“A Nest of Guarded Duplicate Eggs”
Yes, I am very much caught up in the web of Walt Whitman and his “Song of Myself.” The more I read, the more I am wrapped and warped by his swaggering prose. Beautiful words. All sensuous and sensual and even downright sexual. He reminds me of my lover. So individual and yet so loving of his fellow man and woman. In the best of ways. In that poem, Whitman, like my S., celebrates life as an individual, an indidivual who is part of a whole … and the individual, like the whole, is flawed … but it is the flaws that allow the beauty to emerge.
“Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touched from;
The scent of these arm-pits is aroma finer than prayer,
this head is more than churches or bibles or creeds.
If I worship any particular thing it shall be some of the spread of my body;
Translucent mould of me it shall be you,
Shaded ledges and rests, firm masculine coulter, it shall be you,
Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you,
You my rich blood, your milky stream pale strippings of my life;
Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you,
My brain it shall be your occult convolutions,
Root of washed sweet-flag, timorous pond-snipe, nest of guarded duplicate eggs, it shall be you,
Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you,
You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you,
Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you …