/lit/ - Literature

>>10550554
Dont let your opinion be dictated by burger pseuds, GoL is overrated garbage

>>10550554
>What is this?
Yes, that was pretty much my reaction too.

>>10550607
>>10550619
I'm only finding positive thoughts and reviews about him elsewhere, so I thought i was missing something. It's really strange, because many people seem to really love it.. there are some who say they hated it but then began to like it more and more as they grew older. Is being an American a prerequisite to understanding and liking it?
I dont want to regard it as shit straight away.

>>10550554
That's from a rather long and rather fantastic poem, The Sleepers. Rupi's entire 'oeuvre' hasn't as many lines as that one poem, anon. Like (you) she really isn't able to sustain her concentration for very long, typically. What's your favorite Black Mirror episode?

Yep it's awful

>>10550730
>needing concentration
>for Whitman of all people
Please try next time

>>10550730
Why do you instantly have to resort to indirect insulting?
Rather than saying it's fantastic, tell what's fantastic amout it.

>>10550554
>It seems like something Rupi Kaur could have written if she were a bit older.

>>10550607
This, I've found that only Americans and ameriweebs like this stuff

>>10551021
this, im a retard who makes bad bait for a living

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

>>10550554
Shit example, OP. You can't just take two random lines from any poet and say 'whats the big deal.' Take something like this:

"The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self."

>>10550740
That's easy. Nothing was offered by way of an opinion EXCEPT what I addressed ditectly. Can (you) not even read a post?

>>10550735
One does. Or one laxly adopts an ignorant opinion.

>>10550730
>>10551351
Holy shit what a pretentious person

i hate whitman too
he indirectly gave us ginsberg though so i guess that’s a good thing

>>10551372
What. For liking a poet few on this board have the time for? I suggest (you) look up the word then re-read ALL the posts. Or gtfo this board.

>>10551379
Ginsberg fucking sucks and so does everyone that tried to emulate Whitman. Literally only Whitman did it right.

>>10551393
Not for liking him but for writing like a faggot

>>10551408
This

>>10551379
>i hate whitman too
why, what about?

>>10550554
Whitman needs to be read out loud while walking through the woods, preferably coming across a stream, and then coming into an open field, so that your voice may echo louder, and then back into the woods to finish the reading

>>10551510
>Whitman needs to be read out loud while walking through the woods, preferably coming across a stream, and then coming into an open field, so that your voice may echo louder, and then back into the woods to finish the reading
Did you type that with a straight face?

>>10550554
Who are some poets you do like, OP? What's a moment in a book that really struck you?

Free verse is just prose with line breaks. It isn't poetry.

>>10551648
>bcuz I said so

>reading Whitman without having read Emerson
>not reading the preface to Leaves of Grass
Ultra plebeian.

>>10551654
Take out the line breaks and, voila, it's prose. The same cannot be said of a metered or rhymed poem as its limitations will still be apparent.

>>10551678
>implying that line breaks in free verse are arbitrary
>implying that the visual component of the poem is irrelevant

>>10551692
Those things are done purposefully, sure, but they don't cause a piece of prose to become a poem.

>>10550554
>What's so great about Whitman?
>What's so great about Shakespeare?
>What's so great about Keats?
>What so great about Melville?

It's just not a productive question to ask, especially on a shithole like /lit/. Maybe try a different approach to reading Whitman: for example, don't worry about "understanding" spaces or line breaks. Focus on word choice, images, how he evokes the senses, the rhythm of the lines when spoken aloud. If you still dont' like him, fine--maybe he's just not your cup of tea. But to compare his work to Rupi Kaur just suggests that you're not reading very carefully.

>>10551701
They do, though.

>>10551712
They don't.

>>10551239
it has been some time since i read whitman. thanks anon.

>>10551717
I'm not the person you're replying to but I don't think you're actually thinking about things.

Obviously a poem is going to be a fuzzy concept, a term that takes on meaning from how people use it as part of a culture of reading and writing, not a scientific definition.

Is your argument seriously that the line breaks don't change the way one reads a text? Focus attention on the different parts of Whitman's writing? Change the rhythm of how you think about connections between images in unexpected ways? Or are you just saying *you* don't respond to it in that way?

>>10551758
Then perhaps we can use the already existing term "spaced prose."

>>10551576
>Did you type that with a straight face?
did you type this with the roasty pussy lips dangling out from your ass?

No I typed it with a beaming glee you dingbag

>>10551797
So you're arguing that the entirety of what the term 'poetry' has meant to writers and readers can be exhausted by the idea of metricality and rhyme? Is that what people mean when they call something 'poetic'? Is that what you expect when you open a book of poems? What's your personal theory for why basically nobody uses 'spaced prose'?

It's another one of these threads
>Can't understand canon'd writer
>cherrypick worst 2 lines you can find
>I'm not missing anything haha right guys back me up on this
Whitman is so life affirming and isn't even inaccessible in the slightest, quit being so insecure just keep trying

>>10551797
you are such a disgusting idiot. your negligent worthless retardation is hideously disturbing, your putrid pedantic pointlessness. You terrible critter. You skunk taint hack. You eating a mound of donkey dung, and breathing it out with a rancid smile. You horrible, horrible child.

>>10551414
Youre a fucking idiot.
>that better?

>>10551852
Is this post a poem? You never can tell.

>>10551842
>... the separate spacing of the phrases in free verse reminds us, gently but inevitably: "This is a phrase! This is a phrase!" In spite of this fact, have we attained to anything that lifts us necessarily out of prose experience? What is achieved, as a rule ... is emotional prose, emphatically phrased, excellent and moving. "Spaced prose," we may call it.
>Patterson, The Rhythm of Prose, 2nd ed., pg. xiii

>>10552105
its about presentation, pacing, rhythm (being able to neglect traditional punctuation) and ease of reading oratorally as is want done classically of poets

>>10552199
So in other words it is prose that is spaced.

>>10552081
Fuck
you faggot
from the depths of hell
and the firest regions
of your mothers dirty cunt
her burdened lips snarl and fray
and weigh down like the sands of time
tilting her zilched go mad go nads
naught unlike a rotten pepper
peckered and petering on a ledge
pushed off with a great hoist
and fallen for the birds of satan to pry at and snicker
like little dandelion chars
of a long forgotten age and era
bygone time of nevermore
evermore
your pansy pants flippantly unfurled
and climbing in the oven of your womanly fathers womb
pissing yourself silly
with the thought of your ballsacks hemmoraging
tantalizing the astonishment of the adonisment of daze
tickling the tacky fancy of your poopied pants
unoccupied by the seat of your soul
a toilet stall
a car stalling
you are a rubber barrel, you are the opposite of a robber barron
you are barren of anything a robber might want to steal
you are a turkish hen
scooping up the fecal wombs of your daughters felched splurge
a decedant decency left over from the ancient times of petty squabbles leading to a curtailing of pretty throes, her lunch meat blewing in the breeze, a dangling treat teetering on the edge of edibility, a brown paper banking smuffed with golden paint, and a silent turd dropped in place to be left on the outerside of her head
and you and I holding hands walking through all this, twirling in the rainbow summer shine wind of tomorrows squaller, laughing, and having a grand old time

>>10552227
No, prose is poetry that is unspaced

>>10552229
Thanks. Now that the lines are spaced out I can tell it's a poem.

