the wonderful world of walt

walt whitman and i are soulmates. since hes been dead for, oh 120years now, i doubt he knows this. but its true. so you can imagine my horror, when introducing him to my students a couple weeks ago as one of my "top5 super guys" [the other four being: ernest hemingway, edgar allan poe, f. scott fitzgerald, and my dad. obvi.] this was the response i got:

what, like the bridge?


ah the agony. so after delicately tiptoeing around the pieces of my shattered heart, i explained to my students that yes, like the bridge, i was going to open their worlds up to new and exciting places. (at which point there was obviously a derogatory comment about how taking a bridge to new jersey was neither new or exciting. eh what do they know?) after a little chitchat, i think i had my students understanding the importance of having a bridge named after you. heck, youve gotta be pretty important. but it wasnt until i handed out this poem and we tore it into little tiny pieces and put them back together again, did they truly understand my love of walt. and im pretty sure they love him too. in homage to the man who makes me think and wish and hope and dig deeper into myself than any living man i know, here is one of my favs:

i hear america singing [by walt whitman]

'i hear america singing, the varied carols i hear,
those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
the carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
the mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
the boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat,
the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
the shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench,
the hatter singing as he stands,
the wood-cutter's song,
the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
the delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work,
or of the girl sewing or washing,
each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
the day what belongs to the day--at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.'


oh could you not swoon. i really dont want to go into detail about what this poem means to me. i hate when other people do it to me. and i wont do it to you. a poem is all about how you see it, and what you feel, and what you think. not about what you overheard someone else saying. its not one of those wacky poems where you have to analyze for hours, and relate, and make connections, and decipher symbolism. it just is. and i love it. so thank you, walt.