Transparent Words - Poetry |
Catherine Kanaan |
Discovering Whitman
I
haven’t read much Whitman
he was
left floundering between
my
mother’s passion for the prairie
writing
of Willa Cather
and my
father’s preference for the cool intelligence
of
Emmerson and Thoreau and vague hostility
against
the man
but
being the literary person he was
he did
have a copy of leaves of grass
buried
in a bookcase
I took
it out a few times over the years
but
found his writing a bit like an over decorated
Christmas tree one line though held me spellbound through the years
grass
the
uncut hair of graves
and now
with that fine spun thread
a link
between us I take him up
I see
myself in south dakota
territory in a rich loamy field
my
mother’s old farm
an old
fashioned plow hooked
up to
oxen
Whitman,
a cross between
Santa
Claus and God the Father
stands
behind me with a sack of seed
a small
smile hovering under his beard
I dig into the black soil and know
that he
will follow sowing his harvest
of
heaving rhythms and exhuberance
in
spring I will come back
to see
what has sprung up
what I
will pick and grind for suitable
bread
I do not
know if I will sit at his table
heaped
with riches
but
something of value will remain
something honest
something deep-rooted
I head to bed half asleep
after a
day spent in the open
leaves
of grass lie on the bedside table
sleepy
but well meaning I pick them up
the
luxurious weight of words
presses
down…
drum
taps
I come
upon the soldier
lying
dead in the battlefield
the dear
young face open to the night sky
the dear
young face that will not meet
the dawn
his day
close by him forever
the
breadth of forehead
white
under the moon
no
tender thoughts like rippled sun
will
play there
I gaze
at the young mouth
closed
forever
no
lover’s kiss will fall upon those lips
no
lovers words will issue forth
his
hands lie by his side
palms
upward
time
there forever stilled
revered
field where he lies
blood
dripped earth of my fallen soldier
opuses
of love and desire
ended |
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