>>10552227
>>10552081
Why is it called a mural when they paint on the side of a building...its just a painting...

Why are movies called films...its just a movie

Why are pictures called images... or digital photos... its just a photograph

Why are illustrations called drawing...they are just illustrations..

Why is writing called literature...its just writing..

>this thread
https://books.google.com/books?id=aJslh4LlEiYC&lpg=PA26&ots=eKKunHKyhB&dq=free%20verse%20is%20never%20totally%20free&pg=PA26#v=onepage&q&f=false

>>10552271
>The rule is, like, there's no rule, man
Yeah if there were rules it might be a poem

Best thing i ever read on Whitman

> http://www.english.upenn.edu/~perelman/classes/english088/rj_somelinesfromwhitman.html

>>10550554
>Tell me what's so great about it.
Absolutely nothing. Leftists always try to retcon shitty old things as "the greats" because they know that normal people have an irrational respect for age.

>You don't appreciate Whitman

Doesn't surprise me. You probably can't. But if you could, it would be divine.

I know it sounds trite, but it's true.

>>10551597
Can I answer? I don't like Whitman either.

>>10551845
It's kitsch. No one ever mentioned inaccesibility.

>>10554101
what makes it kitsch? Any monkey can be taught that word and then fart it out of its mouth at anything in the world, but its a bit harder for it to express why it feels that way

>>10554218
The soteriological virtue of nature as a source of pleasures was already a trite place before Whitman. Leaves of Grass lacks any other idea. Not even the most cliche'd romantics were that lame. This connects Whitman to even the oldest and narrowest definitions of Kitsch, like that of Dorfles: "it is a problem of individuals who believe that art should only produce pleasant, sugary feelings; or even that art should form a kind of 'condiment', a kind of 'background music', a decoration" (ie >>10551510. This post reminds of movies being seen with a palette of smells in search of a "complete experience". Obviously kitsch stuff). Also, Leaves of Grass is generally praised by its formal transgressions (related to both versification and poet's rethoric), which are read as some extravagant nonchalance or idleness. This suits good to the mentioned monotheme. Maybe it can be somewhat connected to the "appearance of illegibility, obscurity and a facile, deliberately shocking épater les bourgeois element" mentioned by Dorfles before talking about pop art made by "highly trivial consumer products".
Pic related, Dorfles again.

>>10554318
Before I read and maybe respond to your post, I must ask: Have you read the entirety of the final text of Leaves of Grass? If not, there is nothing to discuss. If you have, then there is nothing to discuss.

>>10554318
>or even that art should form a kind of 'condiment', a kind of 'background music', a decoration"
I still have not read your post, but my eyes were attracted to the other post of mine you quoted, and the surrounding context clues of:

>or even that art should form a kind of 'condiment', a kind of 'background music', a decoration" See: (my post about reading it in nature)

So I must ask how does it logically follow that my suggestion to potentially enhance experience and understanding of the text makes it 'condiment', background music, decoration... how? How is Complete experience Kitsch... Is life Kitsch? Life is complete experience and contains decoration, condiment, background music... and Leaves Of Grass text certainly contains much more than just that, if it contains that at all... it contains multitudes

>>10554318
>>10554326
I have not read the entirety of leaves of grass: but recently this summer I found a copy in my grandparents house and flipped through some and read some random lines on random pages and know that whatever you say is pointless wasteful meaningless nonsense that could never be worth a single page of his writing.

I was first introduced to the text maybe 6 or more years ago on a cross country trip with some friends, sitting in San Bernardino by the water on a lush field of many people relaxing and people and children playing and we sat there in the sun and endless blue sky, and the birds singing and it was paradise and he said: 'I think you would really be into this", and started to read from the beginning and maybe read like 30 or so pages, and it made me cower in humility and fear at my own inadequacies and petty worthlessness, and inspired me to start to attempt to be great.

>>10554318
>source of pleasures
>it is a problem of individuals who believe that art should only produce pleasant, sugary feelings
So your entire post pretty much summed up as: Art, real art, is and should be sad! Real art cannot be happy! Real art must deeply reflect and feel, but sadly! I have not read the full leaves of grass text because if I did I would know it contains all possible thoughts and feelings!

>>10554333
>So I must ask how does it logically follow that my suggestion to potentially enhance experience and understanding of the text makes it 'condiment', background music, decoration... how? How is Complete experience Kitsch... Is life Kitsch? Life is complete experience and contains decoration, condiment, background music... and Leaves Of Grass text certainly contains much more than just that, if it contains that at all... it contains multitudes
Not to be rude but that's just horridly kitsch euphonies desu dude.
Art is not about being an imitation of "life".
Literature is not intended to be a complement or annex to different "pleasures" (literature isn't either intended to be a source of pleasure). Opera librettos are not literature.
It contains multitudes of what?

>>10554318
So I nailed it on the head: Your monkey master: Drorpf, who you have been reading gave you a treat, taught you this word, armed you with infinite grenades, with which you now freely feel the joy and power and privilege of tossing at anything you feel like.

>>10554370
respond to all my posts shitdick

What is art supposed to be retard? who says retard? Who says what literature is and is not intended to be retard? Who says Leaves of Grass is an imitation of life? retard? Who cares if a monkey calls opera librettos literature or not, retard?

>>10554369
Nope. Literature has obviously a long lived and fertile epicurean tradition of which Leaves of Grass isn't but an episode of debatable merit, either by its own or by its influence. You're the one who's reducing literature to making you feel sad or happy.
Can't take seriously anyone who argues in favor of a piece of art by saying it "contains all possible thoughts and feelings" tho.

>>10554381
I'll shit all over your dead relatives. You ain't mentioned one single concrete artistic virtue someone can find in Leaves of Grass. Your ardent defense of a mediocre poem is corny and ridiculous. Go masturbating your mentally challenged relatives, dumb yankee.

>>10554326
>If not, there is nothing to discuss. If you have, then there is nothing to discuss.
I'm not even the kitschposter, but this is a phenomenon which never ceases to amaze me: buttmad fanboys of Whitman responding to any sort of criticism of him with this Bloomian, esotericist, pompous, insufferable "aaaah uhhhmm if you'd only know, heh kid, but you don't know, what's that kid, oh i can't tell you, maybe you'll grow up one day" tripe as if they were holding the key to the mystery of the universe? Does gnosticist kike cock taste that good, or what?

