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Letter to Walt Whitman

In Response to Song of Myself

By Keilie Desirea RosePublished 6 years ago 12 min read
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My Dear Walt Whitman,

Primarily, I feel compelled, before any other written action of mine is composed, I am compelled to exceedingly compliment your blatantly-written work, Song of Myself, as one of the best I've ever had the pleasure of perusing and contemplating! Were I to travel in time to meet you, I would convey the impeccable impact your artfully-written work has had on literature even to my own day and time, in the year 2013. The book my literature class studies praises and quotes you as "the poet of both the beautiful and the plain, the body and the soul; [and says] his sexual honesty and refusal to feel ashamed of the body was a slap in the face to Victorian prudishness."

Presently, I would like to compose my own "song of myself" for if time travel could ever be invented, I should like very much to send this composition to you, that you may peruse it and provide feedback in a letter of similar means, left in a place we both have knowledge of in our present times.

When I begin Song of Myself I fall into a state of peace and your words take me here and there; first in a green meadow, lying on my belly, the grass tickling my nose and chin and arms. My hands support my face as I gaze out into the perfect harmony of the singing wind through the grasses, whispering to me, laughing in the sun, like a myriad of stifled giggling youths.

I follow you to the "bank by the wood." You are Adam before the Fall and I am but a deer at the watering basin observing before the Fear.

Then, as if we are one, I feel your settling inspiration and your pulse and "the passing of blood and air though [your] lungs." I smell the leaves, the sea, the hay in the barn. I feel alive, as I rise each morning to greet the sun.

I try to understand the questions you ask and learn their meaning though thought and answer them. I think of earth often, its vast land and significant size. I have learned how to read. I understand poetry but not all of it. I am young at 21 and still have much to learn.

My sense of self and confidence in myself increases tenfold by your encouragement.

Through this song our souls are intertwined. Though these works I am connected to you. I play abundant roles as you do.

Now I am as your lover, loafing with you in the grass, talking to you, as you listen, soothed by my valvéd voice. We happily reminisce of a summer morning in the same meadow, bestowing sweet kisses on thy breastbone. You write of the peace and knowledge I also bestowed upon you.

I've held in the palm of my heart, this sweet summertime bliss of lovers meeting by the moonlight in the grass and in the water, the silvery light of the moon washing over my body and shining in the eyes of my love as he gazes upon me.

Now I am God, your brother, and your sister; and men and women are brothers and sisters and lovers and love is the basis of all creation.

I am a child now asking "what is the grass." You can only guess. One guess brings together the races of humanity and you acknowledge they are all the same, no matter their title or origin. You see all grasses the same. I am a grass and you love me. You translate our grasses' strange yet familiar language. We all have it. We all are alive and well somewhere. All lives on, goes onward and outward. What is death? Death is known by none, yet supposed by all.

We are now so many things; old, young, ignorant, wise, rude, considerate, motherly, fatherly, childish, mature; full of coarseness, full of gentle softness. We are comfortable in any setting. Friends to all, learners, teachers. We are all colors, ranks, religions; rich or poor, in every position, we share the air we breathe, and the land we live in.

Each thing is in its rightful place. These thoughts belong to all men. This grass grows everywhere. The air we share is everywhere.

The questions you ask are common among all men: How do I obtain strength from the food I eat? What am I? Why should I pray?

I answer gladly what I know: Science tells us energy is called ATP, adenosine triphosphate, mere elements, of the earth, mere stardust that travels through all living things and is transferred from one to another through digestion. The Chinese call it chi, a force that flows through all living things, providing balance and harmony, yin and yang, sun and rain, light and dark. The religious/zealous call this energy, this force, this incredible thing God, Allah, Yahweh, the Force, Ra, the creator of all. He is in everyone, and everything, Master of all, Adonai.

