#hieroglyphic every particle

[txttletale]

been a while since i posted a poem

[lensky-polonium]

in addition to the fact that the higgs collarbones passing into the sternum resemble a tau particle, it also looks like a hieroglyph and an amulet "nefer". this is an image of the trachea passing into the heart. there should be a heart under the higgs armor, right? the symbol has several interpretations, nefer meaning "perfect" was also used in writing and titles of pharaohs and gods. In addition, an amulet with this sign called for good luck and could help the wearer fulfill his every wish

[nothinglikegod]

Yes- Yes! A chorus of bliss tickles through Wolfwood as their kiss deepens into something he knows. Something he calls Home. He rises into it and finds respite in the familiar flavor of Vash's mouth and the old dance of their tongues. It's like he's being served a meal by those mismatched hands, sharing a Sunday morning ( at the breakfast table they'd never owned ) while sunshine streams between their bodies. He can picture the dust particles floating around his Angel like glowing feather down.

Nick's hands move to frame the face he's drinking from. His thumbs habitually stroke above cheekbones, delighting in the contrast of their softness under his callused touch. He feels his beloved Gunman, coming through and kissing each tooth individually, swallowing his air, and worshiping the roof of his mouth. He feels him in the erratic up-and-down of Vash's chest and in the all-too-familiar way that he shifts one knee. This is Home. He is Home. This is his Vash. His palms ache to move over every inch of his sacred shape.

He tilts his face to dive deeper into their connection only to have it broken. Nick's lips hang parted in the wake of passion, wet and wanting. Hungrier than ever as a rational hand presses gently to his breast. 'Stop.' it whispers and he has to oblige because it's right. He breathes out and his hands lower with the rate of his heart, forcibly returning to a state of acceptance. His eyes are still closed when The Stampede presses their foreheads together and hums precious evidence of what has just transpired. They open reluctantly, under anguished brows.

He pulls himself together gracefully, like an old dog standing to greet its master. His slate stare reaches Vash in the same way, loyal and loving. Happy in a way that is so sincere, and so soft that it circles back to sorrow. He breathes awe when met with the shining hieroglyphics of a Plant in love. Such stunning lines of starlight - such a fitting frame for Vash's ethereal features. His eyes catch and hold it like the luminous viles that Wolfwood had relied on for renewed life. "…Beautiful." He confesses before gently rolling to place Vash beneath his tired bones. "I'm such a lucky guy."

He copies The Typhoon's previous plea for comfort by resting his cheek on Vash's sternum. His arms offer a soft bed for his companion's back while his lower body makes itself at home between meek thighs. Wolfwood can feel himself fading. He knows that soon his corporeal form will dissipate and leave the little variant he's come to adore alone on this ledge. Nick's edges are softening and beginning to spindle toward the sky like cigarette smoke. It is, perhaps - his calling card. What he was made of in the end. "...Promise you'll come to bed. Don't spend tonight alone." He hums deliriously. Because he always has to lecture the other into being loved on this day.

Wolfwood welcomes Vash into the sanctuary of his presence and isn't at all surprised when tears water his Adam's apple. A patient note drones from the hollow of his chest and holds Vash just as warmly as his encircling arms. He huffs into sunshine-colored hair with benign humor, loving his captive all the more for his bleeding heart. "Are those tears for me?" This Wolfwood does not reprimand The Stampede's soft disposition. He weathers it as a mountain weathering a breeze. It's no trouble.

"Tomorrow will come." He promises simply through the pull of a smile. "Always does." Nick's right hand glides from the plain of Vash's back and down the canyon that separates the blonde's jaw from his shoulder. He sweeps a quivering tear from his counterpart's chin before it can fall. There's no need to oversee such a practiced gesture. His face remains tilted against Vash's, heavy and solid enough to shield his breakdown from the bursting sky.

His index finger has curled beneath that familiar chin and, before he can stop himself, he's directing it up and bringing his own down to tap against its ledge - mouth open and eyes closed. A second Sin. This one is worst than the first, but how can he resist when the nostalgic weight of his lover is so near? When his smell...and the whispering hiccup of his sadness turns back time? Nicholas revisits a less-woesome moment through their kiss.

[omnipointmuses]

"Soooo how long is this going to take Snau?"

"I'm almost finished Mel, you can't rush a delicate operation like this." Mocha scolded without turning around and she slowly inserted the golden bracelet into the round slot located on the ancient wall that was laden with ages old Ruinish hieroglyphs, most of which Mocha barely knew herself but from what she could make out it was said that they who returned what once belonged here an ancient secret would be revealed and aspect so alluring it left her deaf to the sounds of sarcophagi falling open with a crash as their stone covers broke against the floor of the ancient temple the sisters had been exploring prompting the older of the two to reach and pull her wand from her side and with a flick of her wrist the surrounding dust particle compacted tightly together and ignited to form a small fist sized star to illuminate the closest of the linen wrapped undead rabbitfolk as it slowly shambled into her range causing her to tense up and rear back her hand in preparation.

"I don't think we have the time for almost-"

"Got it!"

With a click the golden bracelet sunk perfectly into the wall causing it to sink into the ground revealing a sizeable alcove with a large golden sarcophagus much like the ones that had held the monsters behind the pair though this one was untouched by time. The depiction of it's rabbit face and detail of it's carvings alone would make for a good fortune for some lucky adventurer and that's not even accounting for the twin green jewels used as eyes. Just as the pair finished taking in the sight the first and closest of the undead reared a claw hand up to strike out at the older sister before suddenly freezing up. It's own green eyes seemingly taken by the sight of the golden coffin just as the sisters eyes had until it's eyes began to leak a glowing green liquid down it's dry cheeks looking akin to tears up until the supernatural liquid began to lift from it's face and stream into the jeweled eyes of the sarcophagus. This phenomenon continued and repeated with every undead allowing the sisters to slowly step away as one by one the undead fell now empty of the supernatural force that kept them animate. Coaxing the younger sister to curiously nudge one of them with her foot.

"So... that happened.... got an idea how we're gonna get that coffin out of here?"

"Snau?!"

"What?"

"That's graverobbing!" The elder sister nearly shouted coaxing Snau to just shrug her shoulders.

"Everyone here's been dead for a long time, i think it's just technically looting at this point."

"That doesn't make it okay!"

They two sisters continued to argue until a soft click of a coffin unlatching caused them to stop and turn towards the golden coffin as it slowly creaked open and a pair of golden eyes stared back at the pair from the dark before a small linen wrapped hand reached out and gripped the side of the sarcophagus and a loud voice boomed from it's unseen resident.

"Who dares enter my place of rest?"

[lady-proudmoore]

continued from HERE @ladywindrunner

ladywindrunner answered:

halloween starters :: not accepting //

The structure was old, so old, in fact, that Sylvanas did not recognize the architecture, nor the hieroglyphs that decorated the crumbling pillars. All around them, black stone lay littered as ancient debris across the floor, vines grew rampant on the walls, while moss decorated the rocks, and pervasive trees that had grown up through cracks in the ground.

          The ex-ranger did not ordinarily put much stock in the feeling of a place. Any location could be eerie, depraved, valorous, or inspiring, depending on the lighting and appearance. Much less listen to a mage’s interpretation, if only due to them being so easily swayed by their inclinations.

          She would not, and did not ever, dare tell Jaina that thought. Sylvanas had no desire for the woman to know that she found magic-users have a tendency to exaggerate. They were often overcome with their ‘senses’ on a location, and those feelings proved detrimental to perceiving something logically.

          However, Jaina’s statement in regards to this temple could not be more spot on.      Sylvanas buried her own anxiety over the area, though she hadn’t lowered her guard since they entered this place. She glanced at the mage, pulling down the cloth that covered her scarred faced so she could speak clearly.

          “It is undoubtedly best not to speculate,” Sylvanas advised her, an arrow at the ready in case they were attack. “This place is old; its history is as varied as the landscape of Azeroth. It’s seen its share of horrors I imagine.”

          Or, more likely, this place, where the sun somehow dwindled despite being high in the noon sky, and where trees even with their obvious good health, appeared gnarled and cruel, it knew nothing but HORROR.

          Sylvanas noted her companion’s obvious discomfort. It was Jaina’s idea to come here, to seek an trinket called the Heart of the Ocean, or a clue to where it may lie. There was a twinge of pain in the exile’s heart that made her approach, standing next to the mage, their shoulders brushing briefly.

          “You do not need to fear this place,” Sylvanas assured her, her calm demeanour hiding the archer’s own reservations of the area, “start looking, I’ll ensure that nothing crawls out of the dark and grabs you.”

Stepping over a black, twisted root, Jaina turned her head just enough to shoot Sylvanas an amused smirk.

“I already mourn whatever poor creature may try.” 

Spoken aloud, the reminder helped soothe her frayed nerves. Sylvanas’ own unparalleled skill aside, if she wished, the archmage could shatter what remained of the temple and everything in it, leaving nothing but a pock mark upon the land. Some of the tension in her chest eased at the thought. 

A frown formed between her eyes as she moved forward cautiously. The place was eerie, yes, but it was what she didn’t feel that bugged her. A forced sense of quiescence in a place where the air should thrum with dark energy. Jaina knew it was there, permeated into every rock, root and particle of dust the temple encapsulated and yet she could not feel it. Silence pressed in, the unnatural stillness seemed to suck even the sound of their footfalls into the nothingness. Rarely had she happened upon a more powerful cloaking spell. 

The trinket must be here. There was little reason to otherwise shield such a place so powerfully. Jaina walked with purpose, searching for any sense of weakness in the spell, any tears in the magic or -

There it was. 

Pulled to the corner of the room, her sharp, sapphire blue eyes studied the section of wall that seemed pasted from the pages of a book rather than built a stone at a time. It rose from the earth so straight it was almost startling - the work of a perfectionist. The stones carried a newness to them, less weathered and mossy, while the air around it felt….layered, heavier somehow, giving away the high probability that whatever was beyond it required an even more powerful cloaking spell. Reaching a hand out tentatively, the stones felt warm to the touch, despite the lack of sunlight.   Magic.

“It’s here,” she smirked. 

Jaina took a step back. Hesitant to simply destroy the wall without knowing what lay directly beyond it. She scanned the area for any sign of how to proceed. The one who created it presumably wouldn’t want to rebuild it each time they wished to visit their treasure. Her eyes flashed to Sylvanas, a master of observation.

“Something powerful lay beyond this wall. We’re looking for...anything. A rune, a triggering mechanism, or anything out of the ordinary that may lead to granting access.”

[swyllh]

take me higher

title: take me higher

pairing: bts!jin + reader

genre: speculative fiction, slice of life

note: heavily inspired by a mix of - welcome to nightvale, bts boy with luv, the recent blackhole image. tldr jin’s trying to ask you on a date, but the universe appears to be conspiring against him.

strange things happen in north walden. it's almost as if the world's worn out, plucked loosely at with bitter thumbs; at the intersection between fourth street and mango avenue, there's a greyhound keening against the fence every monday evening. its wail pierces through fogged diner windows and static camera lenses, seething lilac echoes. 

the radioman pauses promptly, his orchestrated cheer drained from the blaring speakers.

"you want sugar with that?" jin says, unwittingly generous with his charms. 

his eyes are grand, skimming past the rim of the impossible. we can now see the unseeable, you recall hearing from the local telecast, a potent celebration of ambiguity.