>>10554404
It contains like all possible thoughts and feelings bro

>>10554370
>Kitsch: also called cheesiness or tackiness, is art or other objects that appeal to popular rather than high art tastes.
Just to make sure we are at least somewhere on the same ground: Would you agree that just because something, just because a work of art is popular doesnt mean it is Kitsch? That it is possible for......real......art....or high or fine art to be popular, and that occuring does not turn it into kitsch, so that popularity cannot be a definer of kitschness?

>>10554425
Obviously. That's why I didn't quote a Wikipedia definition.

>>10554398
Have you read the entirety of the final version of leaves of grass or not retard, simple question that invalidates or invalidates all your shitticism

>>10554404
Hey, absolute retard, that was one line I said in passing icing on cake jest, you would cherry pick the cherry, fucktard, respond to all my other points shitbrain

>>10554404
you are not talking or careing about art or poetry, you are patting yourself on the back for your quilted vest of opinionated patches which you think makes your existence mean anything more than the absolute nothing it truly is

>>10554433
You are ridiculous and so is your typically american conception of a piece of art getting all of his sense from its ending (SPOILER!!!!!), my dude. I ain't gon say it no mo.

>>10554386
One day you will realize how big of a pseud you are, until that day the worthy world hardly holds its breath in anticipation, but would if it could

>>10552227
No because it uses poetic devices in a way that wouldn't make sense if the text wasn't versified
For example: the anaphoras in As I ebb'd with the ocean of Life

>>10554430
ok but you also didnt explain and show in any way how the non sequitur red herring baseless simple few scratchs of nothingness you did quote had anything to do with the text: it was just an extension of the "I know a word and I say the word equals the text", there was no real understanding of a because, because I presume because you still have not come anywhere close to reading 1/563th of the text

>>10554440
>>10554435
Man, I'm the kitschposter and I swear to God I came into this thread to see if any Whitman fan could say why does he like Leaves of Grass. It seems like they all find shit ineffable cuz they're aphasic and mentally handicapped. Cheers, nigga.

>>10554446
reading comprehension, retard? Whitman made many different versions of the text, and my use of the word 'final' refers to the final version of the text, made like 30 or something years after the first. I guess we just toss that further into the massive pile of you invalidating yourself

>>10554457
> I came into this thread to see if any Whitman fan could say why does he like Leaves of Grass. It seems like they all find shit ineffable cuz they're aphasic and mentally handicapped. Cheers, nigga.

Pearls before swine, begone bacon

>>10554456
Lol do you wait for my commented edition of Leaves of Grass? I read it once like a year ago, didn't like it, have read some excerpts here and there and I've formed myself an impression I've already resumed, and which I think is at less comprehensible for anyone who has read Leaves of Grass. I don't have the slightest interest in convincing any Whitman fanboy to change his mind. My judgement has been defined and expressed, even if the causes for it, lying in the text we're talking about, haven't been quoted. But Whitmanbois haven't argued in favor of it with any other than idiotic euphonies (Life, multitudes, you didn't understood but I won't say why cuz it's ineffable, it's canon) and requests of prolix arguments from those that claim they didn't like the text.

>>10554457
>>10554482
>Pearls before swine, begone bacon
oink oink pigga

>>10554482
Old sayings are always lucid and full of feelings and meanings, right? U'se a retawdid psitacist my bro.

>>10554489
what do you like about it? I would hope you can name a few, but start with 1. But serious give like 3 or 4 things

>>10554534
>>10554489
*do = dont

>>10554509
whats the picture represent, that you are arab and so do not associate well with pig? you will have no pearls or swine on your plate? But many other people will believe the reason for your belief is that you do not want to be a cannibal?

whitman is great

>Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently to me,
>Whispering I love you, before long I die,
>I have travel'd a long way merely to look on you to touch you,
>For I could not die till I once look'd on you,
>For I fear'd I might afterward lose you...

>>10554457
What are your top 10 favorite books
>inb4 *blushes* "but that has nothing to do with anything!! *hand over mouth* tehehehee"

>>10554509
>Old sayings are always lucid and full of feelings and meanings, right?
this must be in the top 10 embarrassing things youve said in the thread

>>10550554
Leaves of grass appeals to people who live in big cities, who have never seen or experienced nature first hand. An Alaskan would likely find this work a very poor imitation of nature/life, and as such a work that cannot inspire a person who lives out there.

>>10554579
t. I am 17 and have never read the text in question but have an opinion because saying things makes me feel like I am participating and contributing and is like a little kiss from mommy and a pat on my back

>>10554534
Trite theme approached simple and lamely. I think the way I didn't like it is pretty obvious. That's why I qualified it ad kitsch and said which aspects of the generally accepted definition of kitsch I find adequate for Leaves of Grass.
>>10554543
Just wanted to post a soccer playa's pic mayne
>>10554549
I'll say if you say yours! Teehee ;)
>>10554559
Mind to ellaborate on that top 10?

>>10554585
Nigga stop it. This whole thang is autistic.

>>10554457
Actually a few anons have pointed to things they like. You're just illiterate and/or wilfully ignorant.
>>10551704
>>10553919
>>10554452
Try harder at agendaposting

>>10554634
The first post is a guide to read Whitman, not a rundown of its virtues.
Randall Jarrell ain't an anon.
The third one argues in favor of it being verse and not prose by the presence of tropes, with the same words that could be applied to literally any poem with those same tropes. It isn't about the poem's quality.

>>10551239
This is like a breath of fresh air. Fucking fantastic.

>>10554686
Look man, make all the excuses you want. If you dont wanna read Whitman then you're not going to and no one will convince you. Ultimately this thread comes down to "validate my opinion!" or "prove me wrong!" It aint our job to educate you. That's what criticism is for. And yes, it may be cool and hip to reject one of the giants in the canon, to say, "i dont know what all the fuss is, he's not very good, so I'm not wasting my time on him." Because what you're really saying is "you all got duped and I'm the only one who sees it." But you know what's cooler and hipper than that shit? Reading everything and forming a real educated opinion.

>>10551704
Oh shut the fuck up, I'm a fan of all those and Whitman doesn't hold a fucking candle, who are you trying to fool. Keats and Whitman could not be more different

>>10550554
Whitman forsaw this dispute. He created LoG so that pretentious people could hide in the ivory tower while he himself is thus forever granted eternal life by continuously turning in the grave. Some say there is still a smile on his face and that he's writing another book.

