Poet 10: Robert Pinsky

I wanted to like him more than I did. I didn't dislike him either. I just didn't like him as much as Dove and Kenyon.

I did like "Shirt" because it told a story of worker abuse by talking about the shirt that he wears.

Here is a bit of commentary on it: http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/m_r/pinsky/shirt.htm

Here is the poem "The Shirt."

Poet 5: Return to William Carlos Williams

This these lines from Book III of "Asphodel, that Greeny Flower" is so profound:

"It is ridiculous

what airs we put on

to seem profound

while our hearts

gasp-dying

for want of love.

Having your love

I was rich.

Thinking to have lost it

I am tortured

and cannot rest.

I do not come to you

abjectly

with confessions of my faults,

I have confessed,

all of them.

In the name of love

I come proudly

as to an equal

to be forgiven.

Let me, for I know

you take it hard,

with good reason,

give the steps

if it may be

by which you shall mount,

again to think well

of me."

(NOTE: It is more powerful with his intended format. So you can see it in Google Books HERE)

I found this background to this particular part of the poem at http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/asphodel.html:

"First published in Journey to Love (1955), "Asphodel, That Greeny Flower" came into existence during a time of nearly overwhelming crisis in Williams' life. Originally he thought of it as the fifth book of Paterson, gave it the working title "The River of Heaven," and planned for it to include "Everything left over that wasn't done or said--at ease." He began the poem in March 1952, on a hotel menu in New York City, and worked on it for nearly two years. During those years his health, which had begun to break with his heart attack in 1948 and strokes in 1949 and 1951, continued to deteriorate. He suffered another major stroke in August 1952, and knew that he could expect further strokes--any one of them possibly fatal--at any time from then on. His mental condition was likewise precarious. A bout with depression was exacerbated both by the recent stroke and by the injustices surrounding Williams' appointment as Poetry Consultant to the Library of Congress. The position was first offered, then withdrawn owing to allegations of Communist sympathizing, then offered again contingent upon further loyalty investigations, which were conducted but never evaluated, so that the year's term was up before Williams was able to serve. The situation tormented him with feelings of rage, powerlessness, and humiliation. On 21 February 1953, he was admitted to a private mental hospital in Queens, where he underwent psychiatric treatment until his release on 18 April.

Most painful of all, the old uneasy balance between confession and deceit in Williams' marriage to Flossie finally gave way. During his stay in the mental hospital, threatened by death and ready at last to let Flossie truly know him, he worked on poems, including "Asphodel," and wrote letters confessing past adulteries that finally compelled Flossie's full belief. The process must have been immeasurably painful for them both. Needing his wife to hold firm now more than ever, the poet must test her by buffeting and shaking her. "Having your love / I was rich," he tells her in "Asphodel." "Thinking to have lost it / I am tortured / and cannot rest." And so, in three "Books" and a "Coda," he writes to Flossie about the flower of the Elysian fields, the flower that grows also "in hell." The flower has a central meaning: "Of love, abiding love / it will be telling." In the first two Books he speaks of their marriage, their past, shared projects, triumphs, and griefs; in Book III he begs for forgiveness, but also writes movingly of desire, giving "the steps / if it may be / by which you shall mount, / again to think well / of me."

That is so deep!

Poet 9: Jane Kenyon

I remember when the Trapdoor Society reviewed one of her poems. I didn't have time to enter in or even read, but I wish I had.

I like her. She sounds like she was depressed. Yes, just looked her up on Wikipedia. She was plagued with depression most of her adult life. She died of leukemia. I love her poems.

Here is a link to her poem "Otherwise".

This is probably my favorite:

Happiness

There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

-Jane Kenyon (from: http://thue.stanford.edu/jacquie/happ.html)

Poet 8: Rita Dove

I found her poetry understandable.

She was the Poetry Laureate of the US 1993-1995. (http://people.virginia.edu/~rfd4b/)

I especially liked her series of poetry regarding "Thomas and Beulah." According to Wikipedia.com, "Thomas and Beulah is a book of poems by American poet Rita Dove that tells the semi-fictionalized chronological story of her maternal grandparents, the focus being on her grandfather (Thomas, his name in the book as well as in real life) in the first half and her grandmother (named Beulah in the book, although her real name was Georgianna) in the second. It won the 1987 Pulitzer Prize for poetry."

It is too long to quote here, but it is here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_and_Beulah

Liked this quote by her and find it accurate:

"We tend to be so bombarded with information, and we move so quickly, that there's a tendency to treat everything on the surface level and process things quickly. This is antithetical to the kind of openness and perception you have to have to be receptive to poetry. ... poetry seems to exist in a parallel universe outside daily life in America."

Rita Dove (b. 1952), U.S. poet. As quoted in the New York Times, sect. 4, p. 7 (June 20, 1993).

Poet 7: John Donne

I know I am supposed to be progressing through Amerian poets, but I needed a godly poet after the horrendous ungodliness of Allen Ginsburg. Plus, I combined this with my day of prayer by reading his holy sonnets.

This is my favorite. Probably because I had heard it before (as many probably have):

Holy Sonnet #14

Batter my heart, three-personed God; for, you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend

Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

I, like an usurped town, to another due,

Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end,

Reason your viceroy in me, me should defend,

But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,

But am betrothed unto your enemy:

Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,

Take me to you, imprison me, for I

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Thanks John!

Didn't know this quote came from him:

No man is an Island, entire of itself;
every man is a piece of the Continent,
a part of the main.
Meditation XVII

Here is a John Donne website that is packed: http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/

(Many of his poems are in audio form under "works.")

Poet 6: Allen Ginsberg

I listened to The Voice of the Poet: Allen Ginsberg yesterday. He wrote "Howl." He was the leader of the "beat poets" who took drugs and were pretty yucky people. That is all I am going to say about him. I am swearing him off forever from this day forward. I can see why Thelma in my kids' American Literature class only mentioned him and didn't have the kids read him.

The conclusion of his poem "After Lalon" March 31, 1992 sums it all up:

"I had my chance and lost it,

many chances and didn't

take them seriously enuf.

Oh yes I was impressed, almost

went mad with fear

I'd lose the immortal chance,

One lost it.

Allen Ginsberg warns you

dont follow my path

to extinction."

Allen, I won't.

'Nough said.

Poet 5: William Carlos Williams

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning

by William Carlos Williams

Poet 4: Carl Sandburg

Carl Sandburg was born in Galeburg, Illinois in 1878. He was the son of Swedish immigrants, and I am the granddaughter of Swedish immigrant who immigrated to Illinois too. He was a Hobo at 19 years of age. He was in the Spanish-American War at the age of 20. He was a social democrat and was concerned for the plight of the American worker, and many of his poems reflect that.

His poems were powerful and accessible and packed a punch, especially "Planked Whitefish" (Gives you an idea of what he thought of war). I loved "Working Girls" because I imagined my Swedish immigrant grandmother going to work in Chicago in the 1920's. Here is a picture of them in Chicago when they were first married (1926)

WORKING GIRLS

THE working girls in the morning are going to work--
long lines of them afoot amid the downtown stores
and factories, thousands with little brick-shaped
lunches wrapped in newspapers under their arms.
Each morning as I move through this river of young-
woman life I feel a wonder about where it is all
going, so many with a peach bloom of young years
on them and laughter of red lips and memories in
their eyes of dances the night before and plays and
walks.
Green and gray streams run side by side in a river and
so here are always the others, those who have been
over the way, the women who know each one the
end of life's gamble for her, the meaning and the
clew, the how and the why of the dances and the
arms that passed around their waists and the fingers
that played in their hair.
Faces go by written over: "I know it all, I know where
the bloom and the laughter go and I have memories,"
and the feet of these move slower and they
have wisdom where the others have beauty.
So the green and the gray move in the early morning
on the downtown streets.

Sail Away

"Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." Mark Twain

Robert Frost Reading at the Kennedy Inauguration

Robert Frost reading it is beautiful

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

This was totally moving. A reflection of Frost reading at Kennedy's inauguration. It made me cry!

