Saturday, September 3, 2011

i tell these things in confidence

this hour i tell things in confidence;
i might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.

i believe in you, my soul—the other i am must not abase itself to you;
and you must not be abased to the other.

and i know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
and i know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own;

i pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-wash’d babe,
and am not contain’d between my hat and boots;

and i know i am solid and sound;
to me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow;
all are written to me, and i must get what the writing means.

i know i am deathless;
i know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by the carpenter’s compass;

i know i am august;
i do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood;
i see that the elementary laws never apologize;

i exist as i am—that is enough;

one world is aware, and by far the largest to me, and that is myself;
and whether I come to my own to-day, or in ten thousand or ten million years,
i can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness i can wait.

i laugh at what you call dissolution;
and i know the amplitude of time.

all words walt whitman leaves of grass


Elisabeth said...

A poem written a long time ago, and yet reading it within the blogosphere, these words especially resonate for me, Steven:

'i might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.'


steven said...

elisabeth, i can read whitman's writing and feel its freshness and its fullness of spirit every time as if i had just discovered it. steven

Valerianna said...

Wonderful to find Whitman here today. I have a wonderful old copy of that book that was my grandfathers. I seldom take it out, but when I do, I find it fresh and full just as you say above.... i

the time of golden grasses...

steven said...

hi valerianna - those grasses at the top are from my back garden. they're native to this area which at one time was home to prairie as well as the eastern woodlands. steven

Linda Sue said...

"Not contain'd by my hat and boots" , don't you just love that!

Reya Mellicker said...

The dude packs a wallop, doesn't he? As do you.

Caught up now on your thoughts of recent days. I'm back in the saddle again as it were, as much as I'm willing to be saddled up that is.

Thinking of you with love, dear confidante.

Tess Kincaid said...

I haven't read Leaves of Grass in such a long time.

"...the hand of God is the promise of my own" is so powerful...

Friko said...

Poetry like this is immortal and eternally true.
Thank you, steven.

steven said...

linda sue it draws so very much to a sweet essence doesn't it!!! steven

steven said...

reya - i read this guy's writing and think how could you have written this when you did man?
the saddle - well, school is happening ... the details the preparations the psyching the welcoming back that special quality of energy that fuels me through all that school is. i bet my blog gets more care and energy than it has for a while. love out and back your way reya! steven

steven said...

tess - this dude was so inside the whole piece of what i am slowly learning and especially in his conversational "i'm speaking softly while packing a mighty wallop" tone. steven

steven said...

friko - i think you've gotta be so far inside this way of seeing the world to know its truth - and you so are!! steven

erin said...

as he speaks i see where he stands, how he stands, and i long to stand like that once again. i am temporarily in transit.

damn, he sounds off like a bell on the hillside. i believe him. i follow him to his church.


steven said...

hi erin . . . the wind whispers through the grasses of his words and becomes the words themselves. steven