>>10554705
But can you find two or three good Whitman poems? If Leaves of Grass was actually like that I'd be happy

>>10554761
It's well known that whitmans great poems are the long ones, go read them. Not my fault if you have the attention span of an ADDled junkie

>>10554786
That means nothing you fucking moron, that one wasn't even long

>>10554738
Pfffffff. Once again:
I read it. Didn't like it for certain reasons. Mentioned it in this thread. My first post was this >>10554101. Some autists chimped out like it's their job to educate me or I was trying to educate them. Signaled the aburd and corniness of their arguments. That was all. Don't try to read more into it or give me lessons on how I should approach reading things in a future, cuz you ain't a certified educator either, man.

>>10554761
I think the 1855 Leaves of Grass is uniformly excellent. Whitman’s imagination was so rich and his control of language was so keen in the first edition. He added to it constantly and the Deathbed edition, I think, is an amorphous mess.

Find a copy of the 1855 (Penguin has one, it’s included in the Library of America edition) and read that. Chant it aloud to yourself. Forget about parsing the meaning of each line and rather let the celebratory sentiment wash over you. I didn’t really get or enjoy Whitman until I read him with an enthusiastic professor. He told me I was being too british in my taste and I needed “to swim naked in Whitman and just enjoy yourself”. I hope you find something you like in it.

>>10554791
>that one wasnt even long
>that one
I assume you're referring to have you reckoned a thousand acres much? In which case, are you retarded? That's song of myself. The longest poem he wrote.

>>10554803
Oh, you're dorflesposter. Never mind. Your opinion was already discarded

>>10554841
Oh why man man why? As I've said, I'm genuinely interested unless you're about to come up with multitudes of feelings contained in the text and readings in the woods

>>10554829
Shit post a section of Endymion a couple years later and I might not pick it up either

>>10554806
>“to swim naked in Whitman and just enjoy yourself”
Sounds like he wanted to diddle ya m8

>>10554911
He was a flaming homosexual, but nothing ever happened. I suspect I wasn’t fabulous enough for him.

>>10554586
>I'll say if you say yours! Teehee ;)
In no particular order:
-Ulysses
-Gravitys Rainbow
-Infinite Jest
-The Divine Comedy
-Platos Complete Works
-War and Peace
-Encyclopedia/Dictionary
-The Bible
-Mein Kampf
-Leaves of Grass

>>10555244
exactly!!! most of those books are kitsch!! thanks for proving my point dingus

>>10554586
>Trite theme approached simple and lamely.
What theme is trite? You say trite theme as if there is one theme? (personal note: curious...odd) The final edition has over 400 poems.

What is this theme you speak of? Why is it trite? In what way is it approached simple and lamely? What are examples of a non trite theme approached non simply and lamely?

You still havent answered the question I have asked many times: Have you read the full final text?

You claim Leaves of Grass is:

"it is a problem of individuals who believe that art should only produce pleasant, sugary feelings; or even that art should form a kind of 'condiment', a kind of 'background music', a decoration"

You have defintely not read more than 30 pages of the text and you are a barbarous fool.

Why do you think the bulk of the text is sugary, or produce pleasant feelings? I said the first time I read it I was ashamed of my profane inadequacy and humbled at genius and brilliance, it made me depressed and hate myself and life.. the opposite of what you are claiming the text is. How can non art, how can sugary pleasant art make me feel this way? Was it intended to? Does it mean it is high art because it made me feel that way? And inspired me to strive to be greater in every way I could?

>>10555244
This is just /lit/ with token /pol/ and leaves of grass added

>>10554586
lets get one thing clear also, youre not a writer are you? No yada yada back talk rhetorical buying time deflecting...yes or no?

>>10555318
What should my top 10 books be? What are yours?

>>10555244
>Encyclopedia/Dictionary
Lol. Which one/s?
Anyway: Woodcutters (Bernhard), Ulysses (Joyce) In search of lost time (Proust), Swords like lips (Aleixandre), The flowers of evil (Baudelaire), Cemetery by the sea* (Valéry), Return to Región (Benet), Discourse on the method (Descartes), Odyssey (Homer), Complete Short Stories (Chekhov).
*not originally a book but whatever
>>10555290
Soteriological virtue of nature.
I read the Penguin edition. Which essential or qualitative differences would you say there are between this and the final text? Once again, genuinely interested about the possible concrete virtues of the work.
>Why do you think the bulk of the text is sugary, or produce pleasant feelings? I said the first time I read it I was ashamed of my profane inadequacy and humbled at genius and brilliance, it made me depressed and hate myself and life.. the opposite of what you are claiming the text is. How can non art, how can sugary pleasant art make me feel this way? Was it intended to? Does it mean it is high art because it made me feel that way? And inspired me to strive to be greater in every way I could?
Every reading story like yours is accompanied by one hundred of "ecstasied" mystical ones that fit better with the work. Even tho, I don't usually trust in epiphanic readings of that kind, whether they're "happy" or contrite.
>>10555320
The fuck you mean. The question is childish as hell. Wtf is being "a writer".
However, I write, I'm writer.

>>10550554
this thread gave me vertigo, why can’t you all have some dignity and good taste? why does it feel like im browsing reddit or the YT comments section or listening to gangle pseud uglies bickering in the commons? leaving this place

>>10555464
>Swords like lips (Aleixandre)
if you can find any in english can you post some lines from this, so we can have examples of comparison? Some lines of that you think are good, succeed.

>>10555481
Are you retarded? OP only asked to show him why people consider this book to be good. It's quite normal to ask questions like that. It's all about expanding horizons. You seem to judge people for not (yet) experiencing something that is not essential to their daily lives. How many people have you bullied today?

>>10555325
There are two ways to look at it, best books you've read, and your favorites, because of Mein Khampf I'm assuming you picked the latter. I actually haven't thought of my favorite books, in no order
Ada or Ardor
Percy-Bysshe Shelley
Moby Dick
Hamlet
Paradise Lost

>>10555495
I don't own any translation of it so my chances of finding one on the Internet are the same as yours. Do you want some untranslated examples?

Even tho, it's also childish as fuck to go for a comparison between some poetry I like and some I don't. Poetry's quality is not univocal. I think this is evident.

>>10555547
>Do you want some untranslated examples?
yes please
And I will scroll through that pdf of LoG I posted earlier at random and copy paste them here with confidence at random they wll be brilliant and worthy of attention admiration and praise

>>10555547
if you are the pesky kitsch poster, I still do not know what you mean, so let me try to beat around the bush towards trimming it and grabbing it firmly at his branched roots, and ask you do you mean this do you mean this, because with no offense, I have not understood what you are trying to get at with that label...sugary words, ideas.. pleasentness: I asked: can high art, can art, can good art, can great art, not be pleasant?

When you use that word, are you pointing to what you believe is a lack of density; stylistically, intellectually, a lack of vividy/vividality? It is too easy to consume? Average intellects (you think, because you are not sure how much of it they have actually read and out of that how deeply of it they have actually empassionedly understood) too easily can read it and grasp it? It is not clever and witty enough? it is not sharp and poigniant and profound enough? It is not dark and dreary with intense feelings enough, of loss, longing, pain, suffering, the horrors of life? There is not enough sonorous beauty, not sublime enough rhythm and flow and soaring of line?