You are a man. You live and you die. You are dust that returns to dust. You are in the wind and the wind is in you. You can be anything. You are everything. You are stardust. You are called Walt Whitman. I too am stardust. I am called Keilie Ross; a unique arrangement of stardust, as are you.

I pray because I know there is a god. I think his name is Yahweh. How can I know for sure what His name is? But I know He is there. Consider for a moment if there was no god: All peoples and nations of the world could be committed to one gargantuan asylum, for any mental illness is surely the work of the supernatural (schizophrenic ghosts whisper to us; paranoia demons haunt us, angels protect us). So many inspired books couldn't possibly be for nothing; and too many variables, too many just-so ingredients went into making Earth, the tilt of Earth's axis, the distance from the sun, the components of the atmosphere, temperature, that I cannot possibly believe there wasn't a creator; like a baker making cookies, if you forget one minor detail, the whole shebang fails or just isn't as good as it could have been; like the watchmaker and his watch, if you forget a cog or screw, the watch breaks or just doesn’t work.

We are all floating around in one gargantuan bubble 14 billion light-years across; we are infinitesimal specks, like dust on a mantel, in a three-story house in the country miles away from the next country house, mantle, and dust.

We are our own thoughts. I am solid and sound, I am deathless and know I shall only pass from this world to the next to meet my creator and begin brushing into existence my own world made of paint.

I am May, July, September and October, I am the number seventeen, green and black, healthy and not, jasmine, echinacea, honey, stevia, sugar, high fructose corn syrup, caffeine. I am a wife, gentle, dutiful, cleaved unto mine hard-working, providing husband. We are one, one flesh, one mind, soul mates. I am a mother, bonded through carrying, birthing, breastfeeding, cuddling, caring, nurturing, tickling, playing, giggling, dressing, potty-training, chastising, hugging.

You exalt the night, Nyx kisses thee sweetly and cool-breathed Mother earth smiles and blows candy-scented apple blossoms your way.

Stormy Walt Whitman, you care not for modesty, you sensual animal, you speak the hidden words of people, words still largely unspoken, yet some have unlocked their doors, some have even torn theirs to pieces so the rubble lies about to and fro, and the prudish must carefully make their ways through it. You would be gleeful to know how many voices of sexes, lusts, copulation are free to roam in America today. Music clarifies and transfigures these voices each and every day in every music box in countless places.

And yet still the busted doors are censored, the most vulgar pieces removed from the public face. Vulgar words are covered with silence and some with beeps and buzzes.

The little things are to be often minded. I love morning glories and I love books. Daybreak over Laramie--fantastical. Moon-beams on snow, raindrops on roses. First words, first steps, first kicks in the womb hit my listening love, Cody, in the face, tiny gurgling noises, love of rock and roll and Dr. Pepper.

My Jewish nose. His A-cups. The way my gums show too much when I smile big. The tiny brown speck in his left eye. Quirks we love more with each passing day.

Tis November where I am, the second half when leaves are half gone and the winds are now chilling. It is now morning and I stand on my porch pleading with the sun, "Please! Break the clouds Mr. Sun! Warm the wind, today. Please keep winter's sharp sting at bay for one more day. The dreary tide rolls in and only you can break it, I see your trying effort but still you've yet to make it! Hurry, hurry, heat up my bones, caress my cheeks, chase my cold."

Alas, I look again and grey clouds have covered thee, grey and monotonous. My heart sinks heavy with weightless contempt of those cruel clouds hiding my love's bright smile from me.

Any rational human being if given the choice would freely choose to live among placid animals that seek not revenge, that seek not wealth or power, that seek not redemption in the kingdom of Heaven. When I was a child I believed in fairies and the magic of the forest. Now these spirits are called nymphs and they are all but extinct... Man has brought machine and industry and in turn has brought destruction of forests and beautiful landscapes and of the waterways. These nymphs have been cut down and choked, smothered and poisoned to death. I believe there are only a few left...and I am an optimist. Our mother earth is angry with us and seeks revenge: Vesuvius, Katrina, Lake Nyos, Bridge Creek, Tambora, Nargis, Yellowstone is bubbling daily, waiting for Mother's permission to loose his incredible indeterminable destruction and we in America are doomed to receive the same smothering, blinding, choking, fiery fate as Her beloved nymphs, and yet we mock her, turning her threat into a tourist attraction.

