Perfections

Only themselves understand themselves and like of
themselves,
As souls only understant souls.




(beloved Walt Whitman, The Complete Poems)

To You

Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me,
  why should you not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?




(Walt Whitman, The Complete Poems)


Eu penso exactamente o mesmo. Ponto. (Estive ocupada, contínuo ocupada. Creio que isso não seja do interesse de ninguém.)

O Me! O Life!

O me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill'd with the
foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more
foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of
the struggle ever renew'd,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid
crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me
intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring - What good amid
these, O me, O life?

Answer
That you are here - that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may
contribute a verse.


(Walt Whitman, The Complete Poems)

Song of myself

(...)

I resist anything better than my own diversity,
And breath the air and leave plenty after me,
And am not stuck up, and am in my place.

The moth and the fisheggs are in their place,
The suns I see and the suns I cannot see are in their place,
The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.

These are 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 do not enclose everything they are next to nothing,
If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they
are nothing.

This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the
water is,
This is the common air that bathes the globe.

This is the breath of laws and songs and behaviour,
This is the tasteless water of souls....this is the true
sustenance,
It is for the illiterate....it is for the judges of the supreme
court....it is for the federal capitol and the state
capitols,
It is for the admirable communes of literary men and
composers and singers and lecturers and engineers and
savans.
It is for the endless races of working people and farmers and
seamen.

This is the trill of a thousand clear cornets and scream of the
octave flute and stike of triangles.

I play not a march for victors only...I play great marches
for conquered and slain persons.

Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?
I also say it is good to fall....battles are lost in the same
spirit in which they are won.
(...)

(beloved Walt Whitman, The Complete Poems)

Atravessou-se-me à frente, este livro. Um Penguin Classics com as folhas amareladas e um cheiro inebriante. Tenho tantas outras coisas para ler, estudar, escrever, enfim, coisas.  Entre esta culpa e satisfação, trouxe-o comigo para casa.

Propósito obscuro

(...)


Esta é a pressão de uma mão tímida, este é o aroma dos cabelos que esvoaçam,
Este é o roçar dos meus lábios nos teus, este é o murmúrio do desejo,
Esta é a profundeza e a altura distantes reflectindo o meu próprio rosto,
Esta é a meditativa fusão de mim próprio, e a saída outra vez.

Achas que tenho algum propósito obscuro?
Sim, tenho, como o têm as chuvas do quarto mês, e o tem a mica sobre as rochas.



(Walt Whitman, tradução de José Agostinho Baptista, Canto de mim mesmo)