"sure, thanks," you say, elbows chilled from the skittering marble of the countertop.

jin grins, shooting stars in his eyes. he blinks them away, but the universe washes pink with yet another supernova. your order slides up to you, saucer blooming like a setting sun. the swirl of tanned reds and violets skips up along the curve of the handle, scampering free of your fingers.

"did you hear?" you ask, as jin frets over some lavender-scented utensil.

yes, did you hear? the radioman, forgotten, adds.

"about the blackhole?" jin says, deftly retying the straps of his apron. "yeah, that was something, wasn't it?"

it sure is! deadly, blistering, and now... in ochre, the radioman announces. scientists from the national scientific agency have now termed the image 'messier 87'.

we have seen the unseeable, they said, monotonously, and we have given it a name just as it has given us ours. after that, the coats marched, waving a sleeve at the scorching flare of light particles on the screen.

a brush of joy spreads across jin's face. you take another sip of the frothy milk, watching, as the foam trills gold against the inside of your cheek. there's another wail, rounded at the edges.

"messier 87," jin begins.

do not, the radioman hisses, speak its name. we do not call on those we do not seek answers from,

the scientists said, cloaked now entirely in a singular starched coat. it was white.

you shrug, and jin chortles. the radioman hurrumphs, and continues with a tirade of nonchalant euphemisms about messier 87. as they wind on, you share a look with jin - this time, pluto in full view. the dwarf planet swings from the right eye to the left, too enthusiastic in its orbit.

and now, the community calendar.

jin perks up, a gradient of constellations rippling from some unforeseen beginning. time, like sand, scatters in equal parts ease and beige.

the radioman clears his throat knowingly, and continues, this thursday, young sadie will be hosting a garden party. she has requested that every visitor bring a jar of pickled gingers.

it is for my mother, young sadie said, she likes gingers.

"i do have gingers in the back," jin says, raising your hopes with the tilt of his head.

the galaxies fumble, re-calibrate their axes, and spin anxiously in his eyes. you tap a finger against your chin, pretending to consider.

"why don't we-"

alert, alert, the radioman parrots, we have just received news that messier 87 will land this thursday. all citizens are advised to stay indoors and keep the windows sealed. do not, i repeat, do not answer to any call of faith.

"yikes," jin says, frowning. "i wonder how young sadie will host her party.

you shrug. "if we make it past thursday, we could make it to her next one."

messier 87 will depart on friday evening after claiming at least twelve victims. the governor has appointed a mourning on friday night.

the greyhound's last wail is cut short with a few sputters. and then a low whine. something's written an ancient hieroglyph on the glass door to the diner. it's an eye, affixed to a symbol vaguely resembling a water tower. the scrawling glows ominously.

"you might want to clean that up later," you say.

jin turns to face the door. "oh, no, that's a blessing from the angels."

he reassures you with a blinding grin, the peekaboo sun warming the sides of his irises. for some reason, you can't look away. neither does he.

and then a loud, scratchy feedback breaks it. the radioman continues drilling: on saturday instead, young sadie will be setting up her garden party. again, she has requested - what? - oh, no more pickled gingers. young sadie has requested a shellfish from each patron. 

jin raises a brow, as do you. it doesn't take long before the coral peal of laughter pulls you into its orbit. when he looks up, the milkyway is speckled against the curve of his cheek.

you lean in, ignoring the winded sputters from the radio. "you don't happen to have a shellfish, do you?"

"you mean two?"

[stringsofstarlight]

Continuation from last night.✨🌎❤️‍🔥

    Okay, to recap, we have just left the Blue flame temple, on the way to the Temple of love, where QMK held down the St. Louis space, and BL, the Lady Liberty.   We, all four of, left the love flame temple to head on to the Violet flame with SG and LP.   Usually, it is one of the two that accompany us, this time all four of us entered.  They were extremely gracious gave each of us a cup of nectar once again, it kind of glows, not really sure exactly it does cause KH kibbles and drinks make fireworks happen.  This drink is like the most refreshing water I have ever consumed, it lingers with a verve for life.  SG hastened us on to the next temple, as there was a lot of work to accomplish in a short amount of synchronized time.          Now here is where it all gets interesting.   All seven of us descended upon the Temple of the pyramids, this time the crucible looked a little different.   We each climbed into our pyramid recliner energy accumulators, which held a port for the individualized crystal.   We, each one of us, put our crystal into its port as the recliners we’re activated and the energy started to flow.   Every time there has been an engagement with the Essence, a flow, beam, wave, laser, or some kind of particle has descended from the heavens to go right into the flame.    This time, each chair started softly glowing its corresponding color as the crystal in the port, then the most amazing thing happened, all seven colors created individual beams that went directly into the crucible.   They integrated for a nanosecond, then went beaming up into the heavens, exactly opposite of every other time.       The following happened in the mind’s eye:

     The beam left our space and headed out into the cosmos toward the device on its way homeward, the Essence also sent out a beam towards us.   The two of them made a gigantic and beautiful collision out in interstellar space.   What I saw was all of these huge Doric written columns, cuneiforms, clay tablets, walls of hieroglyphs, mountain inscriptions, and so much more.   It was like a massive gravel pit in the sky, with particle of metals, clay, cement, and you name it being carved up into smaller and smaller portions, I suppose is the best word.    All of sudden out of a dust cloud of movement and lightning flashes of electricity like energy a some thing started to form.   The seeming chaos ensued while we were all getting super zapped by all of this action, then in the longest instant ever…it all stopped.   The beam immediately returned, the chair spit out the crystal like a vending machine giving back its prized quarter in the slit.   The thing is that not only did the crystals all come back to each of us, yet now there was a figure 8, infinity symbol thing, seven of them to be exact, hanging in front of our recliners off the crucible.  They were like little pyramidal knobs all connected together with a roughness, and very unfinished feeling to it.  Like when you do 3-d printing and all the stuff need to be cleaned off, or the chocolate trimmed from the edge of a truffle delicacy.   All I know is that this whole thing was a lot, so we all went to the Jadeite temple to heal and recover from this intensity, our infinity thingies now in the diamond heart vessel for safe keeping.    We all spent sometime embracing the soft and cool healing energy of both these temples, a short, yet needed break for recovery.         The next temple was that of the Mt. Retreat, which we all entered from the main entrance, walking down the promenade to a round of quiet appreciation from all, many nearly holding their breath to see the next step in this evolution.   Once, we made it to the round main hall in the center with the Eye and the crucible of the flame, the host of elders was waiting for us to arrive.   We do not waste much time, so each one of us immediately took our space around the crucible and inserted the crystal into the port which corresponded with our particular crystal shape and laid the infinity thing on a hook that looked exactly right for that purpose.     Okay, shit went all crazy after that, the Eye became brightly animated and alive, the star charts filled the sky of the full retreat like before, the attendant colors going to the particular type of wormhole, its entrances, and exits all attuned to each other,  in a living animated presence.   Once this had started, we all did not take notice that the Eye sent out another beam, the figure eight started to glow very brightly, the little structure at the center of it started to break off revealing some kind of other substance underneath.   Each one went at the same pace; the first becoming free from it, then moved on to the next four connecting them together, as it gained momentum the next round went faster.   They looked like crazy kind of playing dice spinning brightly and fast as all heck.  They kept being cleaned by the force of the Eye, piece by piece until all of a sudden each one was free from its sheath…

Will finish out in a few minutes, need a quick break.😘

Continued…       Once each of the dice were free from their cocoons, for lack of a better word, they all were spinning very fast, each one of the Infinity thingies had 52 of the dice.  The more they spun it started to take the shape of images of the differing languages, it made itself immediately known to me as a kind of galactic Rosetta Stone.   The pyramidal dice were spinning in their axis, while colors would light up, then corresponding to a certain star system in the maps now in the air above everyone.   The faint images of the civilization from whence these images came, like a rudimentary version of the information that our world has sent into space.   The thing is that the more the dice spun, they started moving around from their original shapes and making distinct huddles near each other.  All I could consider was that each language and civilization had an adjacent one to which provided the clues to deciphering the next language.   It was like some kind of stairway to the heavens giving clues to the relative locations, and corresponding langue used by the wormholes.   Each time dilation locality is connected by its closest energy companion and by those whom have used it most recently in the imprint from their discrete energy system.   To use the wormholes we must ascertain from whence they are coming.   The moment it all seems to make perfect sense, how the there are different types of wormholes, there are different civilizations that have a faint recollection of this past, and those societies which actively navigate, with a partial map of these transit points.   Here I am thinking ““Eureka, I got it!”, when boom, of course, the crystal popped right back out of its port, like before, but now each one of us had these dice, they had a life like the Harry Potter golden thing with wings, but can’t fly, it just has a potential for something, as the letter glow in an iridescent flash, like the thing is winking at me just daring us to push further.   All of them were held together in the infinity symbol, now connected, yet visible as dice.          The journey to the Golden temple took on way more meaning as it was obvious we were putting all the pieces together for communication, along with the maps that appeared the other day.    We alighted the Golden temple flame, then went to our pagoda with KH, also bringing that one to attention.   Once again, we all took our torcs, put them in the flame, put the crystal into the ports of the crucible, while our Infinity was inside ourselves for the journey.   Poof, we are all right back near the Essence, I can’t express how immense and awe inspiring it is, it tries to speak in a way, yet seems all powerful and childlike at the same time.    The crystal began forming into the embryonic sac, like the last time, with a wispy of tentacle coming from the Essence to make the connection.   The infinity symbol went between us and the Essence, they started glowing and spinning really fast again.   This time, the walls of the embryonic sac became like a television screen of sorts, showing the interrelation between star systems, where the over lapping cultures exist, the next step to keep it all flowing, then just as I thought I knew everything…the dice started to eat each other one by one, well, more like Russian nesting dolls, they were going inside each other in order of how the languages and cultures come into contact.   All I know is that they kept doing it until there was only One.   The moment the last one went in to the other, a flash happened and we were right back at the pagoda.  The crystals popped out of their port, and there sat spinning was the single die, made of the 52 composite parts, all in one.   

     Each one of put the crystal and the colored die in our diamond heart vessels to go into the Temple Mount flame, to disperse peace across the subtle energy plane of this Earthly existence.    JC and MM are very grateful for our help every single time, they don’t mess around, yet are gracious in blessing all of us, thanking us for taking upon this mantle of change for the Aquarian Epoch.   They kiss each one of us on the cheek, walking down am exit line, as we departed for the Record, as time wa nearly its end for this session.          Lastly, our group made it into the Record with only a small amount of time left I this journey.   We all place our crystal in the port and held our dice out collectively.   The crystal made the quadrants and star systems light up again, the Record still had a rough outline from the last time.   The areas of congested activity of timelines showed up again,while the dice began to glow and spin really fast.   They began to unnest themselves and continue to spin, as they became composite parts there was a corresponding delineation in the areas of the stars.  It was like the Record was being officially mapped for the first time since it’s Inception.  The areas that look like lights on the Earth from space, now had another level added, the glyphs took on a little form heading off into their own areas, kind of like when you pick a team for sports with friends, they huddles nearest the closest language tree.    Every time it all seems to make complete sense, then it a switches back to an “off” position.   The session pretty much abruptly ended with the dice reforming in the Record into the One.      Okay, that’ s what I got.    Still processing, will add more when it becomes clear.

