Electric
I was in my psyc 150 class... and my professor decided to read us one of whitman's poem. he explained that often times... the arts can explain human behavior better than any psychologist could. sitting in my super tiny desk... i couldnt help but think to myself.... 'amen, brotha.'
here is an excerpt of sing the body electric by walt whitman
id you dont like it,
die.
But the expression of a well-made man appears not
only in his face;
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the
joints of his hips and wrists;
It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his
waist and knees—dress does not hide him;
The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes through
the cotton and flannel;
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem,
perhaps more;
You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck
and shoulder-side.
5 The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and
heads of women, the folds of their dress, their
style as we pass in the street, the contour of
their shape downwards,
The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he
swims through the transparent green-shine, or
lies with his face up, and rolls silently to and fro
in the heave of the water,
The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-
boats—the horseman in his saddle,
Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,
The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their
open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,
The female soothing a child—the farmer's daughter in
the garden or cow-yard,
The young fellow hoeing corn—the sleigh-driver guiding
his six horses through the crowd,
The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite
grown, lusty, good natured, native-born, out on
the vacant lot at sun-down, after work,
The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love
and resistance,
The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over
and blinding the eyes;
The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play
of masculine muscle through clean-setting trow-
sers and waist-straps,
The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell
strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the
alert,
The natural, perfect, varied attitudes—the bent head,
the curv'd neck, and the counting;
Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the
mother's breast with the little child,
Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march
in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, and
count.
here is an excerpt of sing the body electric by walt whitman
id you dont like it,
die.
But the expression of a well-made man appears not
only in his face;
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the
joints of his hips and wrists;
It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his
waist and knees—dress does not hide him;
The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes through
the cotton and flannel;
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem,
perhaps more;
You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck
and shoulder-side.
5 The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and
heads of women, the folds of their dress, their
style as we pass in the street, the contour of
their shape downwards,
The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he
swims through the transparent green-shine, or
lies with his face up, and rolls silently to and fro
in the heave of the water,
The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-
boats—the horseman in his saddle,
Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,
The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their
open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,
The female soothing a child—the farmer's daughter in
the garden or cow-yard,
The young fellow hoeing corn—the sleigh-driver guiding
his six horses through the crowd,
The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite
grown, lusty, good natured, native-born, out on
the vacant lot at sun-down, after work,
The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love
and resistance,
The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over
and blinding the eyes;
The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play
of masculine muscle through clean-setting trow-
sers and waist-straps,
The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell
strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the
alert,
The natural, perfect, varied attitudes—the bent head,
the curv'd neck, and the counting;
Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the
mother's breast with the little child,
Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march
in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, and
count.
posted by adri alva at
9:47 PM
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