13
I believe in those wing’d purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white,
playing within me,
And consider green and violet
and the tufted crown intentional,
And do not call the tortoise unworthy
because she is not something else,
And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut,
yet trills pretty well to me,
And the look of the bay mare
shames silliness out of me.
I live and think on the other side of Long Island, but have to believe that Walt Whitman, for a time, had views of the sound as well as the Atlantic (hence similar views). I was fortunate to take classes on Walt Whitman: one as an undergraduate student and another at the University of Louisville when I did my 2nd Masters. He's robust with language, passionate with love, and hopeful for a fledgling United States, even though his vernacular and language was tainted by 19th century understandings of the world. Still, he saw America, celebrated its richness, saluted its biodiversity, and championed the people that blended the nation into a miraculous opportunity where, in theory, democracy was to be granted to the tired, the poor, the hungry.
It's hard to have such optimism now as tales of Sauron and Voldemort weave new metaphors in the nation and Orcs and Deatheaters show the ugliness for who they are, what they stand for, and a strong appetite for rage and cruelty.
I was thinking about J.R.R. Tolkien and his brilliance with the Lord of the Rings trilogy, especially the Orcs and why he created them ... Sauron's faithful. As I paddled to Charles Island and back yesterday morning (it was like glass, the water was that smooth, and the rowing allowed for a stunning view for an hour and a half of exercise), I thought about Whitman, what he wrote about, and what he stood for, and I wondered if he'd still be celebrating our nation in 2020, where vision and direction seems to have fallen into the Jerry Springer show (phew).
I also thought about Whitman's use of nature to name what is beautiful about life, those wing'd purposes, as my boat was guided by not one, not two, but over one hundred Monarch butterflies (thanks, Grandma) traveling with me across the sound. At one point I placed my head on the back of the canoe and simply looked up at the sky as they swarmed above me. I've never seen so many at once except in National Geographic photographs and nature books. It was stunning. Then, when I made it to Charles Island I noticed other boaters pointing up to the trees where two bald eagles were resting on branches. The life was beautiful and, thinking of Walt, the biodiversity was rich...a bounty for all that's good.
Then, as I headed back to Connecticut, I found myself in a pack of bluefish, hundreds of them, feeding atop the water and jumping at the sun to put shine on their silver backs. At first I was skeptical to row through them, but there was no way around. Besides, as I paddled forward, they moved to the side (and the monarchs remained above) and the eagles behind. I guess I had some Wendell Berry and John Muir in me.
I know the monarchs have struggled due to a lack of milkweed (as a result of herbicides in farming communities), but I also recognize there's been a movement to replant milkweed in other locations to assure areas for them to feed and lay eggs. I'm guessing those moves are working because their wings were everywhere....a sight to see across the blue sky as the stars bathed in the Sound.
I'm with Whitman. So many winters and summers ahead. Why such anger and hate? I pray to the Great Whatever love is found within the hearts of those traveling in fear. For me, ugliness disappears within the diversity and richness of it all.
44
It is time to explain myself—let us stand up.
What is known I strip away,
I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown.
The clock indicates the moment—but what does eternity indicate?
We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers,
There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.
Births have brought us richness and variety,
And other births will bring us richness and variety.
I do not call one greater and one smaller,
That which fills its period and place is equal to any.
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.
My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs,
On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps,
All below duly travel’d, and still I mount and mount.
Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me,
Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there,
I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist,
And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon.
Long I was hugg’d close—long and long.
Immense have been the preparations for me,
Faithful and friendly the arms that have help’d me.
Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen,
For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings,
They sent influences to look after what was to hold me.
Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me,
My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay it.
For it the nebula cohered to an orb,
The long slow strata piled to rest it on,
Vast vegetables gave it sustenance,
Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it with care.
All forces have been steadily employ’d to complete and delight me,
Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.
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