✨🔮🍯🥰🤟🏼👑🙏🌶🔥☯️🗽💖🌈 eternal love,

james 11:11

[joanabeleza]

THREE WOMEN: A Poem for Three Voices (Sylvia Plath)

Setting: A Maternity Ward and round about

FIRST VOICE: I am slow as the world. I am very patient, Turning through my time, the suns and stars Regarding me with attention. The moon’s concern is more personal: She passes and repasses, luminous as a nurse. Is she sorry for what will happen? I do not think so. She is simply astonished at fertility.

When I walk out, I am a great event. I do not have to think, or even rehearse. What happens in me will happen without attention. The pheasant stands on the hill ; He is arranging his brown feathers. I cannot help smiling at what it is I know. Leaves and petals attend me. I am ready.

SECOND VOICE: When I first saw it, the small red seep, I did not believe it. I watched the men walk about me in the office. They were so flat! There was something about them like cardboard, and now I had caught it, That flat, flat, flatness from which ideas, destructions, Bulldozers, guillotines, white chambers of shrieks proceed, Endlessly proceed-and the cold angels, the abstractions. I sat at my desk in my stockings, my high heels,

And the man I work for laughed: ‘Have you seen something awful? You are so white, suddenly.’ And I said nothing. I saw death in the bare trees, a deprivation. I could not believe it. Is it so difficult For the spirit to conceive a face, a mouth? The letters proceed from these black keys, and these black keys proceed From my alphabetical fingers, ordering parts,

Parts, bits, cogs, the shining multiples. I am dying as I sit. I lose a dimension. Trains roar in my ears, departures, departures! The silver track of time empties into the distance, The white sky empties of its promise, like a cup. These are my feet, these mechanical echoes. Tap, tap, tap, steel pegs. I am found wanting.

This is a disease I carry home, this is a death. Again, this is a death. Is it the air, The particles of destruction I suck up? Am I a pulse That wanes and wanes, facing the cold angel? Is this my lover then? This death, this death? As a child I loved a lichen-bitten name. Is this the one sin then, this old dead love of death?

THIRD VOICE: I remember the minute when I knew for sure. The willows were chilling, The face in the pool was beautiful, but not mine- It had a consequential look, like everything else, And all I could see was dangers: doves and words, Stars and showers of gold-conceptions, conceptions! I remember a white, cold wing

And the great swan, with its terrible look, Coming at me, like a castle, from the top of the river. There is a snake in swans. He glided by; his eye had a black meaning. I saw the world in it-small, mean and black, Every little word hooked to every little word, and act to act. A hot blue day had budded into something.

I wasn’t ready. The white clouds rearing Aside were dragging me in four directions. I wasn’t ready. I had no reverence. I thought I could deny the consequence- But it was too late for that. It was too late, and the face Went shaping itself with love, as if I was ready.

SECOND VOICE: It is a world of snow now. I am not at home. How white these sheets are. The faces have no features. They are bald and impossible, like the faces of my children, Those little sick ones that elude my arms. Other children do not touch me: they are terrible. They have too many colours, too much life. They are not quiet, Quiet, like the little emptinesses I carry.

I have had my chances. I have tried and tried. I have stitched life into me like a rare organ, And walked carefully, precariously, like something rare. I have tried not to think too hard. I have tried to be natural. I have tried to be blind in love, like other women, Blind in my bed, with my dear blind sweet one, Not looking, through the thick dark, for the face of another.

I did not look. But still the face was there, The face of the unborn one that loved its perfections,

The face of the dead one that could only be perfect In its easy peace, could only keep holy so. And then there were other faces. The faces of nations, Governments, parliaments, societies, The faceless faces of important men.

It is these men I mind: They are so jealous of anything that is not flat! They are jealous gods That would have the whole world flat because they are. I see the Father conversing with the Son. Such flatness cannot but be holy. ‘Let us make a heaven,’ they say. ‘Let us flatten and launder the grossness from these souls.’

FIRST VOICE: I am calm. I am calm. It is the calm before something awful: The yellow minute before the wind walks, when the leaves Turn up their hands, their pallors. It is so quiet here. The sheets, the faces, are white and stopped, like clocks. Voices stand back and flatten. Their visible hieroglyphs Flatten to parchment screens to keep the wind off. They paint such secrets in Arabic, Chinese!

I am dumb and brown. I am a seed about to break. The brownness is my dead self, and it is sullen: It does not wish to be more, or different. Dusk hoods me in blue now, like a Mary. O colour of distance and forgetfulness! – When will it be, the second when Time breaks And eternity engulfs it, and I drown utterly?

I talk to myself, myself only, set apart – Swabbed and lurid with disinfectants, sacrificial. Waiting lies heavy on my lids. It lies like sleep, Like a big sea. Far off, far off, I feel the first wave tug

Its cargo of agony toward me, inescapable, tidal. And I, a shell, echoing on this white beach Face the voices that overwhelm, the terrible element.

THIRD VOICE: I am a mountain now, among mountainy women. The doctors move among us as if our bigness Frightened the mind. They smile like fools. They are to blame for what I am, and they know it. They hug their flatness like a kind of health. And what if they found themselves surprised, as I did? They would go mad with it.

And what if two lives leaked between my thighs? I have seen the white clean chamber with its instruments. It is a place of shrieks. It is not happy. ‘This is where you will come when you are ready.’ The night lights are flat red moons. They are dull with blood. I am not ready for anything to happen. I should have murdered this, that murders me.

FIRST VOICE: There is no miracle more cruel than this. I am dragged by the horses, the iron hooves. I last. I last it out. I accomplish a work. Dark tunnel, through which hurtle the visitations, The visitations, the manifestations, the startled faces. I am the centre of an atrocity. What pains, what sorrows must I be mothering?

Can such innocence kill and kill? It milks my life. The trees wither in the street. The rain is corrosive. I taste it on my tongue, and the workable horrors, The horrors that stand and idle, the slighted godmothers With their hearts that tick and tick, with their satchels of instruments.

I shall be a wall and a roof, protecting. I shall be a sky and a hill of good: O let me be!

A power is growing on me, an old tenacity. I am breaking apart like the world. There is this blackness, This ram of blackness. I fold my hands on a mountain. The air is thick. It is thick with this working. I am used. I am drummed into use. My eyes are squeezed by this blackness. I see nothing.

SECOND VOICE: I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love. It is a love of death that sickens everything. A dead sun stains the newsprint. It is red. I lose life after life. The dark earth drinks them.

She is the vampire of us all. So she supports us, Fattens us, is kind. Her mouth is red. I know her. I know her intimately- Old winter-face, old barren one, old time bomb. Men have used her meanly. She will eat them. Eat them, eat them, eat them in the end. The sun is down. I die. I make a death.

FIRST VOICE: Who is he, this blue, furious boy, Shiny and strange, as if he had hurtled from a star? He is looking so angrily! He flew into the room, a shriek at his heel. The blue colour pales. He is human after all. A red lotus opens in its bowl of blood ; They are stitching me up with silk, as if I were a material.

What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love? I have never seen a thing so clear. His lids are like the lilac-flower And soft as a moth, his breath. I shall not let go. There is no guile or warp in him. May he keep so.

SECOND VOICE: There is the moon in the high window. It is over. How winter fills my soul! And that chalk light Laying its scales on the windows, the windows of empty offices, Empty schoolrooms, empty churches. O so much emptiness! There is this cessation. This terrible cessation of everything. These bodies mounded around me now, these polar sleepers – What blue, moony ray ices their dreams?

I feel it enter me, cold, alien, like an instrument. And that mad, hard face at the end of it, that O-mouth Open in its gape of perpetual grieving. It is she that drags the blood-black sea around Month after month, with its voices of failure. I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string. I am restless. Restless and useless. I, too, create corpses.

I shall move north. I shall move into a long blackness. I see myself as a shadow, neither man nor woman, Neither a woman, happy to be like a man, nor a man Blunt and flat enough to feel no lack. I feel a lack. I hold my fingers up, ten white pickets. See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

I shall be a heroine of the peripheral. I shall not be accused by isolate buttons, Holes in the heels of socks, the white mute faces Of unanswered letters, coffined in a letter case. I shall not be accused, I shall not be accused. The clock shall not find me wanting, nor these stars That rivet in place abyss after abyss.

THIRD VOICE: I see her in my sleep, my red, terrible girl. She is crying through the glass that separates us. She is crying, and she is furious. Her cries are hooks that catch and grate like cats. It is by these hooks she climbs to my notice. She is crying at the dark, or at the stars That at such a distance from us shine and whirl.

I think her little head is carved in wood A red, hard wood, eyes shut and mouth wide open. And from the open mouth issue sharp cries Scratching at my sleep like arrows, Scratching at my sleep, and entering my side. My daughter has no teeth. Her mouth is wide. It utters such dark sounds it cannot be good.

FIRST VOICE: What is it that flings these innocent souls at us? Look, they are so exhausted, they are all flat out In their canvas-sided cots, names tied to their wrists, The little silver trophies they’ve come so far for. There are some with thick black hair, there are some bald. Their skin tints are pink or sallow, brown or red; They are beginning to remember their differences.

I think they are made of water ; they have no expression. Their features are sleeping, like light on quiet water. They are the real monks and nuns in their identical garments. I see them showering like stars on to the world-

On India, Africa, America, these miraculous ones, These pure, small images. They smell of milk. Their footsoles are untouched. They are walkers of air.

Can nothingness be so prodigal? Here is my son. His wide eye is that general, flat blue. He is turning to me like a little, blind, bright plant. One cry. It is the hook I hang on. And I am a river of milk. I am a warm hill.

SECOND VOICE: I am not ugly. I am even beautiful. The mirror gives back a woman without deformity. The nurses give back my clothes, and an identity. It is usual, they say, for such a thing to happen. It is usual in my life, and the lives of others. I am one in five, something like that. l am not hopeless. I am beautiful as a statistic. Here is my lipstick.

I draw on the old mouth. The red mouth I put by with my identity A day ago, two days, three days ago. It was a Friday. I do not even need a holiday ; I can go to work today. I can love my husband, who will understand. Who will love me through the blur of my deformity As if I had lost an eye, a leg, a tongue.

And so I stand, a little sightless. So I walk Away on wheels, instead of legs, they serve as well. And I learn to speak with fingers, not a tongue. The body is resourceful. The body of a starfish can grow back its arms And newts are prodigal in legs. And may I be As prodigal in what lacks me.

THIRD VOICE: She is a small island, asleep and peaceful, And I am a white ship hooting: Goodbye, goodbye. The day is blazing. It is very mournful. The flowers in this room are red and tropical. They have lived behind glass all their lives, they have been cared for tenderly. Now they face a winter of white sheets, white faces. There is very little to go into my suitcase.

There are the clothes of a fat woman I do not know. There is my comb and brush. There is an emptiness. I am so vulnerable suddenly. I am a wound walking out of hospital. I am a wound that they are letting go. I leave my health behind. I leave someone Who would adhere to me: I undo her fingers like bandages: I go.

SECOND VOICE: I am myself again. There are no loose ends. I am bled white as wax, I have no attachments. I am flat and virginal, which means nothing has happened, Nothing that cannot be erased, ripped up and scrapped, begun again. These little black twigs do not think to bud, Nor do these dry, dry gutters dream of rain. This woman who meets me in windows-she is neat.

