in en cok taninan siirlerinin basinda gelir.
i celebrate myself, and sing myself,
and what i assume you shall assume,
for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
i loafe and invite my soul,
i lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
my tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil,
born here of parents born here from parents the same, and
their parents the same,
i, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
hoping to cease not till death.
creeds and schools in abeyance,
retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never
i harbor for good or bad, i permit to speak at every hazard,
nature without check with original energy.
houses and rooms are full of perfumes.... the shelves
are crowded with perfumes,
i breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,
the distillation would intoxicate me also, but i shall not let it.
the atmosphere is not a perfume.... it has no taste
of the distillation.... it is odorless,
it is for my mouth forever.... i am in love with it,
i will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
i am mad for it to be in contact with me.
the smoke of my own breath,
echoes, ripples, and buzzed whispers.... loveroot, silkthread,
crotch and vine,
my respiration and inspiration.... the beating of my heart....
the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
the sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore
and darkcolored sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
the sound of the belched words of my voice.... words loosed
to the eddies of the wind,
a few light kisses.... a few embraces.... reaching around of arms,
the play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
the delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along
the fields and hill-sides,
the feeling of health.... the full-noon trill.... the song of me
rising from bed and meeting the sun.
have you reckoned a thousand acres much? have you reckoned
the earth much?
have you practiced 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 the 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 spectres
you shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
you shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.
a child said what is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
how could i answer the child? i do not know what it is any more than he.
i guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
or i guess if is the handkerchief of the lord,
a scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say whose?
or i guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
or i guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
and it means, sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
growing among black folks as among white,
kanuck, tuckahoe, congressman, cuff, i give them the same, i receive then the same.
and now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
tenderly will i use you curling grass,
it may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
it may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken,
it may be if i had known them i would have loved them, soon out of their mother's laps,
and here you are the mothers' laps.
this grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
darker than the colorless beards of old men,
dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
o i perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
and i perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
i wish i could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
and the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
what do you think has become of the young and old men?
and what do you think has become of the women and children?
they are alive and well somewhere,
the smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
and if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
and ceas'd the moment life appear'd.
all goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
and to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
the spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains
of my gab and my loitering.
i too am not a bit tamed, i too am untranslatable,
i sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
the last scud of day holds back for me,
it flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
it coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
i depart as air, i shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
i effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
i bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass i love,
if you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
you will hardly know who i am or what i mean,
but i shall be good health to you nevertheless,
and filter and fibre your blood.
failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
missing me one place search another,
i stop somewhere waiting for you.
twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
she owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
she hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.
which of the young men does she like the best?
ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
where are you off to, lady? for 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 over their bodies.
an unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies,
it descended trembling from their temples and ribs.
the young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun,
they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
they do not know who puffs and declines with the pendant and bending arch,
they do not think whom they souse with spray.
16 numaralisinin son kismini ileride bir gun gururla soylemek istedigim siir..
i am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,
regardless of others, ever regardful of others,
maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,
stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff that is fine,
one of the nation of many nations, the smallest the same
and the largest the same,
a southerner soon as a northerner, a planter nonchalant
and hospitable down by the oconee i live,
a yankee bound my own way ready for trade, my joints the
limberest joints on earth and the sternest joints on earth,
a kentuckian walking the vale of the elkhorn in my deer-skin
leggings, a louisianian or georgian,
a boatman over lakes or bays or along coasts, a hoosier, badger, buckeye;
at home on kanadian snow-shoes or up in the bush, or with fishermen off newfoundland,
at home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and tacking,
at home on the hills of vermont or in the woods of maine,
or the texan ranch,
comrade of californians, comrade of free north-westerners,
(loving their big proportions,)
comrade of raftsmen and coalmen, comrade of all who
shake hands and welcome to drink and meat,
a learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest,
a novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons,
of every hue and caste am i, of every rank and religion,
a farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker,
prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest.
i resist any thing better than my own diversity,
breathe the air but leave plenty after me,
and am not stuck up, and am in my place.