Is any of this what you, or kitsch user, meant when they tossed the term at a great one?

>>10555464
>Soteriological virtue of nature.
define nature. What isnt nature? Tools and man made things, Whitman talks about tools and man made things and praises them and discusses them.

What necessarily makes: Discussing or appearing to proclaim there is a soteriological virtue of nature: Kitsch?

Do you know there is no Soteriological virtue of nature?

>>10555464
>Every reading story like yours is accompanied by one hundred of "ecstasied" mystical ones that fit better with the work
Oh, I felt that way too. Its just not that I thought the text had one theme, and I did not feel one way, one can say, I felt multitudes, and I believe the text contained multitudes.

O the joy of the strong-brawn’d fighter, towering in the arena in perfect
condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his opponent.
O the joy of that vast elemental sympathy which only the human soul is
capable of generating and emitting in steady and limitless floods.
O the mother’s joys!
The watching, the endurance, the precious love, the anguish, the
patiently yielded life.
O the of increase, growth, recuperation,
The joy of soothing and pacifying, the joy of concord and harmony.
O to go back to the place where I was born,
To hear the birds sing once more,
To ramble about the house and barn and over the fields once more,
And through the orchard and along the old lanes once more.
O to have been brought up on bays, lagoons, creeks, or along the coast,
To continue and be employ’d there all my life,
The briny and damp smell, the shore, the salt weeds exposed at low
water,

The work of fishermen, the work of the eel-fisher and clam-fisher;
I come with my clam-rake and spade, I come with my eel-spear,
Is the tide out? I Join the group of clam-diggers on the flats,
I laugh and work with them, I joke at my work like a mettlesome
young man;
In winter I take my eel-basket and eel-spear and travel out on foot on
the ice—I have a small axe to cut holes in the ice,
Behold me well-clothed going gayly or returning in the afternoon, my
brood of tough boys accompanying me,
My brood of grown and part-grown boys, who love to be with no one
else so well as they love to be with me,
By day to work with me, and by night to sleep with me.

Another time in warm weather out in a boat, to lift the lobster-pots
where they are sunk with heavy stones, (I know the buoys,)
O the sweetness of the Fifth-month morning upon the water as I row
just before sunrise toward the buoys,


I pull the wicker pots up slantingly, the dark green lobsters are desperate
with their claws as I take them out, I insert wooden pegs in the
‘oints of their pincers,
I go to all the places one after another, and then row back to the shore,
There in a huge kettle of boiling water the lobsters shall be boil’d till
their color becomes scarlet.
Another time mackerel-taking,
Voracious, mad for the hook, near the surface, they seem to fill the
water for miles;
Another time fishing for rock-fish in Chesapeake bay, I one of the
brown-faced crew;
Another time trailing for blue-fish off Paumanok, I stand with braced
body,
My left foot is on the gunwale, my right arm throws far out the coils of
slender rope,
In sight around me the quick veering and darting of fifty skiffs, my
companions.

O boating on the rivers,
The voyage down the St. Lawrence, the superb scenery, the steamers,
The ships sailing, the Thousand Islands, the occasional timber-raft and
the raftsmen with long-reaching sweep-oars,
The little huts on the rafts, and the stream of smoke when they cook
supper at evening.
(O something pernicious and dread!
Something far away from a puny and pious life!
Something unproved! something in a trance!
Something escaped from the anchorage and driving free.)
O to work in mines, or forging iron,
Foundry casting, the foundry itself, the rude high roof, the ample and
shadow’d space,
The furnace, the hot liquid pour’d out and running.
O to resume the joys of the soldier!
To feel the presence of a brave commanding officer—to feel his sympathy!
To behold his calmness—to be warm’d in the rays of his smile!

To go to battle—to hear the bugles play and the drums beat!
To hear the crash of artillery—to see the glittering of the bayonets and
musket-barrels in the sun!
To see men fall and die and not complain!
To taste the savage taste of blood—to be so devilish!
To gloat so over the wounds and deaths of the enemy.
O the whaleman’s joys! O I cruise my old cruise again!
I feel the ship’s motion under me, I feel the Atlantic breezes fanning me,
I hear the cry again sent down from the mast-head, There—she blows!
Again I spring up the rigging to look with the rest—we descend, wild
with excitement,
I leap in the lower’d boat, we row toward our prey where he lies,
We approach stealthy and silent, I see the mountainous mass, lethargic,
basking,
I see the harpooneer standing up, I see the weapon dart from his
vigorous arm;
O swift again far out in the ocean the wounded whale, settling, running
to windward, tows me,
Again I see him rise to breathe, we row close again,
I see a lance driven through his side, press’d deep, turn’d in the wound,
Again we back off, I see him settle again, the life is leaving him fast,

As he rises he spouts blood, I see him swim in circles narrower and
narrower, swiftly cutting the water—I see him die,
He gives one convulsive leap in the centre of the circle, and then falls
flat and still in the bloody foam.
O the old manhood of me, my noblest joy of all!
My children and grand-children, my white hair and beard,
My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the long stretch of my life.

O ripen’d joy of womanhood! O happiness at last!
I am more than eighty years of age, I am the most venerable mother,
How clear is my mind—how all people draw nigh to me!
What attractions are these beyond any before? what bloom more than
the bloom of youth?
What beauty is this that descends upon me and rises out of me?
O the orator’s joys!

To inflate the chest, to roll the thunder of the voice out from the ribs
and throat,
To make the people rage, weep, hate, desire, with yourself,
To lead America—to quell America with a great tongue.
O the joy of my soul leaning pois’d on itself, receiving identity through
materials and loving them, observing characters and absorbing them,
My soul vibrated back to me from them, from sight, hearing, touch,
reason, articulation, comparison, memory, and the like,
The real life of my senses and flesh transcending my senses and flesh,
My body done with materials, my sight done with my material eyes,
Proved to me this day beyond cavil that it is not my material eyes which
finally see,
Nor my material body which finally loves, walks, laughs, shouts,
embraces, procreates.

O the farmer’s joys!
Ohioan’s, Illinoisian’s, Wisconsinese’, Kanadian’s, Iowan’s, Kansian’s,
Missourian’s, Oregonese’ joys!
To rise at peep of day and pass forth nimbly to work,
To plough land in the fall for winter-sown crops,
To plough land in the spring for maize,
To train orchards, to graft the trees, to gather apples in the fall.
O to bathe in the swimming-bath, or in a good place along shore,
To splash the water! to walk ankle-deep, or race naked along the shore.
O to realize space!
The plenteousness of all, that there are no bounds,
To emerge and be of the sky, of the sun and moon and flying clouds, as
one with them.
O the joy a manly self-hood!
To be servile to none, to defer to none, not to any tyrant known or
unknown,
To walk with erect carriage, a step springy and elastic,
To look with calm gaze or with a flashing eye,
To speak with a full and sonorous voice out of a broad chest,
To confront with your personality all the other personalities of the earth.