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/audioitem.html?id=1712

Here is a very interesting piece of information about that original poem:

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Here is are the two poems:

Written in commemoration of John F. Kennedy's 1961 Inauguration

Dedication - The Complete Text

Summoning artists to participate
In the august occasions of the state
Seems something artists ought to celebrate.
Today is for my cause a day of days.
And his be poetry's old-fashioned praise
Who was the first to think of such a thing.
This verse that in acknowledgement I bring
Goes back to the beginning of the end
Of what had been for centuries the trend;
A turning point in modern history.
Colonial had been the thing to be
As long as the great issue was to see
What country'd be the one to dominate
By character, by tongue, by native trait,
The new world Christopher Columbus found.
The French, the Spanish, and the Dutch were downed
And counted out. Heroic deeds were done.
Elizabeth the First and England won.
Now came on a new order of the ages
That in the Latin of our founding sages
(Is it not written on the dollar bill
We carry in our purse and pocket still?)
God nodded his approval of as good.
So much those heroes knew and understood,
I mean the great four, Washington,
John Adams, Jefferson, and Madison
So much they saw as consecrated seers
They must have seen ahead what not appears,
They would bring empires down about our ears
And by the example of our Declaration
Make everybody want to be a nation.
And this is no aristocratic joke
At the expense of negligible folk.
We see how seriously the races swarm
In their attempts at sovereignty and form.
They are our wards we think to some extent
For the time being and with their consent,
To teach them how Democracy is meant.
"New order of the ages" did they say?
If it looks none too orderly today,
'Tis a confusion it was ours to start
So in it have to take courageous part.
No one of honest feeling would approve
A ruler who pretended not to love
A turbulence he had the better of.
Everyone knows the glory of the twain
Who gave America the aeroplane
To ride the whirlwind and the hurricane.
Some poor fool has been saying in his heart
Glory is out of date in life and art.
Our venture in revolution and outlawry
Has justified itself in freedom's story
Right down to now in glory upon glory.
Come fresh from an election like the last,
The greatest vote a people ever cast,
So close yet sure to be abided by,
It is no miracle our mood is high.
Courage is in the air in bracing whiffs
Better than all the stalemate an's and ifs.
There was the book of profile tales declaring
For the emboldened politicians daring
To break with followers when in the wrong,
A healthy independence of the throng,
A democratic form of right devine
To rule first answerable to high design.
There is a call to life a little sterner,
And braver for the earner, learner, yearner.
Less criticism of the field and court
And more preoccupation with the sport.
It makes the prophet in us all presage
The glory of a next Augustan age
Of a power leading from its strength and pride,
Of young amibition eager to be tried,
Firm in our free beliefs without dismay,
In any game the nations want to play.
A golden age of poetry and power
Of which this noonday's the beginning hour.

-Courtesy of the St. Lawrence University Archives

The Gift Outright

Poem recited instead by Robert Frost at the
1961 Inauguration

The land ws our before we were the land's.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England's, Still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely; realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become.

The entire inaugural:

Poet 3: Robert Frost Continued

It has been a few days. So, I will continue.

I still think that probably Robert Frosts most famous poem is my favorite. I found a recording of him reading it here:

The Road Not Taken

This is something so historic about hearing his voice reading a poem he wrote. I find the cadence that he had intended. Here is the text of the poem:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that, the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I---

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

This is a poem so potent with meaning. What if he had taken the other road?

I couldn't find Robert Frost reading his poem at the JFK Inauguration, but Kennedy reads one of his poems about two minutes in. It is interesting:

Here is a little clip of him that is so interesting:

Slow on the Poets

I had ever intention of fnishing Frost yesterday. I did read quite a bit, but I didn't finish. I sort of had a meltdown. I was carrying some "backburner burdens" and didn't realize it until I snapped at a dear friend. I felt so bad, but she was forgiving, and I was able to cry over some hard things that are happening around me.

I am called to support a friend through a major crisis in her family. I skipped dinner with my family to be with her and just listen. It was important to do.

I wanted to crawl in a hold after snapping though. I don't like it when I do that.

Today is a better day. Jury Duty didn't happen. So, the slate is clean today.