walt whitman'ın 52 bölümden oluşan şiiri. "leaves of glass" isimli kitabında yayımlanmıştır ilk olarak. şiirde genel olarak birlik beraberlikten öte, tüm insanların özünde aynı olduğundan, herkesin ortak bir öz taşıdığından (tıpkı aynı topraktan doğan çimenler gibi) bahsetmiştir. kendini doğaya medeniyetten daha yakın gören şair, aslında yaşamın ve şiirin gıdasının doğa oldugunu savunmuştur. elimizde bitmek tükenmek bilmeyen bir malzeme varken sanatımızı besleyecek, antik sanatçıları taklit etmekten kaçınmamızın, kendi sanatımızı ve tarihimizi oluşturmamızın öneminden söz etmiştir. zira gerçeğe ikinci el bilgiden ulaşılmaz. ona göre ne başlangıçtır öenmli olan, ne bitiş. bu ikisinin arasındaki "şimdi"dir mükkemel zaman. eğer şimdi bir şeyler yapmak, bir şeyler söylemek istiyorsak, şimdi söylemeliyiz, daha iyi bir zaman olmayacak çünkü.
her şey zıttıyla vardır, "karanlık yok" diyorsan, aydınlığı da kaybedersin. bütün ikilikler aslında birdir ve ayrılamazlar. doğada da her şey birdir ve her şey mükemmel bir uyum içindedir. hiç bir şey çirkin değildir, olsa olsa farklı güzelliktedir. medeniyet dediğin tek dişi kalmış canavarın yaratılarına bak bir de, savaşlar, açlıklar, hastalıklar, korkular... bütün çirkinlikler medeniyetin suçudur, doğada yoktur bunlar. çimenler, doğarlar ve ölürler, böylece devam eder her şey. ne mutlu ki biz de öleceğiz doğanın parçaları olarak, ve devam edecek her şey. doğum kadar kutludur ölüm de... ve bu şarkı, sadece onun değil herkesin şarkısıdır. kasabın da şarkısıdır demircinin de. neden olmasındır ki? sadece krallar mıdır şiirlerle kutlanması gereken? hayır, hepsi birdir, hepsi aynıdır. kimse kimseye varlığını kanıtlamak zorunda değildir. ben kadar varsındır sen de.
şehvet, seks, hepsi doğrudur hissettğin sürece, hepsi insan vücudunun kutsanmasıdır. din dediğin şey bir ev inşa etmektir. kapılar dikmektir kendi önüne, kilitler vurmaktır kendine. evet, tanrı büyüktür, ama biz de büyüğüzdür onun kadar. çünkü hepimiz ondan bir öz taşırız.
i think i could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd,
i stand and look at them long and long.
they do not sweat and whine about their condition,
they do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
they do not make me sick discussing their duty to god,
not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,
not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
so they show their relations to me and i accept them,
they bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession.
i wonder where they get those tokens,
did i pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?
myself moving forward then and now and forever,
gathering and showing more always and with velocity,
infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them,
not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers,
picking out here one that i love, and now go with him on brotherly terms.
a gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses,
head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,
limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,
eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.
his nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him,
his well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return.
i but use you a minute, then i resign you, stallion,
why do i need your paces when i myself out-gallop them?
even as i stand or sit passing faster than you.
i believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars,
and the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,
and the tree-toad is a chef-d’oeuvre for the highest,
and the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
and the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
and the cow crunching with depress’d head surpasses any statue,
and a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.
i find i incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots,
and am stucco’d with quadrupeds and birds all over,
and have distanced what is behind me for good reasons,
and call any thing close again, when i desire it.
in vain the speeding or shyness,
in vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach,
in vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder’d bones,
in vain objects stand leagues off, and assume manifold shapes,
in vain the ocean settling in hollows, and the great monsters lying low,
in vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky,
in vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs,
in vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods,
in vain the razor-bill’d auk sails far north to labrador,
i follow quickly, i ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff.