Esteemed Readers:
I find myself at a crossroads, as I know many of you and the rest of the world do too. To gain perspective and serenity when conflicts rage—locally, nationally, worldwide—it is tempting to withdraw, ignore, turn inward. 2023 has provided us so many reasons to recoil—2024 promises more of the same.
May you not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it—
May you comprehend the word ‘serenity’ and may you know peace—
May you come to know a new freedom and a new happiness
-adapted from “The AA Promises”
It feels like a moment for a good primal scream to purge the madness, but instead, I’m offering here the hauntingly sonorous blasts of a Celtic carnyx, along with the last 16 lines of Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”—the final of 52 verses, correlated to the weeks of the year, and somehow fitting in these last moments of the year.
Maybe we need a good battle cry of the spirit right now—I know I do. I’m so taken with Uncle Walt’s imagery of the hawk, of sky and the elements and the interconnectedness of the cosmos, that I’m going to make a little project of it. I’m feeling called.
Each week in 2024 I’ll note in my Friday post a favorite line from the corresponding verse of “Song of Myself”—called the greatest American poem every written1—with links to the relevant page on the University of Iowa’s WhitmanWeb, and an audio recording.
Perhaps this attempt at a close reading will create some space, an opening for wider empathy—an unfolding-toward rather than a shrinking-from.
Let’s call it an invocation of loving-kindness, an appeal to the sacred in all of us.
I’m also starting a Thread to Discuss.
My humble wish: that people of good conscience, to the best of their abilities, in large ways or small, continue to hope, strive and grow toward greater peace, understanding, and compassion.
Song of Myself | Verse 52
by Walt Whitman
AUDIO - read by Eric Forsythe
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you2
Parini, Jay (March 11, 2011). "The 10 best American poems". The Guardian.
LINK: WhitmanWeb notes that most of the 1855 first editions of Leaves of Grass, in which “Song of Myself” first appeared, were missing a period at the end of this last verse due to a printing error, and though it was not his intention as many people at the time assumed, I adore the idea that W.W. would have left this final line open-ended.
I don't know the poem, so a slow exploration of it each week seems a lovely idea.
Can't believe we're in January now. I look forward to the weekly rhythm of Ford Knows keeping me afloat 🤗
I love this idea, Troy. We all must find more opportunities to find peace in our hearts and extend that peace into the world.