So neat she is transparent, like a spirit. How shyly she superimposes her neat self On the inferno of African oranges, the heel-hung pigs. She is deferring to reality. It is I. It is I – Tasting the bitterness between my teeth. The incalculable malice of the everyday.

FIRST VOICE: How long can I be a wall, keeping the wind off? How long can I be Gentling the sun with the shade of my hand, Intercepting the blue bolts of a cold moon? The voices of loneliness, the voices of sorrow Lap at my back ineluctably. How shall it soften them, this little lullaby?

How long can I be a wall around my green property? How long can my hands Be a bandage to his hurt, and my words Bright birds in the sky, consoling, consoling? It is a terrible thing To be so open: it is as if my heart Put on a face and walked into the world.

THIRD VOICE: Today the colleges are drunk with spring. My black gown is a little funeral: It shows I am serious. The books I carry wedge into my side. I had an old wound once, but it is healing. I had a dream of an island, red with cries. It was a dream, and did not mean a thing.

FIRST VOICE: Dawn flowers in the great elm outside the house. The swifts are back. They are shrieking like paper rockets. I hear the sound of the hours Widen and die in the hedgerows. I hear the moo of cows. The colours replenish themselves, and the wet Thatch smokes in the sun. The narcissi open white faces in the orchard.

I am reassured. I am reassured. These are the clear bright colours of the nursery, The talking ducks, the happy lambs. I am simple again. I believe in miracles. I do not believe in those terrible children Who injure my sleep with their white eyes, their fingerless hands. They are not mine. They do not belong to me.

I shall meditate upon normality. I shall meditate upon my little son. He does not walk. He does not speak a word. He is still swaddled in white bands. But he is pink and perfect. He smiles so frequently. I have papered his room with big roses, I have painted little hearts on everything.

I do not will him to be exceptional. It is the exception that interests the devil. It is the exception that climbs the sorrowful hill Or sits in the desert and hurts his mother’s heart. I will him to be common, To love me as I love him, And to marry what he wants and where he will.

THIRD VOICE: Hot noon in the meadows. The buttercups Swelter and melt, and the lovers Pass by, pass by. They are black and flat as shadows. It is so beautiful to have no attachments! I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?

The swans are gone. Still the river Remembers how white they were.

It strives after them with its lights. It finds their shapes in a cloud. What is that bird that cries With such sorrow in its voice? I am young as ever, it says. What is it I miss?

SECOND VOICE: I am at home in the lamplight. The evenings are lengthening. I am mending a silk slip: my husband is reading. How beautifully the light includes these things. There is a kind of smoke in the spring air, A smoke that takes the parks, the little statues With pinkness, as if a tenderness awoke, A tenderness that did not tire, something healing.

I wait and ache. I think I have been healing. There is a great deal else to do. My hands Can stitch lace neatly on to this material. My husband Can turn and turn the pages of a book. And so we are at home together, after hours. It is only time that weighs upon our hands. It is only time, and that is not material.

The streets may turn to paper suddenly, but I recover From the long fall, and find myself in bed, Safe on the mattress, hands braced, as for a fall. I find myself again. I am no shadow Though there is a shadow starting from my feet. I am a wife. The city waits and aches. The little grasses Crack through stone, and they are green with life.

[txttletale]

i'm not too good for a sonnet. a collection featuring this & others are pwyw on my itch.

[dimmentions]

Reincarnation was no longer compatible, like many  other concepts eroded by time, God knows over how many iterations.

In ignorance we began thinking that we had become smarter than the prior versions of ourselves. Deafened by omnipresent silent wifi signals and blinded by the blinking pixel marvels that we bowed down before everywhere we went.The warm internet glow comforted our sanity and belief into something instant, easy and more glorious than our own though and intuition..yes, here it was..the all-knowing pocket God, genie, guru, and everything else that we thought we could possible desire.

We were quick to realize our addictive natures in light of our hyper-stimulated reality, bombarded by tasty truth and even more seductive deception. To one bit of information, there existed two equally logical contradictions. Duality no longer had much for separation. Everything was True. Nothing was true. The devices only created more chaos in the mindsets of men..perhaps by design of some higher power..or perhaps by nature itself...maybe this was the long coming apocalyptic moment, something a kin to a mass-dementia where the mind became obsolete and unreliable without the binary device.

Slow and gradual as it was, something went missing in humanity. Some perceived it was a loss of consciousness..as if it had become uploaded bit by bit from the human vessel, into the several digital avatars that now lived seamlessly in virtual dimensions. Others perceived that humanity had begun to slowly lose touch with its intuitive nature, a result of machine dependency..In any case the biological carcass was now obsolete and a drain on the collective health insurance economy.

It all began so simple, one substitution for another. Real human contact for online dating. Human memory for terabytes. Navigation replaced by automated GPS triangulation. Information became instantly digitized and optimized into efficient sets of automated hieroglyphs. Scanned, processed, sent and multiplied. Each moment became seamlessly archived with the next, life transformed into a series of bookmarks...all with instant access and replay/share features.  First the augmented counterpart to the real, then full immersion into the Eden of beautiful code. I was you and you were me. This was the singularity they wrote about, only much weirder than anyone could have ever imagined.

Efficiency and optimization was the new standard of beauty. History irrelevent and forgotten, as if belonging to the previous operating system universe, beyond the event horizon of the last update... Universal cosmology and truth became a matter of personal perspective, To each their own..everything was possible, nothing was possible. We were both particles and waves in an endless double slit experiment of life.

But even in light of the new "Golden Age" zeitgeists, there were those that somehow remembered a distant past and questioned the unstable and ever-changing present."Glitch seekers" & "Artifact tracers" they were called..and there were others that foresaw a future more chaotic and sinister than the one they found themselves currently spiraled in. These were troubled individuals, who were swept into the shadow of offline whenever possible. There were always a handful of these sorts bouncing around from one era to the next. Their revolutions disguised in residue of art and poetry, by those who still knew how to wield colors and words.

- hourglass - before the last time that I fell asleep.. there once was a strange thing we called snow, dont you know.. slow moving trains on tracks, and the places they would take you, when you go, don't you know.. there was once a way to write your name in cursive.. we had voices once to sing something called songs.. music sounded differently... in the memory of this dream, if I'm not absolutely wrong. hard to say now, what I've seen and what I think I've seen comfort was just temporary bliss every soul yearned for something called a kiss.. what a strange dream this must be, this forgotten reality how many other moments never to be had again? buried under the updates of the dream sand. hourglass flipped to start once more the drip of our lucidity trickle of sand through the narrow neck of Now into infinity.

<o_o>

[luxury-ceramics-for-sale-blog]

高;17 cm, 幅;20.5 cm, 底徑; 11.5 cm (grin-consideration)

1. I'm the runner of the Goryeo celadon, B-hee type.

2. As you can see in the picture, the shape of National Treasure No. 96 of Goryeo celadon, which is named as a hieroglyphic in the National Museum of Korea, looks very similar. The national treasure seems to be a bit short compared to the painting that you saw. Although the Goryeo celadon pottery has been preserved in many places, it can be regarded as the best color of the painting and is believed to have been preserved only in dry air. In the case of exhumed articles, we have reviewed and analyzed the discolored pottery because of the high number of new compounds produced.

3. Song's Seonhwabong Sagosaeryeogyeong, the envoy of Song, has a highly praised record of Goryeo's nonchalant celadon, and the most important thing is this work. It's amazing how beautiful this painting is on the surface of a sculpted product like this one.

4.If you analyze the changes in the particles and air bubbles on the surface that make up the glaze, you can see that there is a pattern of stacking layer, brown, dark brown, tangled, or completely burst, resulting in a long period of time. It appears that the glaze forming the surface of this work stopped heating before the melt heat of fire was fully supplied under conditions for coloration. 龍象's eyes were separately sprayed with dark brown glaze.

5.The new compounds produced in low-fat rotae also show signs of a long time. This work was judged to be the most extraordinary of all, but during the Goryeo Dynasty, advanced temperature controllers such as the PID (Proportional Integrated and Differential) method were also developed, and there were no studies to analyze the conditions under which the color changes according to the temperature and atmosphere of the furnace in which ceramics were used, so the conditions under which the fantastic color of the painting could be displayed were valued are coincidentally. As can be seen in the attached document, of course, since we have studied and announced the conditions under which the color of the silk can be completely colored, it is only a modern work, even if it is possible to manufacture the perfect silk.

6.The reason for the designation of this work as a non-humidifier can be found in the Chinese legend of Yongsaeng, as stated in the reference materials.

Among the dragon and turtle, Bihee is an animal that resembles a dragon and a turtle, symbolizing a huge burden, strength and love to serve. Therefore, you can find the tombstone on a large building like a palace or on the cornerstone of a monument.

7.The picture looks lively because it is taken a little smaller than the real picture.

8.Review and analyze several conditions and evaluate them as products at the end of consideration. Every culture has the same age, but its value depends on its state of preservation.

In September 1919, when he was born in Hwanghae Province and was successfully re-enacted as a North Korean artist, he was given the title of hero by Kim Il Sung, he treated many ceramics on the screen and examined the patterns and colors. In this work, he can confirm that his painting is a much better high-level porcelain, and Wu Chih-jie is not only noted for its scenic beauty, but also Preconceived notions can be very dangerous if you judge a work done with preconceived notions as modern North Korean works

[furnacerepairsaltlakejkrd64-blog]

The History of the Refrigerator Water Filters

The earliest recorded way of h2o filtration dates back to 2000 B.C. where by hieroglyphics depict ways of boiling water, putting sizzling metal devices in h2o and filtering h2o as a result of charcoal and sand. These early solutions are believed to have been instituted to generate h2o flavor much better, Consequently, cleansing it. H2o filtration was more produced with the appearance from the microscope, which produced it probable to determine overseas particles and contaminants in water that may have or else been thought of as pure and cleanse. Most notably, the microscope was accountable to identify cholera germs in drinking water for the duration of a condition outbreak in 19th century London. The outbreak was rampart in all regions other than These areas the place drinking water was filtered by way of sand. Chlorine was also found being a highly effective, chemical disinfectant able to rid the infectious h2o of cholera. It had been more learned which the chemical, chlorine, when utilized together with sand filtering, was effective in combating cholera as well the h2o borne health conditions, typhoid and dysentery.

In order to achieve ingesting h2o purity, chlorine disinfection and sand filtering grew to become distinguished ways of municipal water treatment during Europe, and afterwards, the US. These primitive ways of disinfecting and filtering h2o to accomplish purity happen to be analyzed and evaluated with the usage of technologies. Chlorine, despite its heritage of ridding water of contaminants, is usually a poison. It has due to the fact been observed to show Unwanted effects that aggravate and induce respiratory issues, which include asthma. The poisonous chemical vaporizes at a speedier fee than drinking water, making it dangerously destructive when inhaled, Specially in the course of showering. Fluoride has since been included as a further chemical disinfecting agent, but additionally has side effects of dental destruction together with other overall health troubles in younger young children. Guide together with other chemical contaminants and by-products and solutions further compromise ingesting h2o over the piping and supply of addressed h2o.

