Song of Myself

A poem written by Walter Whitman, an American poet. This is one of those poems which I think reflects my own self. And something that I think will affect me profoundly in years to come. Excerpts.

* * *

There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth, I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself, (They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Vivas to those who have fail’d! And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known!

Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-remov’d, I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.
Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?

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.

All truths wait in all things, They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it, They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon, The insignificant is as big to me as any, (What is less or more than a touch?)

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.

Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister? I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me, All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation, (What have I to do with lamentation?)

I am an acme of things accomplish’d, and I an encloser of things to be.

All forces have been steadily employ’d to complete and delight me, Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.

I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured.

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.

Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.

WALT WHITMAN

The full text of the poem can be found here.

On a day quite far from today

There are five stanzas here, three lines each. 8, 12 and 4 syllables respectively. I used this style to create a feeling of inclompleteness, a feeling of something-more-to-do, of promises left to redeem (Please tell me if I failed desperately). And the rhyme is like this: the first two lines of each stanza end in a rhyme, and the last lines of all stanzas end rhyming “you”. Phew.

* * *

The play is done, the curtains close;
The time has come for us to walk away with those
Memories few.

The heart knows not how to forget;
You’ll remain my guiding star as we ourselves set
Onto paths new.

An enduring strength in all pains,
A soothing answer to all questions, there remains
A promise due:

On a day quite far from today,
Across a million miles, your breath in mine shall lay,
If love be true;

Having reached the stars of our prime,
Quite far from the rumblings of the matchbox called Time,
I shall be you.

KISHORE KUMAR

The Meaning of Courage

“I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what.”
Atticus Finch to his son Jem in To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.

This definition of courage appeals to me more than any other, and has actually made me see some things clearly.

Love Bade Me Welcome

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack’d anything.

“A guest,” I answer’d, “worthy to be here”;
Love said, “You shall be he.”
“I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.”
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
“Who made the eyes but I?”

“Truth, Lord, but I have marr’d them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.”
“And know you not,” says Love, “who bore the blame?”
“My dear, then I will serve.”
“You must sit down,” says Love, “and taste my meat.”
So I did sit and eat.

GEORGE HERBERT

Voices in the Night

A poem I wrote over four years ago on a scrap of paper in the middle of a winter night. Free verse.

* * *

Walking through the ancient woods
I heard the minstrels sing
Songs of old; not of war glory,
But of little men and their little deeds.

The touching tales moved my soul,
Seeping through the layers of old
Draped around me in infamy;
Tales of wonder and joy, cherished sorrow.

In the silence of the woods
Rang the odes of praise
Of men who lived
In forgotten eras of the pat beyond.

On the fallen autumn leaves
Did I read the epic tales
Written by men of long ago
On the leaves of human history.

That they marvelled at the stars
And once reached for them, I heard;
And here the minstrels stopped
And the silence took over

In that silence did I hear
The voices of men long dead
Echoing through my mind
Louder than could my mind perceive

Thus did the woods teach me
The designs of the human soul
Residing in me for eternity
And told me tales to hold me forever.

KISHORE KUMAR

Catholic Vs Protestant Theology

One may say, backwardly speaking, that protestants like to be good and have invented theology in order to keep themselves so, whereas Catholics like to be bad and have invented theology in order to keep their neighbours bad.

BERTRAND RUSSELL, Why I’m not a Christian and other Essays

Jesus Christ and Family Values

Woman, what have I to do with you?
JESUS CHRIST to his mother Mary of Bethlehem, in John 2 : 4

Think not that I come to send peace on earth. I came not to send peace, but a sword. / For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother in law.
JESUS CHRIST in Matthew 10 : 34, 35