Knowist thou the excellent joys of youth?
Joys of the dear companions and of the merry word and laughing face?
Joy of the glad light-beaming day, joy of the wide-breath’d games?
Joy of sweet music, joy of the lighted ball-room and the dancers?
Joy of the plenteous dinner, strong carouse and drinking?
Yet O my soul supreme!
Knowist thou the joys of pensive thought?
Joys of the free and lonesome heart, the tender, gloomy heart?
Joys of the solitary walk, the spirit bow’d yet proud, the suffering and
the struggle?
The agonistic throes, the ecstasies, joys of the solemn musings day or
night?
Joys of the thought of Death, the great spheres Time and Space?
Prophetic joys of better, loftier love’s ideals, the divine wife, the sweet,
eternal, perfect comrade?
Joys all thine own undying one, joys worthy thee O soul.
O while I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave,
To meet life as a powerful conqueror,
No fumes, no ennui, no more complaints or scornful criticisms,
To these proud laws of the air, the water and the ground, proving my
interior soul impregnable,
And nothing exterior shall ever take command of me.

Built of the common stock, having room for far and near,
Used to dispense with other lands, incarnating this land,
Attracting it body and soul to himself, hanging on its neck with
incomparable love,
Plunging his seminal muscle into its merits and demerits,
Making its cities, beginnings, events, diversities, wars, vocal in him,
Making its rivers, lakes, bays, embouchure in him,
Mississippi with yearly freshets and changing chutes, Columbia,
Niagara, Hudson, spending themselves lovingly in him,
If the Atlantic coast stretch or the Pacific coast stretch, he stretching
with them North or South,
Spanning between them East and West, and touching whatever is
between them,
Growths growing from him to offset the growths of pine, cedar,
hemlock, live-oak, locust, chestnut, hickory, cottonwood, orange,
magnolia,

Tangles as tangled in him as any canebrake or swamp,
He likening sides and peaks of mountains, forests coated with northern
transparent ice,
Off him pasturage sweet and natural as savanna, upland, prairie,
Through him flights, whirls, screams, answering those of the fish-hawk,
mocking-bird, night-heron, and eagle,
His spirit surrounding his country’s spirit, unclosed to good and evil,
Surrounding the essences of real things, old times and present times,
Surrounding just found shores, islands, tribes of red aborigines,
Weather-beaten vessels, landings, settlements, embryo stature and muscle,
The haughty defiance of the Year One, war, peace, the formation of the
Constitution,
The separate States, the simple elastic scheme, the immigrants,
The Union always swarming with blatherers and always sure and
impregnable,
The unsurvey’d interior, log-houses, clearings, wild animals, hunters,
trappers,
Surrounding the multiform agriculture, mines, temperature, the
gestation of new States,

Congress convening every Twelfth-month, the members duly coming
up from the uttermost parts,
Surrounding the noble character of mechanics and farmers, especially
the young men,
Responding their manners, speech, dress, friendships, the gait they have

of persons who never knew how it felt to stand in the presence of
superiors,
The freshness and candor of their physiognomy, the copiousness and
decision of their phrenology,
The picturesque looseness of their carriage, their fierceness when wrong’d,
The fluency of their speech, their delight in music, their curiosity, good
temper and open-handedness, the whole composite make,
The prevailing ardor and enterprise, the large amativeness,
The perfect equality of the female with the male, the fluid movement of
the population,

The superior marine, free commerce, fisheries, whaling, gold-digging,
Wharf-hemm’d cities, railroad and steamboat lines intersecting all
points,
Factories, mercantile life, labor-saving machinery, the Northeast,
Northwest, Southwest,
Manhattan firemen, the Yankee swap, southern plantation life,
Slavery—the murderous, treacherous conspiracy to raise it upon the
ruins of all the rest,
On and on to the grapple with it—Assassin! then your life or ours be
the stake, and respite no more.

(Lo, high toward heaven, this day,
Libertad, from the conqueress’ field return’d,
I mark the new aureola around your head,
No more of soft astral, but dazzling and fierce,
With war’s flames and the lambent lightnings playing,
And your port immovable where you stand,
With still the inextinguishable glance and the clinch’d and lifted fist,
And your foot on the neck of the menacing one, the scorner utterly
crush’d beneath you,
The menacing arrogant one that strode and advanced with his senseless
scorn, bearing the murderous knife,
The wide-swelling one, the braggart that would yesterday do so much,
To-day a carrion dead and damn’d, the despised of all the earth,
An offal rank, to the dunghill maggots spurn’d.)


Others take finish, but the Republic is ever constructive and ever keeps vista,
Others adorn the past, but you O days of the present, I adorn you,
O days of the future I believe in you—I isolate myself for your sake,
O America because you build for mankind I build for you,
O well-beloved stone-cutters, I lead them who plan with decision and
science,
Lead the present with friendly hand toward the future.
(Bravas to all impulses sending sane children to the next age!
But damn that which spends itself with no thought of the stain, pains,
dismay, feebleness, it is bequeathing.)
9
I listened to the Phantom by Ontario’s shore,
I heard the voice arising demanding bards,
By them all native and grand, by them alone can these States be fused
into the compact organism of a Nation.

To hold men together by paper and seal or by compulsion is no account,
That only holds men together which aggregates all in a living principle, as
the hold of the limbs of the body or the fibres of plants.
Of all races and eras these States with veins full of poetical stuff most
need poets, and are to have the greatest, and use them the greatest,
Their Presidents shall not be their common referee so much as their
poets shall.
(Soul of love and tongue of fire!
Eye to pierce the deepest deeps and sweep the world!
Ah Mother, prolific and full in all besides, yet how long barren, barren?)
10
Of these States the poet is the equable man,
Not in him but off from him things are grotesque, eccentric, fail of
their full returns,
Nothing out of its place is good, nothing in its place is bad,
He bestows on every object or quality its fit proportion, neither more

nor less,
He is the arbiter of the diverse, he is the key,
He is the equalizer of his age and land,
He supplies what wants supplying, he checks what wants checking,
In peace out of him speaks the spirit of peace, large, rich, thrifty,
building populous towns, encouraging agriculture, arts,
commerce, lighting the study of man, the soul, health, immortality,
government,
In war he is the best backer of the war, he fetches artillery as good as the
engineer’s, he can make every word he speaks draw blood,
The years straying toward infidelity he withholds by his steady faith,
He is no arguer, he is judgment, (Nature accepts him absolutely,)
He judges not as the judge judges but as the sun failing round helpless
thing,
As he sees the farthest he has the most faith,
His thoughts are the hymns of the praise of things,
In the dispute on God and eternity he is silent,
He sees eternity less like a play with a prologue and denouement,
He sees eternity in men and women, he does not see men and women
as dreams or dots.