Business enterprise and industry have already been instrumental during the disposal of waste water filtration installation salt lake city elements into our fresh water provide sources. This inhabitation has right contaminated the water offer and also Aprilaire Media Filters salt lake city upset the equilibrium of drinking water circulation and creation founded by nature. The US Clean Drinking water Act, legislated in 1972, was intended to restore the physical, chemical and biological harmony of water that were disturbed by contamination. The Act specified that every one normal water materials would, at the least, be Risk-free for fishing and swimming by 1985. This specification led to the event of some type of water filtration and disinfection in every US city together with Sophisticated technological improvements inside the filtering of water Employed in industry. However, the severity of past and continued harm has still left more than one/three of all water materials still polluted with contaminants.

In order to decrease the contaminants in consuming water as well as to adjust to countrywide initiatives to produce drinking h2o safe, drinking water-filtering methods have been designed to filter water within just unique residences. Methods exist to filter incoming water for the whole home and in addition devices are created to filter h2o, inline, at many factors of h2o distribution throughout the household, such as at faucets and refrigerators or in h2o pitchers. The US based mostly organization, Omnipure Filter Enterprise, credits its self with acquiring the primary tiny, disposable, inline drinking water filter on the globe. The Omnipure CL Number of water filters, formulated in 1970, were being carbon-based mostly, inline filtering techniques created for water coolers and ice devices. This benchmark drinking water filtering procedure applied granular activated carbon (GAC) to develop cost-effective ways of filtering drinking water inline. Developments within the operation, utilizing the exact same fundamental style, have because triggered the development of whole-dwelling filters, faucet filters, countertop filters, pitcher filters, fridge filters and moveable filters for camping.

[lati-will]

The Ancient Power Of Chanting (Mantra) Validated By Modern Science

Chanting (mantra) is an ancient technology that, as modern science reveals, connects us in a very real way to the farthest reaches of the universe.

I love chanting mantras, and I do so daily as an integral part of my kundalini yoga practice. I don’t need to know the specifics of how it produces a calming and sometimes even transcendent effect on my consciousness, but I’ve always been deeply curious about the mechanisms that may be at play beneath the surface of my awareness.

This is why I am both deeply grateful and amazed by the work of John Reid, the UK inventor of the cymascope — a technology that renders sound visible. In an article published on his website titled, “Cymatics — A Bridge To the Unseen World,” John and his wife Annaleise reveal facts about sound that are simply mind-blowing and worthy of far greater dissemination.

First, did you know that sound is actually not a wave but spheroidal phenomenon? In their words: “Before looking at cymatics more closely let us dispel the popularly held misconception that “sound is a wave”: It isn’t. All audible sounds are, in fact, spherical in form or spheroidal, that is to say audible sounds are sphere-like but not necessarily perfectly spherical. For the sake of simplicity we’ll call these spheroidal sound spheres “Sound bubbles.”

Take a look at the ultrasound beam produced by dolphins:

As you can see above, the sound is not produced in wave form but as a spheroidal beam. If you were to slice horizontally into the beam and look at the cross section it would appear to contain geometric patterns that contain a type of cymaglyphic information analogous to hieroglyphs. In other words, these sound structures carry information as real and meaningful as words do in human language.

John’s dolphin research using cymatoscope has revealed groundbreaking information about how dolphins communicate and “see” with sound. If you are interested, you can drill deeper into this discovery by reading his landmark paper published in the Journal of Marine Sciences: Research and Development, titled “A Phenomenon Discovered While Imaging Dolphin Echolocation Sounds.”

John and Annaleise go on to explain one of the most amazing facts about the ‘sound bubbles’ that we produce, which I find most compelling in connection to many powerful experiences I have had with mantras, both listening and reciting them, in the yoga tradition:

“Our world is teeming with beautiful holographic sound bubbles that envelop us in shimmering patterns of acoustic energy, each bubble rushing away at around 700 miles an hour as new bubbles form from the source of the sound. Whether the sound is emitted from your voice or from some other source, such as a musical instrument, this ‘bubble-in-a-hurry’ leaves a fleeting vibrational imprint on the surface of your body: every cell in the surface tissues of your body actually receives sound patterns from the bubbles that surround you.”

Did you get that? When we speak or chant, we are producing sound bubbles that attain speeds of 700 miles per hour. But it gets better. Check this out:

“You create infrared light even when you speak… The atoms and molecules of air within this expanding bubble are bumping into each other, each collision transferring your voice vibrations to the nearest atom or molecule. As these ‘bumps’ occur they cause infrared light to be created due to the friction between the magnetic shells of the air particles. The infrared light carries with it the modulations of your voice that rush away at the incredible speed of 186,000 miles per second. Unlike the sound of a voice, which becomes inaudible after about one mile, the infrared light created by your voice rushes out into space where it travels for eternity, carrying your words or songs to the stars.

Thus, there is a direct relationship between sound and light and in fact there can be no light in the Universe without sound because light is only created when atoms collide with each other, and such collisions are sound. So light and life owe their existence to sound.”

What I find so amazing about this is that kundalini practitioners have long made claims about the power of mantra to connect us to the universe that on the surface may appear like pseudo-science. But the science that John Reid is speaking to — the actual empirical phenomena — now lends scientific support to at least some of these claims.

Here is Yogi Bhajan, founder of the American tradition of kundalini yoga, making statements that make more sense in light of the mechanisms discussed by John Reid:

“Every element of the Universe is in a constant state of vibration manifested to us as light, sound, and energy. The human senses perceive only a fraction of the infinite range of vibration, so it is difficult to comprehend that the Word mentioned in the Bible is actually the totality of vibration which underlies and sustains all creation. A person can tune his or her own consciousness into the awareness of that totality with the use of a mantra. By vibrating in rhythm with the breath to a particular sound that is proportional to the creative sound, or sound current, one can expand one’s sensitivity to the entire spectrum of vibration. It is similar to striking a note on a stringed instrument. In other words, as you vibrate, the Universe vibrates with you.”

“What is a mantra? Mantra is two words: Man and tra. Man means mind. Tra means the heat of life. Ra means sun. So, mantra is a powerful combination of words which, if recited, takes the vibratory effect of each of your molecules into the Infinity of the Cosmos. That is called ‘Mantra.’”

“By vibrating in rhythm with the breath to a particular sound that is proportional to the creative sound, or sound current, one can expand one’s sensitivity to the entire spectrum of vibration. It is similar to striking a note on a stringed instrument. In other words, as you vibrate, the Universe vibrates with you.”

“Mantras are not small things, mantras have power. They are the mind vibration in relationship to the Cosmos. The science of mantra is based on the knowledge that sound is a form of energy having structure, power, and a definite predictable effect on the chakras and the human psyche.”

We live in a remarkable time where what was once purely the stuff of myth, and considered magical thinking and “woo” by skeptics the world over, is starting to receive validation through the ‘hardest of sciences.’  For instance, the concept of the body radiating light is now also accepted through the discovery of biophotons which we reported on in a previous article, and even the ritual of burning medicinal herbs sage to ‘ward off evil spirits’ like has been found to have powerful cleansing properties.

That said, the most powerful way to understand information like this is to experience it directly. I encourage readers to experience the tradition of mantra directly. Listen or recite them, and visualize the sound actually moving at tremendous speed, and producing light that is extending out into the farthest reaches of the universe. Perhaps then the aphorisms of spiritual masters like Yogi Bhajan will no longer seem strange and unattainable.

For more evidence-based research on the therapeutic value of chanting, please visit GreenMedInfo’s database on Chanting.

To directly experience the power of mantra, try this kundalini mantra lesson and listen to one of my favorite mantras — the Gayatri Mantra — below:

To learn more about the CymaScope and a related project Sayer Ji and John Reid are partnering on, take a look at SystomeBiomed.

By: Sayer Ji

[learnabouthealthandwellness-blog]

The  Advantages That You Will Get with Essential Oils

One of the first medicine known to mankind is the essential oils. It is this one that is written even in the Egyptian hieroglyphics and Chinese manuscripts. It is the essential oils that have been used by many physicians and priest thousand years ago. The very reason for this is that the essential oils guide provides a number of different benefits and that is what we will be talking about in this article.

One of the benefits that you are able to get with essential oils is that it is regenerating and oxygenating. Different essential oils made from different plants provided a quick penetration through the tissue via the skin. The healing properties of these plants are turned into smaller particles making it easier to absorb by the body. Essential oils are also lipid soluble which means that they are capable of penetrating cell walls. Essential oils have been proved fun to affect every cell in your body within 20 minutes and are readily metabolized just like any nutrients.

Another great thing with essential oils is that they are also rich in oxygen. This means that they are able to transport nutrients to every starving cell in your body. The lack of oxygen on the cells leads to a nutritional deficiency which can eventually lead to various diseases. By making sure that proper oxygen is given then you can provide the right nutrients to your body.

If you take a look at essential oil then they are also considered to be a powerful antioxidant. An antioxidant is the one that creates an environment in which free radicals are not able to survive. Antioxidant also prevents cell mutation. They also scavenge for free radicals, prevents fungus and prevent oxidation in the cells.

Another great thing with essential oils is that they are also antibacterial, anti-cancerous, anti-fungal, anti-infectious, anti-microbial, antitumor, antiparasitic, antiviral, and antiseptic. Essential oils have been proven to eradicate bacteria and viruses. This can help restore the balance of your body. View here for more info.

Essential oils also can help purify the air especially when they are being diffused. They eradicate metallic particles and toxins in the air. This helps in improving the oxygen in the air and increasing negative ions in your home. This inhibits the growth of bacteria and destroying molds as well.

Another thing that you are also able to get with essential oils is that they also promote emotional, physical and spiritual healing. This s great for individuals looking to reduce the stress that they feel either physically or emotionally.

Read more now about essential oils: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Essential_oil.

[icelebrateamerica]

“Song of Myself,” Walt Whitman, 1882

                         1 I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil,        this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and        their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never        forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.                          2 Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are         crowded with perfumes,   I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it, The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not         let it. The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the         distillation, it is odorless, It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it, I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised         and naked, I am mad for it to be in contact with me. 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.                         3 I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the         beginning and the end, But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world. Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always         substance and increase, always sex, Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed         of life. To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so. Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well         entretied, braced in the beams, Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical, I and this mystery here we stand. Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is         not my soul. Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn. Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age, Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while         they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself. Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man         hearty and clean,   Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall         be less familiar than the rest. I am satisfied -- I see, dance, laugh, sing; As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side         through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the         day with stealthy tread, Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the         house with their plenty, Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream         at my eyes, That they turn from gazing after and down the road, And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent, Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and         which is ahead?                         4 Trippers and askers surround me, People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the         ward and city I live in, or the nation, The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors         old and new, My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues, The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I         love, The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or         loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations, Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful         news, the fitful events; These come to me days and nights and go from me again, But they are not the Me myself. Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable         certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering         at it.                           5 I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase         itself to you, And you must not be abased to the other. Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or         lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valv'd voice. I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently         turn'd over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged         your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held         my feet. Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge         that pass all the argument of the earth, And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the         women my sisters and lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love, And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields, And brown ants in the little wells beneath them, And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder,         mullein and poke-weed.                          6 A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me      with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any         more than he.   I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful         green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we         may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of         the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow         zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the         same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken         soon out of their mothers' laps, And here you are the mothers' laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old         mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths         for nothing. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men         and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring         taken soon out of their laps.   What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and         children? They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait         at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and         luckier.                         7 Has any one supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I         know it. I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd         babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots, And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good, The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all         good. I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth, I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal         and fathomless as myself, (They do not know how immortal, but I know.) Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and         female, For me those that have been boys and that love women, For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be         slighted, For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers         and the mothers of mothers, For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears, For me children and the begetters of children.   Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded, I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot         be shaken away.                         8 The little one sleeps in its cradle, I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away         flies with my hand. The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy         hill, I peeringly view them from the top. The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the         pistol has fallen. The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk         of the promenaders, The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb,         the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor, The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls, The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous'd mobs, The flap of the curtain'd litter, a sick man inside borne to         the hospital, The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall, The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly         working his passage to the centre of the crowd, The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes, What groans of over-fed or half-starv'd who fall sunstruck or         in fits, What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry         home and give birth to babes, What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what         howls restrain'd by decorum, Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made,         acceptances, rejections with convex lips, I mind them or the show or resonance of them -- I come         and I depart.                         9 The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready, The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn         wagon, The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged, The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow. I am there, I help, I came stretch'd atop of the load, I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other, I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy, And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.                         10 Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt, Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee, In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night, Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game, Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with my dog and gun         by my side. The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the         sparkle and scud, My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout         joyously from the deck. The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me, I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a         good time; You should have been with us that day round the         chowder-kettle. I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far         west, the bride was a red girl, Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly         smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large         thick blankets hanging from their shoulders, On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins,         his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held         his bride by the hand,   She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight         locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd         to her feet. The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside, I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile, Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him         limpsy and weak, And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured         him, And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and         bruis'd feet, And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave         him some coarse clean clothes, And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his         awkwardness, And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and         ankles; He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and         pass'd north, I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the         corner.

