just one chat,
With the rare human being who afforded all that.
And maybe I'm biased, if perhaps to a fault,
But the name of MY Captain, O Captain ...
Is WALT.
Categories:
whitman, art, history, poetry, wisdom,
Form:
Rhyme
The Journeyman, Walt Whitman
Acrid smoke drifts over this lifeless battlefield…
Forlorn cries escape from his tattered journal, bound in silence…
From above, Vultures circle lazily, stung from below, the burning
Eyes of the gray-bearded one, give them pause…
Off in the distance, cannons boom, as sons and brothers deny destiny…
Blades of grass, turn to dust…
Only memories now, hands reach out as pages turn, releasing arrows
That pierce every generation, born of his pen…
O godless thunder, tear the earth below my feet!
O wingless warrior, carry me beyond this sightless grave!
I long, for those dreams I once revealed…
I long, for my purple mountain streams…
Forever etched in acrid smoke,
Forever etched…
Drifting…
Drifting…
Categories:
whitman, on writing and words
Form:
Narrative
Reach into my depths, I could,
pulling out pieces of fallen idols,
From contemporary to eccentric,
From cynics to realists, to romantics,
searching deeply to find my voice,
If indeed, I have acquired such a tone
as those who inspire my very thoughts,
Thoreau, Coleridge, Crane, Byron, Poe,
Frost, Hayden, Hughes, and Gibran,
Pertinent pioneers of published passion,
Experienced educators of endearment,
Do I dare follow their footsteps
imprinted in the wet cement path of time?
Or do I respectfully deny my destiny
out of fear of inferiority, for who am I?
Questions that echo in my mind,
punishing with each powerful pounding pulse,
No answer awakes within my heart,
nor does my mind mentor my vehement
in self doubt, "I am nothing, I am afraid",
Instead, in the midst of my crossroad,
coming to the rescue in the form of an apparition,
stirring in my soul are the words of Uncle Walt,
"O' Me, O' Life" he repeats with tears in his eyes,
"O' Me, O' Life" he says, wiping my fears away,
"Why do we live child?
Why do we wake and breathe
to prolong our existence on this corrupted orb?
What in your heart is the most alluring reward
for being chosen to walk amongst the grandfathers
of your expression? What is the most precious
opportunity that any man can have in the epic
piece of literature that existence has become?"
(Continued on Part 2, please post all comments on Part 2)
Categories:
whitman, dedication, education, inspirational, passion,
Form:
Free verse
Every time I read Pessoa I think
I'm better than he is
Salutations to Fernando Pessoa-Alan Ginsberg
Me, the monocled one, with my foppish belted waistcoat,
I'm not unworthy of you, Walt,
I'm not unworthy of you, my saluting you proves it . . .
Salute to Walt Whitman- Fernando Pessoa
Here from a place in my heart, I salute you,
Female as I am, and unknown,
Should I be praising Emily, Plath or Achmatova?
But you started it Pessoa! with your Alvaro comparing himself
to Whitman, not content to admit to a greatness of your own
and now I find dear Mr. Ginsberg confessing to his greatness in
epic manner, name dropping from Socrates to Michelangelo
admitting faults in the same breath-tracking his enlightenment
and if it was written tongue in cheek, I missed it.
How I admire the great poets that wade into the mainstream
appearing where the greatest wrongs appear, risking even
death for their beliefs, celebrated by those who embrace their
point of view, but what of the unknown poets in the world;
so many whose work is equally astounding, yet unexposed.
Musings on every subject known to man, set down in metaphor
and rhyme makes me wonder what brings immortal recognition
Is it from making a devoted study or from mixing in the right circles?
The hallowed halls of academia or is it some -one's tiny jounal
of handwritten poems waiting for discovery, the enlightenment
of the next century?
Poets, don't often, answer to their fame - writing what's inside of them
for those to come.