A Very Nice Sunday

It started at 5:35 with a bit of Lady Grey

Then it turned into 3 1/2 hours in the Word

After that it was a fast decision to walk to Calvary for outdoor church

We caught up on the walk about all the exciting things from last night's BBQ

We sat in the August sunshine to listen about the woman who anointed Jesus' feet

Enjoyed the cool August breeze with George as my wind break

We saw people being baptized in the pond and took a hike up to the high school clearing

We talked with Shawn and Jim about Calvary and China

After that we walked home

We ate hummus and homegrown veggies with leftover hamburgers on yummy buns

Then we watch the first Asian win a major PGA tournament

Then I had very sad news from Teala that led us to pray

After this, George walked in the door with a 32" flat screen TV for co-op classes

He cooked pizza and Jennifer brought us peanut butter cup ice cream

Jennifer and I went for the Hospital hill walk as the sun began to fade

Then, we looked at 500 pictures of her six weeks in SEA

Then a movie about new life for an Indonesian woman

Thanks Lord for the beauty of the day

Poet 3: Robert Frost

I have really looked forward to Robert Frost.

"There are two types of realists," Robert Frost once remarked, "the one who offers a good deal of dirt with his potato to show that it is a real one and the one who is satisfied with the potato brushed clean. I'm inclinded to be the second kind. To me, the thing that art does for life is to clean it, to strip it to form."

I love that!

I just started reading him last night. So, I will add to this in the days to come.

I have loved this poetic immersion. It is the only way I am going to really get through it. I have to switch myself to poetry mode and stay in it. These more relaxed days of August are the perfect days to do it. This next week is especially good for that immersion.

Poet 2: Paul Laurence Dunbar

I love this poet! So far, he is, hands down, my favorite. After the weirdness of some of Walt Whitman's poems, I feel like I have come home. Dunbar ROCKS!

Dunbar had two different kinds of poems. Some were in conventional English and some were in African-American dialect. I love, love, loved his poetry.

Dunbar was born in Dayton, Ohio in 1972. His mother was a former slave, and his father had escaped from slavery. In fact, Dunbar’s father served in the 55^th Massachusetts Infantry Regiment and the 5^th Massachusetts Colored Calvary Regiment during the Civil War. Also, he was a lifelong friend of the Wright Brothers!

He had no white blood in him which was very unusual for African-Americans coming out of slavery. He was married to Alice Moore 1898, but they separated in 1902 because he was disturbed by her lesbian affairs (as well he should have been). He died of tuberculosis 1906, but he had also gone into a downward spiral of depression and alcohol (maybe from his wife having affairs?).

Here is my favorite of his African American dialect (that I want to put on a Thanksgiving card!):

Signs of the Times

Air a-gittin' cool an' coolah, Frost a-comin' in de night, Hicka' nuts an' wa'nuts fallin', Possum keepin' out o' sight. Tu'key struttin' in de ba'nya'd, Nary a step so proud ez his; Keep on struttin', Mistah Tu'key, Yo' do' know whut time it is. Cidah press commence a-squeakin' Eatin' apples sto'ed away, Chillun swa'min' 'roun' lak ho'nets, Huntin' aigs ermung de hay. Mistah Tu'key keep on gobblin' At de geese a-flyin' souf, Oomph! dat bird do' know whut's comin'; Ef he did he'd shet his mouf. Pumpkin gittin' good an' yallah Mek me open up my eyes; Seems lak it's a-lookin' at me Jes' a-la'in' dah sayin' "Pies." Tu'key gobbler gwine 'roun' blowin', Gwine 'roun' gibbin' sass an' slack; Keep on talkin', Mistah Tu'key, You ain't seed no almanac. Fa'mer walkin' th'oo de ba'nya'd Seein' how things is comin' on, Sees ef all de fowls is fatt'nin' -- Good times comin' sho's you bo'n. Hyeahs dat tu'key gobbler braggin', Den his face break in a smile -- Nebbah min', you sassy rascal, He's gwine nab you atter while. Choppin' suet in de kitchen, Stonin' raisins in de hall, Beef a-cookin' fu' de mince meat, Spices groun' -- I smell 'em all. Look hyeah, Tu'key, stop dat gobblin', You ain' luned de sense ob feah, You ol' fool, yo' naik's in dangah, Do' you know Thanksgibbin's hyeah? (from www.PoemHunter.com)

The Seedling

AS a quiet little seedling

Lay within its darksome bed,

To itself it fell a-talking,

And this is what it said:

"I am not so very robust,

But I'll do the best I can;"

And the seedling from that moment

Its work of life began.

So it pushed a little leaflet

Up into the light of day,

To examine the surroundings

And show the rest the way.