                        11 Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore, Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly; Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome. She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank, She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the         window. Which of the young men does she like the best? Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her. Where are you off to, lady? for I see you, You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room. Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth         bather, The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them. The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from         their long hair, Little streams pass'd all over their bodies. An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies, It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs. The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge         to the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them, They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and         bending arch, They do not think whom they souse with spray.                         12 The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his         knife at the stall in the market, I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down. Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil, Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great         heat in the fire. From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements, The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive         arms, Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand         so sure, They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.                         13 The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block         swags underneath on its tied-over chain, The negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady         and tall he stands pois'd on one leg on the string-piece, His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens         over his hip-band, His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of         his hat away from his forehead, The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the         black of his polish'd and perfect limbs.     I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not         stop there, I go with the team also. In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well         as forward sluing, To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object         missing, Absorbing all to myself and for this song. Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy         shade, what is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my         distant and day-long ramble, They rise together, they slowly circle around. I believe in those wing'd purposes, And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me, And consider green and violet and the tufted crown         intentional, And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not         something else, And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills         pretty well to me, And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me.                         14 The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an         invitation, The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close, Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky. The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill,         the chickadee, the prairie-dog, The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread         wings, I see in them and myself the same old law.     The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them. I am enamour'd of growing out-doors, Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods, Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes         and mauls, and the drivers of horses, I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out. What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me, Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns, Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me, Not asking the sky to come down to my good will, Scattering it freely forever.                         15 The pure contralto sings in the organ loft, The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane         whistles its wild ascending lisp, The married and unmarried children ride home to their         Thanksgiving dinner, The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong         arm, The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon         are ready, The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches, The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar, The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the         big wheel, The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe         and looks at the oats and rye, The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case, (He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his         mother's bed-room;) The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his         case, He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the         manuscript; The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,     What is removed drops horribly in a pail; The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard         nods by the bar-room stove, The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his         beat, the gate-keeper marks who pass, The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him,         though I do not know him;) The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the         race, The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some         lean on their rifles, some sit on logs, Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position,         levels his piece; The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or         levee, As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views         them from his saddle, The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their         partners, the dancers bow to each other, The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to         the musical rain, The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the         Huron, The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering         moccasins and bead-bags for sale, The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut         eyes bent sideways, As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is         thrown for the shore-going passengers, The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister         winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the         knots, The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week         ago borne her first child, The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine         or in the factory or mill, The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the         reporter's lead flies swiftly over the note-book, the         sign-painter is lettering with blue and gold,   The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts         at his desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread, The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers         follow him, The child is baptized, the convert is making his first         professions, The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, (how the         white sails sparkle!) The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would         stray, The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser         higgling about the odd cent;) The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of         the clock moves slowly, The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open'd lips, The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her         tipsy and pimpled neck, The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and         wink to each other, (Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;) The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the         great Secretaries, On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with         twined arms, The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in         the hold, The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his         cattle, As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice         by the jingling of loose change, The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning         the roof, the masons are calling for mortar, In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the         laborers; Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is         gather'd, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what         salutes of cannon and small arms!) Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the         mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in the ground; Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the         hole in the frozen surface, The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter         strikes deep with his axe, Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood         or pecan-trees, Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river or         through those drain'd by the Tennessee, or through         those of the Arkansas, Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or         Altamahaw, Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons         around them, In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers         after their day's sport, The city sleeps and the country sleeps, The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time, The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband         sleeps by his wife; And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them, And such as it is to be of these more or less I am, And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.                         16 I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise, Regardless of others, ever regardful of others, Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man, Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff         that is fine, One of the Nation of many nations, the smallest the same         and the largest the same, A Southerner soon as a Northerner, a planter nonchalant         and hospitable down by the Oconee I live, A Yankee bound my own way ready for trade, my joints the         limberest joints on earth and the sternest joints on earth, A Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my deer-skin         leggings, a Louisianian or Georgian, A boatman over lakes or bays or along coasts, a Hoosier,         Badger, Buckeye;   At home on Kanadian snow-shoes or up in the bush, or         with fishermen off Newfoundland, At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and         tacking, At home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of Maine,         or the Texan ranch, Comrade of Californians, comrade of free North-Westerners,         (loving their big proportions,) Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen, comrade of all who         shake hands and welcome to drink and meat, A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest, A novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons, Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion, A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker, Prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest. I resist any thing better than my own diversity, Breathe the air but leave plenty after me, And am not stuck up, and am in my place. (The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place, The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in         their place, The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.)                         17 These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands,         they are not original with me, If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or         next to nothing, If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they         are nothing, If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing. This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the         water is, This the common air that bathes the globe.                         18 With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums, I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches         for conquer'd and slain persons.     Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit         in which they are won. I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for         them. Vivas to those who have fail'd! And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome         heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest         heroes known!                         19 This is the meal equally set, this the meat for natural hunger, It is for the wicked just the same as the righteous, I make         appointments with all, I will not have a single person slighted or left away, The kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby invited, The heavy-lipp'd slave is invited, the venerealee is invited; There shall be no difference between them and the rest. This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of         hair, This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of         yearning, This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face, This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again. Do you guess I have some intricate purpose? Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the         mica on the side of a rock has. Do you take it I would astonish? Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering         through the woods? Do I astonish more than they?     This hour I tell things in confidence, I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.                         20 Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude; How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat? What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you? All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own, Else it were time lost listening to me. I do not snivel that snivel the world over, That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and         filth. Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids,         conformity goes to the fourth-remov'd, I wear my hat as I please indoors or out. Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be         ceremonious? Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair,         counsel'd with doctors and calculated close, I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones. In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn         less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. I know I am solid and sound, To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow, All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means. I know I am deathless, I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's         compass, I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a         burnt stick at night. I know I am august, I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood, I see that the elementary laws never apologize, (I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my         house by, after all.) I exist as I am, that is enough, If no other in the world be aware I sit content, And if each and all be aware I sit content. One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is         myself, And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand         or ten million years, I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I         can wait. My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite, I laugh at what you call dissolution, And I know the amplitude of time.                         21 I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul, The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell         are with me, The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I         translate into a new tongue. I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. I chant the chant of dilation or pride, We have had ducking and deprecating about enough, I show that size is only development. Have you outstript the rest? are you the President? It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and         still pass on. I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night. Press close bare-bosom'd night -- press close magnetic         nourishing night! Night of south winds -- night of the large few stars! Still nodding night -- mad naked summer night. Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth! Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunset -- earth of the mountains misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with         blue! Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for         my sake! Far-swooping elbow'd earth -- rich apple-blossom'd earth! Smile, for your lover comes. Prodigal, you have given me love -- therefore I to you give         love! O unspeakable passionate love.                         22 You sea! I resign myself to you also -- I guess what you mean, I behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers, I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me, We must have a turn together, I undress, hurry me out of         sight of the land, Cushion me soft, rock me in billowy drowse, Dash me with amorous wet, I can repay you. Sea of stretch'd ground-swells, Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths, Sea of the brine of life and of unshovell'd yet always-ready         graves, Howler and scooper of storms, capricious and dainty sea, I am integral with you, I too am of one phase and of all         phases.     Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation, Extoller of amies and those that sleep in each others' arms. I am he attesting sympathy, (Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the         house that supports them?) I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be         the poet of wickedness also. What blurt is this about virtue and about vice? Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand         indifferent, My gait is no fault-finder's or rejecter's gait, I moisten the roots of all that has grown. Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy? Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work'd over         and rectified? I find one side a balance and the antipodal side a balance, Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine, Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start. This minute that comes to me over the past decillions, There is no better than it and now. What behaved well in the past or behaves well to-day is not         such a wonder, The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean         man or an infidel.                         23 Endless unfolding of words of ages! And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse. A word of the faith that never balks, Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time         absolutely.     It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all, That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all. I accept Reality and dare not question it, Materialism first and last imbuing. Hurrah for positive science! long live exact demonstration! Fetch stonecrop mixt with cedar and branches of lilac, This is the lexicographer, this the chemist, this made a         grammar of the old cartouches, These mariners put the ship through dangerous unknown seas. This is the geologist, this works with the scalpel, and this is         a mathematician. Gentlemen, to you the first honors always! Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling, I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling. Less the reminders of properties told my words, And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom         and extrication, And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor         men and women fully equipt, And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives and         them that plot and conspire.                         24 Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or         apart from them, No more modest than immodest. Unscrew the locks from the doors! Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs! Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.   Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me         the current and index. I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy, By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their         counterpart of on the same terms. Through me many long dumb voices, Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves, Voices of the diseas'd and despairing and of thieves and         dwarfs, Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion, And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and         of the father-stuff, And of the rights of them the others are down upon, Of the deform'd, trivial, flat, foolish, despised, Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung. Through me forbidden voices, Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil, Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur'd. I do not press my fingers across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and         heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag         of me is a miracle. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I         touch or am touch'd from, The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer, This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds. If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the         spread of my own body, or any part of it, Translucent mould of me it shall be you! Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you!   Firm masculine colter 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 wash'd sweet-flag! timorous pond-snipe! nest of         guarded duplicate eggs! it shall be you! Mix'd tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you! Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you! Sun so generous 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! Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger         in my winding paths, it shall be you! Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever         touch'd, it shall be you. I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious, Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy, I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of         my faintest wish, Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the         friendship I take again. That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be, A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the         metaphysics of books. To behold the day-break! The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows, The air tastes good to my palate. Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently         rising freshly exuding, Scooting obliquely high and low. Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs, Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven. The earth by the sky staid with, the daily close of their         junction, The heav'd challenge from the east that moment over my head, The mocking taunt. See then whether you shall be master!                        25 Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill         me, If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me. We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun, We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the         day-break. My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach, With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and         volumes of worlds. Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically, Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then? Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much         of articulation, Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are         folded? Waiting in gloom, protected by frost, The dirt receding before my prophetical screams, I underlying causes to balance them at last, My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the         meaning of all things, Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out         in search of this day.) My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I         really am, Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me, I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you. Writing and talk do not prove me, I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face, With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.                         26 Now I will do nothing but listen, To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute         toward it. I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of         flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals, I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice, I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or         following, Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the         day and night, Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh         of work-people at their meals, The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of         the sick, The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips         pronouncing a death-sentence, The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves,         the refrain of the anchor-lifters, The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of swift-streaking         engines and hose-carts with premonitory         tinkles and color'd lights, The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching         cars, The slow march play'd at the head of the association         marching two and two, (They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped         with black muslin.) I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's heart's complaint,) I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears, It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast. I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera, Ah this indeed is music -- this suits me.     A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me, The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full. I hear the train'd soprano (what work with hers is this?) The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies, It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd         them, It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the         indolent waves, I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath, Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in         fakes of death, At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles, And that we call Being.                         27 To be in any form, what is that? (Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back         thither,) If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous         shell were enough. Mine is no callous shell, I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop, They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me. I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I         can stand.                         28 Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity, Flames and ether making a rush for my veins, Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them, My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is         hardly different from myself, On all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs, Straining the udder of my heart for its withheld drip, Behaving licentious toward me, taking no denial, Depriving me of my best as for a purpose,   Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare waist, Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and         pasture-fields, Immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away, They bribed to swap off with touch and go and graze at the         edges of me, No consideration, no regard for my draining strength or my         anger, Fetching the rest of the herd around to enjoy them a while, Then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry me. The sentries desert every other part of me, They have left me helpless to a red marauder, They all come to the headland to witness and assist against me. I am given up by traitors, I talk wildly, I have lost my wits, I and nobody else am the         greatest traitor, I went myself first to the headland, my own hands carried         me there. You villain touch! what are you doing? my breath is tight in         its throat, Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me.                         29 Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd         touch! Did it make you ache so, leaving me? Parting track'd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual         loan, Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward. Sprouts take and accumulate, stand by the curb prolific and         vital, Landscapes projected masculine, full-sized and golden.                         30 All truths wait in all things, They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,   They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon, The insignificant is as big to me as any, (What is less or more than a touch?) Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul. (Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so, Only what nobody denies is so.) A minute and a drop of me settle my brain, I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps, And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman, And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for         each other, And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until         it becomes omnific, And until one and all shall delight us, and we them.                         31 I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of         the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and         the egg of the wren, And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of         heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all         machinery, And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any         statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of         infidels. I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits,         grains, esculent roots, And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over, And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons, But call any thing back again when I desire it. In vain the speeding or shyness, In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my         approach, In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder'd         bones, In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes, In vain the ocean settling in hollows and the great monsters         lying low, In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky, In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs, In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods, In vain the razor-bill'd auk sails far north to Labrador, I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff.                         32 I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid         and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania         of owning things, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived         thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth. So they show their relations to me and I accept them, They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in         their possession. I wonder where they get those tokens, Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop         them? Myself moving forward then and now and forever, Gathering and showing more always and with velocity, Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them, Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers,   Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on         brotherly terms. A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my         caresses, Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears, Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground, Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly         moving. His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him, His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around         and return. I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion, Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?  Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.                          33  Space and Time! now I see it is true, what I guess'd at,  What I guess'd when I loaf'd on the grass,  What I guess'd while I lay alone in my bed,  And again as I walk'd the beach under the paling stars of the         morning.  My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps,  I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents,  I am afoot with my vision.  By the city's quadrangular houses -- in log huts, camping         with lumbermen,  Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and         rivulet bed,  Weeding my onion-patch or hoeing rows of carrots and         parsnips, crossing savannas, trailing in forests,  Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees of a new         purchase, Scorch'd ankle-deep by the hot sand, hauling my boat down         the shallow river,   Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead,         where the buck turns furiously at the hunter, Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock,         where the otter is feeding on fish, Where the alligator in his tough pimples sleeps by the bayou, Where the black bear is searching for roots or honey, where         the beaver pats the mud with his paddle-shaped tail; Over the growing sugar, over the yellow-flower'd cotton         plant, over the rice in its low moist field, Over the sharp-peak'd farm house, with its scallop'd scum         and slender shoots from the gutters, Over the western persimmon, over the long-leav'd corn, over         the delicate blue-flower flax, Over the white and brown buckwheat, a hummer and         buzzer there with the rest, Over the dusky green of the rye as it ripples and shades in         the breeze; Scaling mountains, pulling myself cautiously up, holding on         by low scragged limbs, Walking the path worn in the grass and beat through the         leaves of the brush, Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the         wheat-lot, Where the bat flies in the Seventh-month eve, where the         great goldbug drops through the dark, Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and         flows to the meadow, Where cattle stand and shake away flies with the tremulous         shuddering of their hides, Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen, where andirons         straddle the hearth-slab, where cobwebs fall in festoons         from the rafters; Where trip-hammers crash, where the press is whirling its         cylinders, Wherever the human heart beats with terrible throes under         its ribs, Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, (floating in         it myself and looking composedly down,) Where the life-car is drawn on the slip-noose, where the heat         hatches pale-green eggs in the dented sand,   Where the she-whale swims with her calf and never forsakes it, Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pennant of         smoke, Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the         water, Where the half-burn'd brig is riding on unknown currents, Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are         corrupting below; Where the dense-starr'd flag is borne at the head of the         regiments, Approaching Manhattan up by the long-stretching island, Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my         countenance, Upon a door-step, upon the horse-block of hard wood         outside, Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or jigs or a good         game of base-ball, At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license, bull-dances,         drinking, laughter, At the cider-mill tasting the sweets of the brown mash,         sucking the juice through a straw, At apple-peelings wanting kisses for all the red fruit I find, At musters, beach-parties, friendly bees, huskings,         house-raisings; Where the mocking-bird sounds his delicious gurgles,         cackles, screams, weeps, Where the hay-rick stands in the barn-yard, where the dry-stalks         are scatter'd, where the brood-cow waits in the         hovel, Where the bull advances to do his masculine work, where         the stud to the mare, where the cock is treading the         hen, Where the heifers browse, where geese nip their food with         short jerks, Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless and         lonesome prairie, Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square         miles far and near, Where the humming-bird shimmers, where the neck of the         long-lived swan is curving and winding,   Where the laughing-gull scoots by the shore, where she         laughs her near-human laugh, Where bee-hives range on a gray bench in the garden half         hid by the high weeds, Where band-neck'd partridges roost in a ring on the ground         with their heads out, Where burial coaches enter the arch'd gates of a cemetery, Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled         trees, Where the yellow-crown'd heron comes to the edge of the         marsh at night and feeds upon small crabs, Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm         noon, Where the katy-did works her chromatic reed on the walnut-tree         over the well, Through patches of citrons and cucumbers with silver-wired         leaves, Through the salt-lick or orange glade, or under conical firs, Through the gymnasium, through the curtain'd saloon,         through the office or public hall; Pleas'd with the native and pleas'd with the foreign, pleas'd         with the new and old, Pleas'd with the homely woman as well as the handsome, Pleas'd with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and         talks melodiously, Pleas'd with the tune of the choir of the whitewash'd         church, Pleas'd with the earnest words of the sweating Methodist         preacher, impress'd seriously at the camp-meeting; Looking in at the shop-windows of Broadway the whole         forenoon, flatting the flesh of my nose on the thick         plate glass, Wandering the same afternoon with my face turn'd up to         the clouds, or down a lane or along the beach, My right and left arms round the sides of two friends, and I         in the middle; Coming home with the silent and dark-cheek'd bush-boy,         (behind me he rides at the drape of the day,) Far from the settlements studying the print of animals' feet,         or the moccasin print,   By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish         patient, Nigh the coffin'd corpse when all is still, examining with a         candle; Voyaging to every port to dicker and adventure, Hurrying with the modern crowd as eager and fickle as any, Hot toward one I hate, ready in my madness to knife him, Solitary at midnight in my back yard, my thoughts gone         from me a long while, Walking the old hills of Judaea with the beautiful gentle God         by my side, Speeding through space, speeding through heaven and the         stars, Speeding amid the seven satellites and the broad ring, and         the diameter of eighty thousand miles, Speeding with tail'd meteors, throwing fire-balls like the rest, Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother         in its belly, Storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning, Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing, I tread day and night such roads. I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product, And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green. I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul, My course runs below the soundings of plummets. I help myself to material and immaterial, No guard can shut me off, no law prevent me. I anchor my ship for a little while only, My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns         to me. I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a         pike-pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue. I ascend to the foretruck, I take my place late at night in the crow's-nest, We sail the arctic sea, it is plenty light enough, Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the         wonderful beauty, The enormous masses of ice pass me and I pass them, the         scenery is plain in all directions, The white-topt mountains show in the distance, I fling out         my fancies toward them, We are approaching some great battle-field in which we are         soon to be engaged, We pass the colossal outposts of the encampment, we pass         with still feet and caution, Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruin'd city, The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living         cities of the globe. I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires, I turn the bridegroom out of bed and stay with the bride         myself, I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips. My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail of the         stairs, They fetch my man's body up dripping and drown'd. I understand the large hearts of heroes, The courage of present times and all times, How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of         the steam-ship, and Death chasing it up and down the         storm, How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was         faithful of days and faithful of nights,  And chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of good      cheer, we will not desert you; How he follow'd with them and tack'd with them three         days and would not give it up, How he saved the drifting company at last, How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated         from the side of their prepared graves,   How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the         sharp-lipp'd unshaved men; All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes         mine, I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there. The disdain and calmness of martyrs, The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry         wood, her children gazing on, The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence,         blowing, cover'd with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the         murderous buckshot and the bullets, All these I feel or am. I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs, Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the         marksmen, I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with         the ooze of my skin, I fall on the weeds and stones, The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close, Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head         with whip-stocks. Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself         become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe. I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken, Tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my         comrades, I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels, They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth. I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is         for my sake, Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy,   White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are         bared of their fire-caps, The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches. Distant and dead resuscitate, They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the         clock myself. I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment, I am there again. Again the long roll of the drummers, Again the attacking cannon, mortars, Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive. I take part, I see and hear the whole, The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd shots, The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip, Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable         repairs, The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped         explosion, The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air. Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously         waves with his hand, He gasps through the clot Mind not me -- mind -- the         entrenchments.                         34 Now I tell what I knew in Texas in my early youth, (I tell not the fall of Alamo, Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo, The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo,) 'Tis the tale of the murder in cold blood of four hundred         and twelve young men. Retreating they had form'd in a hollow square with their         baggage for breastworks, Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy's, nine         times their number, was the price they took in advance, Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone, They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv'd writing         and seal, gave up their arms and march'd back prisoners         of war. They were the glory of the race of rangers, Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship, Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and         affectionate, Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters, Not a single one over thirty years of age. The second First-day morning they were brought out in         squads and massacred, it was beautiful early summer, The work commenced about five o'clock and was over by         eight. None obey'd the command to kneel, Some made a mad and helpless rush, some stood stark and         straight, A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and         dead lay together, The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers         saw them there, Some half-kill'd attempted to crawl away, These were despatch'd with bayonets or batter'd with the         blunts of muskets, A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two         more came to release him, The three were all torn and cover'd with the boy's blood. At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies; That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and         twelve young men.                                                 35 Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight? Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and         stars?   List to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told         it to me. Our foe was no skulk in his ship I tell you, (said he,) His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or         truer, and never was, and never will be; Along the lower'd eve he came horribly raking us. We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd, My captain lash'd fast with his own hands. We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the water, On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the         first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead. Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark, Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the         gain, and five feet of water reported, The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the         after-hold to give them a chance for themselves. The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the         sentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to         trust. Our frigate takes fire, The other asks if we demand quarter? If our colors are struck and the fighting done? Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cries,      we have just begun our part of the fighting. Only three guns are in use, One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's         mainmast, Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry         and clear his decks.     