Thank you Noah Britton, :1
After another 3 hours of frustration not being able to obtain my Humira prescription drugs (since I switched insurance companies, another "Prior Authorization" for Oxford Health to approve before I can get my mediction, without which I'm now experiencing heavy symptoms from not being able to administer it for the last month... and I have health insurance...!?!) ... and after a lovely evening trip to Rockaway beach with Kate Ferencz and Alana (I want to say her last name is Fitzgerald, but I can't recall right now) [where on the way back we stopped in at the stop inn, a local clinton hill/bushwick bar at the invite of a jolly local black man, called lovingly by the barmaid as Pee Wee, heh] I found a voicemail message from Noah Britton reading all of part 26 of Walt Whitman's "Song of me" (I had to look it up, :). The images connected with each of the lines popped into my brain rapidly - I'm totally "getting" the joy of poetry! - at least for the lines I could make out, and successively more and more with each listen until I had almost the entire thing figured out. then i looked it up, mostly to share it via post:
(i've underlined parts that inspired clear images as I listened to Noah, and I've written in italics lil stories)
26
Now I will do nothing but listen,
To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute
toward it.
I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames,
clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day and
night,
Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of
work-people at their meals,
The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the
sick,
The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing
a death-sentence,
The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the
refrain of the anchor-lifters,
The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of
swift-streaking engines and hose-carts with premonitory tinkles
and color'd lights,
The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars,
The slow march play'd at the head of the association marching two
and two,
(They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black
muslin.) last year bicycling to work, i stopped to watch a police funeral in williamsburg/greenpoint. there were 2 lines of officers, each paired up with one from the other line, slowly walking behind the casket, the stream went on for blocks and even upon standing on top of a yellow-painted concrete filled pole, i still could not see the end of the procession.
I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's heart's complaint,) haha
I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears,
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.
I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera,
Ah this indeed is music - this suits me.
A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,
The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.
I hear the train'd soprano (what work with hers is this?)
The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,
It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them,
It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the indolent
waves, the latter half makes me think of the one true fact in the the Ghoulstock short film "walt whitman" since Walt would dab his feet in the Laurel Springs in NJ (near my hometown) to think
I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,
Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of
death,
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being. : )
P.S. - I love that a poet has a bridge named after him. The Walt Whitman Bridge connects South Jersey to South Philly.
(i've underlined parts that inspired clear images as I listened to Noah, and I've written in italics lil stories)
26
Now I will do nothing but listen,
To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute
toward it.
I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames,
clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day and
night,
Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of
work-people at their meals,
The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the
sick,
The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing
a death-sentence,
The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the
refrain of the anchor-lifters,
The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of
swift-streaking engines and hose-carts with premonitory tinkles
and color'd lights,
The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars,
The slow march play'd at the head of the association marching two
and two,
(They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black
muslin.) last year bicycling to work, i stopped to watch a police funeral in williamsburg/greenpoint. there were 2 lines of officers, each paired up with one from the other line, slowly walking behind the casket, the stream went on for blocks and even upon standing on top of a yellow-painted concrete filled pole, i still could not see the end of the procession.
I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's heart's complaint,) haha
I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears,
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.
I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera,
Ah this indeed is music - this suits me.
A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,
The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.
I hear the train'd soprano (what work with hers is this?)
The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,
It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them,
It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the indolent
waves, the latter half makes me think of the one true fact in the the Ghoulstock short film "walt whitman" since Walt would dab his feet in the Laurel Springs in NJ (near my hometown) to think
I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,
Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of
death,
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being. : )
P.S. - I love that a poet has a bridge named after him. The Walt Whitman Bridge connects South Jersey to South Philly.