Thursday, 06 September, 2001
I wrote this poem one morning (Thursday, 06 September, 2001)after I had read a poem by Alan Ginsberg in the 1995 edition of The Best American Poetry.
I had never seen the poem he referred to "Salute to Whitman"by Fernando Pessoa
and today when I found it on the web Friday, March 01, 2002, I was suprised to see how similar our opening lines were.
Here are current links to the poems mentioned
https://issuu.com/hbarbas/docs/1997_salutations_to_pessoa_ginsberg_h_barbas
https://modpo2015.wordpress.com/poems-of-note/fernando-pessoa-alvaro-de-campos-salute-to-walt-whitman/
Categories:
whitman, appreciation, poetry, tribute, word
Form:
Free verse
He sat on this patch of turf,
and if not this exact place a piece of a place nearby.
Naturally, I try to feel his companionship.
Did he write a line of poetry on this small island
or was he simply being Walt Whitman,
honored guest,
a person he hardly recognized from his youth?
I feel his old bones not his youthful step
but also his long poems
as they ride Ohio river currents
at ease with the next slow bend,
or some quick kink and churn of its history.
I imagine his hand on the ground,
it heaves my body up from a deep grass
and quilts me to a terrain
where fingers meet on a shared wrist
a place where heron wings beat.
I feel the mutuality of crossed roads,
the cadence of shore eddies
as they unbutton a coat
he left draped over a rail of this wooden jetty.
Categories:
whitman, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
I lean and I laugh
Loafing on my throne of grass
Remembering you.
Categories:
whitman, nature, passion, peace, people
Form:
Haiku
A secret is granted
any curb captain
listening.
To speak rarely and
with roots.
Blake wears a hardhat,
drives a forklift for
Metal Products.
Whitman collects
unemployment in the mail.
New words
are mined coal.
They are the drink
from bags,
the suicide in jail,
and
the housekeeper
called only by her first name.
Keeping pace
with a secret at
the speed of light
is the wisdom felt on crowded subways.
Categories:
whitman, jobs, metaphor, poetry, poets,
Form:
Personification
1. You walk around all day trying to think of unusual words that rhyme and new things to say.
2. You spend too much time online or in bookstores looking for poetry and other books that make you feel or think that you, too might become a famous, published poet.
3. You believe and tell your family, friends, and anyone else who will listen that you’re the reincarnated body, mind and soul of Walt Whitman or Emily Dickinson.
4. Your family and friends think you’re a little bit nutty for occasionally stopping mid-sentence or in the middle of a meal to excuse yourself to write something down quickly in your “Think Pad” lest you lose the thought forever and cry yourself to tears trying to remember it later on.
5. You go crazy in the bathroom when that one “great idea” lands in your head but you’re unable to write it down because you’re glued to the toilet seat.
6. You become jealous of other poets who obviously “stole” your great idea out of thin air – while you were still composing it on that cushy toilet seat.
7. You stay awake too late at night torturing yourself over the tough decision to write another poem or to read and comment on someone else’s poem (here in Poetry Soup).
8. You wake up every morning wishing you could write another poem but face the sad reality that life sucks and you have to go to work instead.
9. You have to live with the fact that for all intensive purposes, you live alone inside yourself with all your poetic thoughts and feelings. Few if any close members of your family, friends or associates don’t have a clue that you’re thinking and writing about things far more important than your next meal or what’s coming on TV.
10. You’re proud of who you are and what you do and have a deep sense of satisfaction and appreciation for the complexities of life despite what others may or may not think about you. You know you’re part of a bigger plan and an integral and small yet important piece of the wider universe and that no matter who reads or doesn’t read your poetry, at the end of the day it’s been worth it. And so are you and all you do.