The leaflet liked the prospect,

So it called its brother, Stem;

Then two other leaflets heard it,

And quickly followed them.

To be sure, the haste and hurry

Made the seedling sweat and pant;

But almost before it knew it

It found itself a plant.

The sunshine poured upon it,

And the clouds they gave a shower;

And the little plant kept growing

Till it found itself a flower.

Little folks, be like the seedling,

Always do the best you can;

Every child must share life's labor

Just as well as every man.

And the sun and showers will help you

Through the lonesome, struggling hours,

Till you raise to light and beauty

Virtue's fair, unfading flowers.

Paul Laurence Dunbar



And here is one more for one of my heroes!

• HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

  She told the story, and the whole world wept
  At wrongs and cruelties it had not known
  But for this fearless woman's voice alone.
  She spoke to consciences that long had slept:
  Her message, Freedom's clear reveille, swept
  From heedless hovel to complacent throne.
  Command and prophecy were in the tone,
  And from its sheath the sword of justice leapt.
  Around two peoples swelled a fiery wave,
  But both came forth transfigured from the flame.
  Blest be the hand that dared be strong to save,
  And blest be she who in our weakness came—
  Prophet and priestess! At one stroke she gave
  A race to freedom, and herself to fame.

  Paul Laurence Dunbar

  
  

  Printed from Uncle Tom's Cabin & American Culture © 2006 the University of Virginia http://utc.iath.virginia.edu/ Stephen Railton; Institute for Advanced Technology in the Humanities; Electronic Text Center Charlottesville, Virginia 1999

Body Wellness: Day 14

EATING: coffee cake, jasmine tea (at Nourieh's - what can I say? She pushes food on me); hot pastrami sandwich (Togo's), two strips of dried mango, 8 oz orange julius, two servings Beef Bourgignon with boiled potatoes, 64 oz of water

EXERCISE: blackberry picking, 1 hour walk with Kim

Body Wellness: Day 13

EATING: 1/2 cup fiber one, yogurt, blackberries; beef bourgignon with boiled potatoes, squash, brocolli, and green beans, blizzard

EXERCISE: on my feet for hours cooking French cuisine!

Poet 1: Walt Whitman

I finally finished "Song of Myself"! I brought the computer with the MP3 (too lazy to put it on my iPod) Librivox recording on it to golf. I sat in the car while the kids played, and I put the seat back and propped my feet on the dashboard, looking up at the clouds flowing by. It was quite a nice way to get through the first half (about an hour of recordings). Then, I listened to the next 1/4 while Paul played Mozart in the background. Then, I rested in bed and listened. Just like eating an elephant, one bite at a time (Too bad I can't do that for my Julia Child French cooking project - I was going to do that today, but I just didn't have the energy after only four hours of sleep. Kudos to Julie Powell who did all that cooking while working in a full-time job).

So, now I am watching this:

It is excellent! (watch online here: Walt Whitman Program

He wrote Leaves of Grass to fight the tide of Civil War. He sacrificed everything to try to force America to face its strange new self. He was a man on a mission. He was self-educated, tall, self-reliant, and somewhat arrogant. He went to New York at 21 years of age. Unbearable as a journalist and rubbed against people in the wrong way. He was not a dedicated worker.

New York was a dirty city, but Walt Whitman saw the beauty in this teaming (and sometimes stinky) metropolis! He had an "urban affection" for the unknown people. He filled his books with jottings of the people he saw, what their names were, and what they were doing. I love that! What is it that separates any of us? Wow!

Whitman was pretty licentious from all accounts. It is reflected in his earlier poems. Tons of sexual references. Ralph Waldo Emerson tried to get Whitmann to tone down the sex stuff, but Whitman would have known of it!

