We two, how long we were fool'd!
Now transmuted, we swiftly escape
as Nature escapes;
We are Nature—long have we been absent,
but now we return;
We become plants, leaves, foliage, roots,
bark;
We are bedded in the ground—we are rocks;
We are
oaks—we grow in the openings side by side;
We browse—we
are two among the wild herds spontaneous as any;
We are two fishes
swimming in the sea together;
We are what locust blossoms
are—we drop scent
around lanes, mornings and evenings;
We are also the coarse smut
of beasts, vegetables, minerals;
We are two predatory
hawks—we soar above and look down;
We are two resplendent
suns—we it is who balance ourselves, orbic and stellar—we
are as two comets;
We prowl fang'd and four-footed in the
woods—we spring on prey;
We are two clouds forenoons and
afternoons driving overhead;
We are seas mingling—we are two
of those cheerful waves, rolling over each other, and interwetting
each other;
We are what the atmosphere is, transparent, receptive,
pervious, impervious:
We are snow, salt, rain, cold,
darkness—we are each product and influence of the globe;
We
have circled and circled until we have arrived home again—we two
have;
We have voided all but freedom and all but our own
joy.
Walt Whitman
― Bill Clinton, Friday, 12 April 2002 00:00 (twenty-four years ago)
'[George] Barker wrote 19 books of poetry, had almost as many
children by several women, was a Catholic, a bisexual, and never had
a regular income, preferring instead to scrounge from rich friends or
write pornography for Anaïs Nin at a dollar a page.'
― Archel, Friday, 12 April 2002 00:00 (twenty-four years ago)