Photo by Stephani Schaefer, Los Molinos
I SAW IN LOUISIANA A LIVE-OAK GROWING
—Walt Whitman
I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,
all alone stood it
and the moss hung down from the branches,
without any companion it grew there
uttering joyous leaves of dark green,
and its look, rude, unbending, lusty,
made me think of myself,
but I wondered how it could utter joyous leaves
standing alone there
without its friend near, for I knew I could not,
and I broke off a twig
with a certain number of leaves upon it,
and twined around it a little moss,
and brought it away,
and I have placed it in sight in my room,
it it not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends,
(for I believe lately I think of little else than of them,)
yet it remains to me a curious token,
it makes me think of manly love;
for all that,
and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana
solitary in a wide flat space,
uttering joyous leaves all its life
without a friend or lover near,
I know very well I could not.
—Walt Whitman
I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,
all alone stood it
and the moss hung down from the branches,
without any companion it grew there
uttering joyous leaves of dark green,
and its look, rude, unbending, lusty,
made me think of myself,
but I wondered how it could utter joyous leaves
standing alone there
without its friend near, for I knew I could not,
and I broke off a twig
with a certain number of leaves upon it,
and twined around it a little moss,
and brought it away,
and I have placed it in sight in my room,
it it not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends,
(for I believe lately I think of little else than of them,)
yet it remains to me a curious token,
it makes me think of manly love;
for all that,
and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana
solitary in a wide flat space,
uttering joyous leaves all its life
without a friend or lover near,
I know very well I could not.
_____________________
Thanks, Steph, for the photo, inspired by this week's talk of cranes, paper and otherwise.
And thanks, Walt, for your live-oak poem. I am very grateful for my friends, though I certainly can't express it like Walt Whitman. Burn-out lurks at the edges of all small-press endeavors, intense as they are, and it's people who help us snuff out those fires before they rip through the whole enterprise. Thanks for all your cards and letters and holiday well-wishing! It does not go unnoticed, even by the stone-cold Medusa.
_____________________
21
I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue.
I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of me.
I chant the chant of dilation or pride,
We have had ducking and deprecating about enough,
I show that size is only development.
Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?
It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on.
I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.
Press close bare-bosom'd night—press close magnetic nourishing night!
Night of south winds—night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night—mad naked summer night.
Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset—earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow'd earth—rich apple-blossom'd earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.
Prodigal, you have given me love—therefore I to you give love!
O unspeakable passionate love.
—Walt Whitman
(from Song of Myself)
______________________
17
These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are
not original with me,
If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing,
If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing,
If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing.
This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is.
This the common air that bathes the globe.
—Walt Whitman
(from Song of Myself)
______________________
52
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 fiber your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
—Walt Whitman
(from Song of Myself)
_____________________
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as announcements of Northern California poetry events, to kathykieth@hotmail.com (or snail ‘em to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726) for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.) Medusa cannot vouch for the moral fiber of other publications, contests, etc. that she lists, however, so submit to them at your own risk. For more info about the Snake Empire, including guidelines for submitting to or obtaining our publications, click on the link to the right of this column: Rattlesnake Press (rattlesnakepress.com).
SnakeWatch: Up-to-the-minute Snake news:
Rattlesnake Review: The new issue of Rattlesnake Review (Sweet 16) is available for free at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, or send $2 to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726 and I'll mail you one. The last of contributors' and subscribers' copies go into the mail this week. Next deadline (for Issue #17, due out in mid-March) is February 15. (Sooner than you think!)
New in December! Rattlesnake Press is proud to announce the release of Metamorphic Intervals From The Insanity Of Time, a SnakeRings SpiralChap from Patricia D'Alessandro, and Notes From The Ivory Tower, a littlesnake broadside from Sacramento's Ann Wehrman. And while you're down at The Book Collector, pick up a few poetic Christmas presents, including any of a number of wonderful books and chapbooks, Rattlesnake and otherwise—not to mention A Poet's Book of Days, our first perpetual calendar, featuring the poetry and photography of Katy Brown.
Coming in February: The Snake has crawled into winter hibernation for the rest of December and for all of January: no readings, no books, no broadsides. (Medusa is always awake, however, and will keep posting through most of that time. Send stuff.) Then, on February 13, Rattlesnake Press will roar to life again with a new SnakeRings SpiralChap from Don and Elsie Feliz (To Berlin With Love), plus a new littlesnake broadside from Carlena Wike (Going the Distance), as well as Volume Two of Conversations, B.L. Kennedy's Rattlesnake Interview Series.