Whitman really felt like Leaves of Grass would prevent the Civil War by helping people to understand love and affection for each other. When it didn't pan out that way, he was devastated and felt adding to LOG was over until he went to a hosptial to find his brother. Here he took care of soldiers (estimated at 600 visits and over 100,000 patients), and he suffered for it. Yet, this inspired him to write a memorial to them all in a book of poetry called Drum Taps. This part of his poetry made me anti-war for good. The documentary combined pictures of civil war amputees with current day war amputees. It was very powerful, but I had already decided that I would be anti-war when I read Drum Taps the days before. This poem got me:

The Wound-Dresser

from http://www.bartleby.com/42/818.html

AN old man bending I come among new faces,
Years looking backward resuming in answer to children,
Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me,
(Arous’d and angry, I’d thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war,
But soon my fingers fail’d me, my face droop’d and I resign’d myself,	5
To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead;)
Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances,
Of unsurpass’d heroes (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave;)
Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth,
Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us?	10
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,
Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains?
2 O maidens and young men I love and that love me,
What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls,
Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover’d with sweat and dust,	15
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of successful charge,
Enter the captur’d works—yet lo, like a swift-running river they fade,
Pass and are gone they fade—I dwell not on soldiers’ perils or soldiers’ joys
(Both I remember well—many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content).
But in silence, in dreams’ projections,	20
While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on,
So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand,
With hinged knees returning I enter the doors (while for you up there,
Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart).
Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,	25
Straight and swift to my wounded I go,
Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in,
Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground,
Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof’d hospital,
To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return,	30
To each and all one after another I draw near, not one do I miss,
An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail,
Soon to be fill’d with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill’d again.
I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds,	35
I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable,
One turns to me his appealing eyes—poor boy! I never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.
3 On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!)
The crush’d head I dress (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away),	40
The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through I examine,
Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard
(Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death!
In mercy come quickly).
From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand,	45
I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood,
Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv’d neck and side-falling head,
His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the bloody stump,
And has not yet look’d on it.
I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep,	50
But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking,
And the yellow-blue countenance see.
I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound,
Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so offensive,
While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and pail.	55
I am faithful, I do not give out,
The fractur’d thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen,
These and more I dress with impassive hand (yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame).
4 Thus in silence in dreams’ projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals,	60
The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young,
Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad,
(Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have cross’d and rested,
Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips).	65

Whitman would later say that the Civil War was the center or heart of Leaves of Grass and tied it all together. He wanted to see new life come out of the Civil War, but post-war America disappointed him. He had hoped it would bring people all together, but it did not. He died in 1892.

Leaves of Grass went through seven editions starting with 95 pages and 12 poems (he made 795 copies in 1855 and only two dozen sold) to 400 pages and more than 300 poems spanning a period of 35 years. Today, millions of copies are in circulation throughout the globe.

I read a selection of poems that spanned over that length of time, and I liked his later poems more than his earlier ones. His poems on the Civil War were amazing.

American Poets

I sort of went wild and got the poetry books of seven American poets. I had started Walt Whitman at the beginning of the summer and got bogged down in the very long poem "Song of Myself" (Sound egotistical?). I want to plow through them before British Literature starts because 2009-2010 will be all things British in the Well-Educated Mind journey in order to coincide with my kids' journey. So, here are the poets I am reading in August and early September:

Walt Whitman

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Carl Sandburg

William Carlos Williams

Langston Hughes

Wystan Hugh Auden

Robert Frost

I'll save the more modern poets of . . . Plath, Strand, Rich, Pinsky, Ginsberg, Kenyon, and Dove for next summer.

I read Walt in the early morning hours, and I had a better impression. He was pretty racey for his time. The last romantic poet. I am too lazy to type any of his stuff here right now. Maybe later.

Body Wellness: Day 12

EATING:

2 Cups of Lady Grey with a little milk and sweetner (non-caloric)

2 Cups of White/Green tea pomegranate

Steal Cut Oats with smart balance and cheese
Spiced Chai

salad with broc, tomatoes, string cheese, and turkey ham, rasp. vin. dressing

string cheese

3 PM AND I AM DOING GREAT!!!!! Hold on through the munchie time. Carol! You can do it!

EXERCISE:

Hill Walk - 45 minutes with Michelle

Body Wellness: Day 11

Man, I have been really bad about keeping up!

Day 11:

Eating: 16 oz milk with whipped cream, 3 string cheeses, honey wheat berry toast with Smart BalanceWalla Walla Sweet Onion Rings (5) with honey mustard sauce, Wild Blackberry Shake with Whipped Cream, Kit Kat, salad with string cheese and turkey ham and light raspberry vineagrette dressing, orange.

Exercise: Walking in the Heirloom Rose Garden for 2 hours.