Categories:
whitman, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
*** In Simple Lines Poeetry Comes ***
(“You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life…” Walt Whit an, “Leaves of Grass”)
My lines —
My life…
Riding moments,
Raising poetry
Like Beauty feels
Glorious
As Mother Nature is — when her winter here ends —
Brought on to her time of re-birth —
Sprouting life on toward the sun
From and within layers of earth
As Springtime’s newest whimsies grow
Dew-tipped on all and dawn vibrant ‘tho ephemeral…
Words of import
In simple combinations
Phrased memories come
To waves of fields of grass —
With their repeated reciting
Of Poetry’s honored lines’ past
And then, in sequenced words,
Time has amassed
The little aspects of me —
Presented and quite apt for pennings of similes,
Or for drawing on some imagery —
In my heart —
My simple lines were found
Stemming from radiant peace
Or ardent hours,
With persistence versing inspirations
Into my simple lines.
With all attention closely given
To reverberating echoes of a quintessential metaphor
From melodies ‘oft playing unnoticed in the air
Always
Some distance from just so close
By the fields of Spring’s fresh grasses —
Lyric-tipped all
Invite…Await
Wandering poets with thirsty pens.
E——————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 1/21/2023
Thanks be to God…
Categories:
whitman, beauty, feelings, inspiration, poetry,
Form:
Rhyme
Mira… Lo que paso con el mundo
The streets are wastelands -no longer safe- desolate
Look at the sky full of gray nothing, dead from idiotic spews
Look at the children, rasied from ghetto ideals, chasing futile dreams
Look at my mother, saddened by grief and a broken back from carrying
Shards of generations, shattered from hammers of the “just”
Look at my religion, faded and jaded once all the old people die
Look at my neighbors, locked doors and hiding behind blinds
Look at my hands, my heart, my mind, my soul
All cut from trying to pick up jagged pieces of an already destroyed vase
Mis amores, mis flores, te amo con todo mi Corazon
Even flawed and tainted I see the beauty in it all
Every molecule, atom, nucleus combined makes good and evil, together
I give this knowledge to you
Don’t you love how the air heals wounds that seem insurmountable to the eye?
Happiness wouldn’t feel as joyful if pain wasn’t present, wouldn’t it?
Would you take it all, and embrace it?
Note__
I wrote this for my A.P Lit class, I thought it was good enough to share. Take that,
English Teacher, I do more than just sleep in class! heheh.
Categories:
whitman, peace, philosophy,
Form:
Free verse
Categories:
whitman, on writing and words
Form:
America heard you singing, Walt,
And stopped to listen. That's our fault.
Now our "poets" ever since
Have written stuff that makes one wince.
They say you've been our nation's bard;
We should have been more on our guard.
Now our narcissistic screeds
Blight the land like noxious weeds.
Self-absorption is the tool
That makes a poet a goddam fool.
You should be made to pay a fee
For setting such a poor e.g..
Poetry should reach our minds
But your stuff's just a rant in lines.
You've dragged us back. We have no hope
Of catching up with Donne or Pope.
As for your democratic bearing,
I didn't see you greatly caring
When your Captain's lust to ravage
Gave the world collateral damage.
Even fig leaves teach us something.
But leaves of grass cover nothing.
I wish you were at least a clown,
So we could laugh you out of town.
Categories:
whitman, on writing and words,
Form:
Verse
thank you Walt Whitman
oh you foolish ones
bordering on change of life
standing still for a moment
before full manhood embraces
how brave and daring
strident, filled with never ending life;
brash colts with tricks and
shameless lures for pretty young things.
exquisite in your urges to hold on
keep childish freedom safe
tucked beneath a wishful heart
in that summer, that blissful summer
came a roar, a grinding metallic clack
shatters down the hills
with siren sounds heard only in melodious tones
by boys about to burst from youth
seasons change, our autumn
reaps in radiant red all of
those peach-fuzzed near men
gone to strange places far from us
this fall harvest takes
it never feeds but grief and loss
as triangle folded flags fill arms
and blue black rifles air their song.
I still hear your laughter
full throated fiercely joyous
bite into winter wind
and echo down the canyon wall.
Categories:
whitman, absence, age, anger,
Form:
Free verse