For the great Idea, the idea of perfect and free individuals,
For that, the bard walks in advance, leader of leaders,
The attitude of him cheers up slaves and horrifies foreign despots.
Without extinction is Liberty, without retrograde is Equality,
They live in the feelings of young men and the best women,
(Not for nothing have the indomitable heads of the earth been always
ready to fall for Liberty.)
11
For the great Idea,
That, O my brethren, that is the mission of poets.
Songs of stern defiance ever ready,
Songs of the rapid arming and the march,
The flag of peace quick-folded, and instead the flag we know,
Warlike flag of the great Idea.


(Angry cloth I saw there leaping!
I stand again in leaden rain your flapping folds saluting,
I sing you over all, flying beckoning through the fight—O the hard-
contested fight!
The cannons ope their rosy-flashing muzzles—the hurtled balls scream,
The battle-front forms amid the smoke—the volleys pour incessant
from the line,
Hark, the ringing word Charge!—now the tussle and the furious
maddening yells,
Now the corpses tumble curl’d upon the ground,
Cold, cold in death, for precious life of you,
Angry cloth I saw there leaping.)

Are you he who would assume a place to teach or be a poet here in the
States?
The place is august, the terms obdurate.
Who would assume to teach here may well prepare himself body and mind,
He may well survey, ponder, arm, fortify, harden, make lithe himself,
He shall surely be question’d beforehand by me with many and stern
questions.
Who are you indeed who would talk or sing to America?
Have you studied out the land, its idioms and men?
Have you learn’d the physiology, phrenology, politics, geography, pride,
freedom, friendship of the land? its substratums and objects?
Have you consider’d the organic compact of the first day of the first
year of Independence, sign’d by the Commissioners, ratified by the
States, and read by Washington at the head of the army?
Have you possess’d yourself of the Federal Constitution?
Do you see who have left all feudal processes and poems behind them,
and assumed the poems and processes of Democ racy?

Are you faithful to things? do you teach what the land and sea, the
bodies of men, womanhood, amativeness, heroic angers, teach?
Have you sped through fleeting customs, popularities?
Can you hold your hand against all seductions, follies, whirls, fierce
contentions? are you very strong? are you really of the whole People?
Are you not of some coterie? some school or mere religion?

Are you done with reviews and criticisms of life? animating now to life itself?
Have you vivified yourself from the maternity of these States?
Have you too the old ever-fresh forbearance and impartiality?
Do you hold the like love for those hardening to maturity? for the last-
born? little and big? and for the errant?
What is this you bring my America?
Is it uniform with my country?
Is it not something that has been better told or done before?
Have you not imported this or the spirit of it in some ship?
Is it not a mere tale? a rhyme? a prettiness?—Is the good old cause in it?
Has it not dangled long at the heels of the poets, politicians, literats, of
enemies’ lands?
Does it not assume that what is notoriously gone is still here?
Does it answer universal needs? will it improve manners?
Does it sound with trumpet-voice the proud victory of the Union in
that secession war?
Can your performance face the open fields and the seaside?
Will it absorb into me as I absorb food, air, to appear again in my
strength, gait, face?
Have real employments contributed to it? original makers, not mere
amanuenses?

Does it meet modern discoveries, calibres, facts, face to face?
What does it mean to American persons, progresses, cities? Chicago,
Kanada, Arkansas?
Does it see behind the apparent custodians the real custodians standing,
menacing, silent, the mechanics, Manhattanese, Western men,
Southerners, significant alike in their apathy, and in the promptness of
their love?
Does it see what finally befalls, and has always finally befallen, each
temporizer, patcher, outsider, partialist, alarmist, infidel, who has
ever ask’d any thing of America?
What mocking and scornful negligence?
The track strew’d with the dust of skeletons,
By the roadside others disdainfully toss’d.

Rhymes and rhymers pass away, poems distill’d from poems pass away,
The swarms of reflectors and the polite pass, and leave ashes,


Admirers, importers, obedient persons, make but the soil of literature,
America justifies itself, give it time, no disguise can deceive it or conceal
from it, it is impassive enough,
Only toward the likes of itself will it advance to meet them,
If its poets appear it will in due time advance to meet them, there is no
fear of mistake,
(The proof of a poet shall be sternly deferr’d till his country absorbs
him as affectionately as he has absorb’d it.)
He masters whose spirit masters, he tastes sweetest who results sweetest
in the long run,
The blood of the brawn beloved of time is unconstraint;
In the need of songs, philosophy, an appropriate native grand-opera,
shipcraft, any craft,
He or she is greatest who contributes the greatest original practical example.
Already a nonchalant breed, silently emerging, appears on the streets,
People’s lips salute only doers, lovers, satisfiers, positive knowers,
There will shortly be no more priests, I say their work is done,
Death is without emergencies here, but life is perpetual emergencies here,
Are your body, days, manners, superb? after death you shall be superb,
Justice, health, self-esteem, clear the way with irresistible power;
How dare you place any thing before a man?

where oh where have the little psueds gone, oh where oh where can they beeee, i forgot the other style words of this song...ohhhh whereeee ohh wheree can they beee

>>10555840
im right here pleb!

>>10555853
noice, I havent even read those sections I posted yet, but they looked epic, gonna read em later

You honestly can't see the consonances that are strung together within the lines you just posted, compared to Rupi Kaur's crap?

Listen to the 'l' sounds.

>>10555565
Imma post a couple of poems from Espadas como labios but I'm not going to answer to the rest of your questions. I don't have interest because I have no interest in unnecessarily breaking down concepts ("what do you mean by nature?") and affirmations the content of which seem to me like pretty obvious to anyone while I have to deal with vague, rapt, blank-eyed defenses of a text.
If you understand and like the poems in the original, that's alright.
>X
He acudido Dos clavos están solos
punta a punta. Caricia yo te amo
Bajo tierra los besos no esperados
ese silencio que es carbón, no llama.
Arder como una gruta entre las manos
Morir sin horizonte por palabras
oyendo que nos llaman con los pelos
>El vals
Eres hermosa como la piedra,
oh difunta;
Oh viva, oh viva, eres dichosa como la nave.
Esta orquesta que agita
mis cuidados como una negligencia,
como un elegante bendecir de buen tono,
ignora el vello de los pubis,
ignora la risa que sale del esternón como una gran batuta.

