My Sun: Walt Whitman

I want to talk now about my two favorite poets: Walter "Walt" Whitman and Thomas Stearns Eliot. They are respectively the sun and the moon to me.

First, let's talk about the sun:

Walt Whitman was an American poet who is regarded at the "father of free verse" and is one of the national poets of the United States (the other one being Emily Dickinson). His most famous collection of poetry is Leaves of Grass. He is considered the bridge between transcendentalism and realism in American Literature. His poem O Captain! My Captain! is taught in schools all over the country.

Why is he the sun? Because his poetry is like a thousand lights that shatter the darkness of human apathy and neglect.

He is the only poet who has made me cry with joy while reading him.

What happens when you look directly at the sun? You get blind or watery-eyed. But when we see the grass we lie down, or the rain that is evaporated by it, or the flowers and men making love without knowing it, we can see all of this thanks to the sun. The sun is more powerful than the whole earth combined, it can burn us or protect us, only we decide. This is the tremendous power Whitman has over me thanks to his poetry.

He taught me to follow my own voice, to question authority, to dare to be bold and sexual, to write my own songs because the world deserves them. To listen to my heart even if it speaks anger, because since anger is also under the sun, how can the sun reject it too? How can God (universe, whatever) reject even a single part of existence?

I cannot complete the list of poems that I love from him. I want to re-read him again one day. For now, I will share you the lines that last made me cry in happiness... from one of his many beautiful songs about death.

* * *

From So Long!

Camerado, this is no book,

Who touches this touches a man,

(Is it night? are we here together alone?)

It is I you hold and who holds you,

I spring from the pages into your arms—decease calls me forth.

O how your fingers drowse me,

Your breath falls around me like dew, your pulse lulls the tympans

      of my ears,

I feel immerged from head to foot,

Delicious, enough.

Enough O deed impromptu and secret,

Enough O gliding present—enough O summ'd-up past.

Dear friend whoever you are take this kiss,

I give it especially to you, do not forget me,

I feel like one who has done work for the day to retire awhile,

I receive now again of my many translations, from my avataras

      ascending, while others doubtless await me,

An unknown sphere more real than I dream'd, more direct, darts

      awakening rays about me, So long!

Remember my words, I may again return,

I love you, I depart from materials,

I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead.

...

...I have yet to find another poet who can make me cry while writing my blog.