Real love isn't all butterflies and meadows. It isn't what you see in movies (those are moving pictures, a 20th century invention). Real love is two people accepting each other for who they are. It's helping them realize and correct poor characteristics-chronic anger/depression and bringing out the good traits to shine. Roses are lovely but not necessary for harmony. Romance is wonderful but not an everyday thing. In fact, real love can be hard at times. The key is not giving up, honesty, sincerity, compassion, passion; quick to forgiveness, learning from mistakes. Time away, absence makes the heart grow fonder and gives you new stories to tell, new sparks. When there are sparks, there becomes flame and when the flame burns out the coals keep burning. Every once in a while you need sparks to rekindle the flame. (Read books for new stories tell new stories. news politics, movies, new stories make new conversations.) Don't let the coals die until you are dead. Hugs, kisses, cuddles. These are sparks. Stories, games, lessons you teach your partner, new skills, and encouragement are sparks. Put-downs, name-calling, harsh words are water on the flames... Many flames burn out, in my day, sadly about half of all flames die... I thank Yahweh my flame is still alive. We feed it new sparks daily, new kindling: passion, love, sparks.

I walk with you now past the city into the garden, savannas, forests, deserts, a river, a jungle, another river, meadow, beaver dam, cane field, cotton field, rice paddy, mountains; everywhere you go, I follow, admiring animals in their habitats, looking on, gazing calmly, spirits on a reflective journey, loafing in the grass while cattle-tails swat the biting demon-spawn with wings, we are flying throughout space and time over cheese-cloth and cobwebs, hearts beating in our breasts, nose--flesh against glass, faces ridiculous.

Come with me now to my memories: I float on a cloud, an angel guarding my brothers, a child trying to catch my toys playing when I leave the room, a girl skipping down grandma's porch and sidewalk, down the street on my bike to the park, scaling the tree by the post office to the very top to watch the sun rise and set, Saturday morning cartoons, Tom & Jerry, Pop-eye, Dexter's Laboratory, Powerpuff Girls, I was a super hero, a ninjeta, a rocker, a skater, a camper and firefly-catcher, a silly teen-ager "in love," a sigher, a cryer, a hoper, dreamer, pretender, hide-n-seek player, gambler, Bug City bug tart-eater, a devout Christian, goody-two shoes, church-goer, rebel, best friend, girlfriend, fiancé, first-time lover, rule-breaker, ex-fiancé, new girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, friend with benefits, heart-acher, weeper, good-kisser, heart-breaker, poet, story-teller, careless bitch, hypocrite, depressed lonely repenting coping finding-the-right-path-again senior, best school dance Swayze-dancer, fun-haver, high school graduate, new church-goer, new girlfriend, new happy wife, Arby's crew NWACC student, truth-about-life searcher, pregnant woman, mother, part of loving family, me.

Your words speak volumes unto me: God is in everything. He is everything. We agree.

Death is not to be feared for life always replaces it. You are unafraid. You are Happy! I will walk with you Walt and talk and contemplate the vastness of the universe.

You my dear Walt are free from the ties of society and humanity and law. If only I were so free, so untranslatable. I strive for it; I search for you. Someday I will find you. Never stop waiting for me!

Thus I conclude my letter. Kindly respond placing said response in a corked glass bottle and bury next to the Maj. Gen. Worth Monument, on the north side in Madison Square Garden, New York.

Kindly Admiring,

Keilie Ross

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About the Creator

Keilie Desirea Rose

Artist, creator, designer, entertainer, altruist, logophile, poet, painter, skater, singer, mother, lover, friend to all.

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