Unas olas de afrecho,
un poco de serrín en los ojos,
o si acaso en las sienes,
o acaso adornando las cabelleras;
unas faldas largas hechas de colas de cocodrilos;
unas lenguas o unas sonrisas hechas con caparazones de cangrejos.
Todo lo que está suficientemente visto
no puede sorprender a nadie.

Las damas aguardan su momento sentadas sobre una lágrima,
disimulando la humedad a fuerza de abanico insistente.
Y los caballeros abandonados de sus traseros
quieren atraer todas las miradas a la fuerza hacia sus bigotes.

Pero el vals ha llegado.
Es una playa sin ondas,
es un entrechocar de conchas, de tacones, de espumas o de dentaduras postizas.
Es todo lo revuelto que arriba.

Pechos exuberantes en bandeja en los brazos,
dulces tartas caídas sobre los hombros llorosos,
una languidez que revierte,
un beso sorprendido en el instante que se hacía «cabello de ángel»,
un dulce «sí» de cristal pintado de verde.

Un polvillo de azúcar sobre las frentes
da una blancura cándida a las palabras limadas,
y las manos se acortan más redondeadas que nunca,
mientras fruncen los vestidos hechos de esparto querido.

Las cabezas son nubes, la música es una larga goma,
las colas de plomo casi vuelan, y el estrépito
se ha convertido en los corazones en oleadas de sangre,
en un licor, si blanco, que sabe a memoria o a cita.

Adiós, adiós, esmeralda, amatista o misterio;
adiós, como una bola enorme ha llegado el instante,
el preciso momento de la desnudez cabeza abajo,
cuando los vellos van a pinchar los labios obscenos que saben.
Es el instante, el momento de decir la palabra que estalla,
el momento en que los vestidos se convertirán en aves,
las ventanas en gritos,
las luces en ¡socorro!
y ese beso que estaba (en el rincón) entre dos bocas
se convertirá en una espina
que dispensará la muerte diciendo:
Yo os amo.

>>10556287
>I don't have interest because I
Oh shite.
Whatever, farewell. Ima take a shower and prolly wank.

Emerson is more poetical and better than Whitman.

>>10556205
Someone should put Whitman poems in that format at attribute them to Kapur lmao

>>10556291
post some excerpts

>>10556287
how close is this?
**************

I have attended two nails are not alone
tip to tip. Caress i love
under the ground kissing not expected
that silence that is coal, not flame.
Burn like a grotto between the hands to
die without horizon by words
heard that call us with the hairs
the waltz
You are as beautiful as the stone,
oh deceased;
Oh, oh, you are blessed as the ship.
This orchestra that shakes
my care as a negligence,
such as an elegant blessing of good tone,
it ignores the hair of the pubis,
ignored the laughter that comes out of the sternum like a big baton.

A few waves of bran,
a bit of sawdust in the eye,
or if in the temples,
or adorning the hair;
long skirts made of queues of crocodiles;
tongues or smiles made with shells of crabs.
Everything that is sufficiently seen
cannot come as a surprise to anyone.

The ladies await your time sitting on a tear,
hiding the moisture to force range insistent.
And the knights abandoned their rear
want to attract all eyes to the force toward their whiskers.

But the waltz has arrived.
It is a beach without waves,
is a clashing of shells, high heels, foams or dentures.
Is all stirred up.

Lush breasts in tray on the arms,
sweet cakes falls on the shoulders watery eyes,
a languor which reverses,
a kiss surprised at the instant that angel hair,
a sweet if glass painted green.

A dust on the foreheads of sugar
gives a whiteness candida to the words filed,
and the hands are shorter more rounded than ever,
while frown dresses made of esparto grass.

The heads are clouds, the music is a long rubber,
the queues of lead almost fly, and the din
has become the hearts in waves of blood,
in a liqueur, if white, who knows how to memory or appointment.

Bye, bye, emerald, Amethyst or mystery;
goodbye, as a huge ball has arrived the moment,
the precise moment of nakedness head down,
when the hairs are going to pinch the lips obscene they know.
It is the instant, the time of say the word that explodes,
the moment in which the dresses will be converted in birds,
the windows,
lights on screaming HELP!
And that kiss that was (in the corner) between two mouths
will become a thorn
that dispense death saying
I love you.

>>10556287
How would you feel if poets/writers you liked, admired greatly, for example Vicente Aleixandre, or Baudelaire, if they greatly liked and admire Walt Whitman? Would that make you think less of those writers? More of Whitman? Or you are certain all your favorite writers would share your same views on him?

>>10556555
It's quite wrong desu. The first one has almost one grievous error in each verse. The second one ain't much better.
>>10556565
These questions... Are you genuinely mentally challenged or something mane? It's not like I'm holding a personal crusade against Whitman mane. I just didn't like Leaves of Grass.

kewl

mad swag

>this thread
I fucking hate you all, Jesus fucking Christ
>Whitman is bad
>no ur bad
You're all such children
I hate you
This thread makes me angry
The internet was a mistake

>>10558076
nice detailed explanation asshole, noone can just believe your unsubstantiated proclamation and take you at your for all everyone knows psuedific untrustworthy word

>>10556686
Different anon. Didn't like Leaves? Otherwise a poetry reader or did (you) just pick it up?

Waltys pretty swell

dopppe mang

I like Walt Whitman.

>>10550554
>I don't understand! Why is he talking like that! Because I don't understand it, it's obviously horrible!

Lines breaks magnify the voice, they add nuances and dimension to the writing. "Cradle," for example, wouldn't sound at all the same if the line breaks were removed, the piece would not be as evocative and the content wouldn't have an even remotely similar impact.

sweg sweg sweg sweg

>>10561810
It's perfectly ok to not understand and to want to understand. OP did just that. Very few have answered his question. Most are rather mocking him or insulting each other like a bunch of teenage girls.

>>10551356
He's not difficult to understand.

>starting a sentence with "Or"
Retard

>>10551356
>One does
Absolutely soy

>>10551356
Pseud, pleb, & cringelord detected.

sweglor detected sweg sweg sweg sweg sweg

swang on em sweng sweng sweng sweg sweg swag swag swag swag swag swag dab on em dab dab dab dab dab sweglor sweglor do it oh my oh my lor oh oh

>>10564027
>>10562780
>>10562312
>>10561706
>>10557443
>>10557832
Seek professional help, lardass

Polite sage

>>10564484
impolite swag swag swag swag swag swag swag swag swag swag swag swag swag swag swag swag

>>10562426
When will the soy meme end? Just call him a cuck or something

>>10562435
>t. too stupid to understand that he's a trite little bitch
Whatever (YOU) say, faggot

>>10562415
Yeah, unless of course (YOU) clearly don't.
>Retard
Hey, good one..

LEAVES OF GRASS MY ASS

>>10565369
>(you) in every single post
>not realising how stupid he sounds
What a gigantic faggot

stunt on em...swag swag....do the nae nae.....yea yea