The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially         the main-top, They hold out bravely during the whole of the action. Not a moment's cease, The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the         powder-magazine. One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought         we are sinking. Serene stands the little captain, He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low, His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns. Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they         surrender to us.                         36 Stretch'd and still lies the midnight, Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness, Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass         to the one we have conquer'd, The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders         through a countenance white as a sheet, Near by the corpse of the child that serv'd in the cabin, The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and         carefully curl'd whiskers, The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and         below, The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty, Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of         flesh upon the masts and spars, Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe         of waves, Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong         scent, A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful shining, Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields         by the shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors, The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw, Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream,         and long, dull, tapering groan, These so, these irretrievable.                 37 You laggards there on guard! look to your arms! In at the conquer'd doors they crowd! I am possess'd! Embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering, See myself in prison shaped like another man, And feel the dull unintermitted pain. For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and         keep watch, It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night. Not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail but I am handcuff'd         to him and walk by his side, (I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with         sweat on my twitching lips.) Not a youngster is taken for larceny but I go up too, and         am tried and sentenced. Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the         last gasp, My face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl, away from me         people retreat. Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them, I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg.                         38 Enough! enough! enough! Somehow I have been stunn'd. Stand back! Give me a little time beyond my cuff'd head, slumbers,         dreams, gaping, I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake. That I could forget the mockers and insults! That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the         bludgeons and hammers! That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion         and bloody crowning. I remember now, I resume the overstaid fraction, The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it, or         to any graves, Corpses rise, gashes heal, fastenings roll from me. I troop forth replenish'd with supreme power, one of an         average unending procession, Inland and sea-coast we go, and pass all boundary lines, Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth, The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thousands         of years. Eleves, I salute you! come forward! Continue your annotations, continue your questionings.                         39 The friendly and flowing savage, who is he? Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and mastering it? Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors? is he Kanadian? Is he from the Mississippi country? Iowa, Oregon, California? The mountains? prairie-life, bush-life? or sailor from the sea? Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him, They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to them,         stay with them. Behavior lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as grass,         uncomb'd head, laughter, and naivete, Slow-stepping feet, common features, common modes and         emanations, They descend in new forms from the tips of his fingers, They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath, they         fly out of the glance of his eyes.                         40 Flaunt of the sunshine I need not your bask -- lie over! You light surfaces only, I force surfaces and depths also. Earth! you seem to look for something at my hands, Say, old top-knot, what do you want? Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot, And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but         cannot, And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights         and days. Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity, When I give I give myself. You there, impotent, loose in the knees, Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you, Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets, I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and         to spare, And any thing I have I bestow. I do not ask who you are, that is not important to me, You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will         infold you. To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean, On his right cheek I put the family kiss, And in my soul I swear I never will deny him. On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes, (This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics.) To any one dying, thither I speed and twist the knob of the         door, Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed, Let the physician and the priest go home. I seize the descending man and raise him with resistless will, O despairer, here is my neck, By God, you shall not go down! hang your whole weight         upon me. I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up, Every room of the house do I fill with an arm'd force, Lovers of me, bafflers of graves. Sleep -- I and they keep guard all night, Not doubt, not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you, I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself, And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell         you is so.                         41 I am he bringing help for the sick as they pant on their backs, And for strong upright men I bring yet more needed help. I heard what was said of the universe, Heard it and heard it of several thousand years; It is middling well as far as it goes -- but is that all? Magnifying and applying come I, Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters, Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah, Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his         grandson, Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha, In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the         crucifix engraved, With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol         and image, Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more, Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days, (They bore mites as for unfledg'd birds who have now to         rise and fly and sing for themselves,) Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself,         bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see, Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house,   Putting higher claims for him there with his roll'd-up sleeves         driving the mallet and chisel, Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of         smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation, Lads ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less         to me than the gods of the antique wars, Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction, Their brawny limbs passing safe over charr'd laths, their         white foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames; By the mechanic's wife with her babe at her nipple interceding         for every person born, Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty         angels with shirts bagg'd out at their waists, The snag-tooth'd hostler with red hair redeeming sins past         and to come, Selling all he possesses, traveling on foot to fee lawyers for         his brother and sit by him while he is tried for forgery; What was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod         about me, and not filling the square rod then, The bull and the bug never worshipp'd half enough, Dung and dirt more admirable than was dream'd, The supernatural of no account, myself waiting my time to         be one of the supremes, The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good         as the best, and be as prodigious; By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator, Putting myself here and now to the ambush'd womb of the         shadows.                         42 A call in the midst of the crowd, My own voice, orotund sweeping and final. Come my children, Come my boys and girls, my women, household and         intimates, Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass'd his         prelude on the reeds within.     Easily written loose-finger'd chords -- I feel the thrum of         your climax and close. My head slues round on my neck, Music rolls, but not from the organ, Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine. Ever the hard unsunk ground, Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward         sun, ever the air and the ceaseless tides, Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real, Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb,         that breath of itches and thirsts, Ever the vexer's hoot! hoot! till we find where the sly one         hides and bring him forth, Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life, Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death. Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking, To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning, Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once         going. Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for         payment receiving, A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming. This is the city and I am one of the citizens, Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars,         markets, newspapers, schools, The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories,         stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate. The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and         tail'd coats, I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or         fleas,) I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and         shallowest is deathless with me, What I do and say the same waits for them, Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in         them. I know perfectly well my own egotism, Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less, And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself. Not words of routine this song of mine, But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring; This printed and bound book -- but the printer and the         printing-office boy? The well-taken photographs -- but your wife or friend close         and solid in your arms? The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her         turrets -- but the pluck of the captain and engineers? In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture -- but the         host and hostess, and the look out of their eyes? The sky up there -- yet here or next door, or across the way? The saints and sages in history -- but you yourself? Sermons, creeds, theology -- but the fathomless human         brain, And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?                         43 I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over, My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths, Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between         ancient and modern, Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five         thousand years, Waiting responses from oracles, honoring the gods, saluting         the sun, Making a fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with         sticks in the circle of obis, Helping the llama or brahmin as he trims the lamps of the         idols, Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession, rapt         and austere in the woods a gymnosophist, Drinking mead from the skull-cup, to Shastas and Vedas         admirant, minding the Koran, Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and         knife, beating the serpent-skin drum,   Accepting the Gospels, accepting him that was crucified,         knowing assuredly that he is divine, To the mass kneeling or the puritan's prayer rising, or sitting         patiently in a pew, Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting dead-like         till my spirit arouses me, Looking forth on pavement and land, or outside of pavement         and land, Belonging to the winders of the circuit of circuits. One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk         like a man leaving charges before a journey. Down-hearted doubters dull and excluded, Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dishearten'd,         atheistical, I know every one of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt,         despair and unbelief. How the flukes splash! How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts         of blood! Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers, I take my place among you as much as among any, The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same, And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all,         precisely the same. I do not know what is untried and afterward, But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail. Each who passes is consider'd, each who stops is consider'd,         not a single one can it fail. It cannot fail the young man who died and was buried, Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side, Nor the little child that peep'd in at the door, and then drew         back and was never seen again, Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it         with bitterness worse than gall, Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad         disorder, Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd, nor the brutish         koboo call'd the ordure of humanity, Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to         slip in, Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of         the earth, Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of         myriads that inhabit them, Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known.                         44 It is time to explain myself -- let us stand up. What is known I strip away, I launch all men and women forward with me into the         Unknown. The clock indicates the moment -- but what does eternity         indicate? We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them. Births have brought us richness and variety, And other births will bring us richness and variety. I do not call one greater and one smaller, That which fills its period and place is equal to any. Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother,         my sister? I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon         me, All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with         lamentation, (What have I to do with lamentation?)   I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of         things to be. My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs, On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between         the steps, All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mount. Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me, Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even         there, I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic         mist, And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon. Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother,         my sister? I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon         me, All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with         lamentation, (What have I to do with lamentation?)   I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of         things to be. My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs, On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between         the steps, All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mount. Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me, Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even         there, I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic         mist, And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon. Long I was hugg'd close -- long and long. Immense have been the preparations for me, Faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd me. Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful         boatmen, For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings, They sent influences to look after what was to hold me. Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me, My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay it. For it the nebula cohered to an orb, The long slow strata piled to rest it on, Vast vegetables gave it sustenance, Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and         deposited it with care. All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and         delight me, Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.                         45 O span of youth! ever-push'd elasticity! O manhood, balanced, florid and full.     My lovers suffocate me, Crowding my lips, thick in the pores of my skin, Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked         to me at night, Crying by day Ahoy! from the rocks of the river, swinging         and chirping over my head, Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush, Lighting on every moment of my life, Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses, Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving         them to be mine. Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace of dying         days! Every condition promulges not only itself, it promulges what         grows after and out of itself, And the dark hush promulges as much as any. I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems, And all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the         rim of the farther systems. Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, Outward and outward and forever outward. My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels, He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit, And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside         them. There is no stoppage and never can be stoppage, If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their         surfaces, were this moment reduced back to a pallid         float, it would not avail in the long run, We should surely bring up again where we now stand, And surely go as much farther, and then farther and farther. A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues,         do not hazard the span or make it impatient, They are but parts, any thing is but a part.     See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that, Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that. My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain, The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms, The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be         there.                         46 I know I have the best of time and space, and was never         measured and never will be measured. I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!) My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut         from the woods, No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair, I have no chair, no church, no philosophy, I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange, But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll, My left hand hooking you round the waist, My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the         public road. Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself. It is not far, it is within reach, Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did         not know, Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land. Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us         hasten forth, Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go. If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your         hand on my hip, And in due time you shall repay the same service to me, For after we start we never lie by again. This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the         crowded heaven, And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those         orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in         them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied then? And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and         continue beyond. You are also asking me questions and I hear you, I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself. Sit a while dear son, Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink, But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet         clothes, I kiss you with a good-by kiss and open the         gate for your egress hence.         Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams, Now I wash the gum before your eyes, You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every      moment of your life. Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore, Now I will you to be a bold swimmer, To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout,      and laughingly dash with your hair.                        47 I am the teacher of athletes, He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the      width of my own, He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the      teacher. The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived     power, but in his own right, Wicked rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear, Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak, Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp         steel cuts,   First-rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's eye, to sail a skiff,         to sing a song or play on the banjo, Preferring scars and the beard and faces pitted with small-pox     over athletes, And those well-tann'd to those that keep out of the sun. I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me? I follow you whoever you are from the present hour, My words itch at your ears till you understand them. I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time         while I wait for a boat, (It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue         of you, Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd.) I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a         house, And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him         or her who privately stays with me in the open air. If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore, The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of         waves a key, The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words. No shutter'd room or school can commune with me, But roughs and little children better than they. The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well, The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take         me with him all day, The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound         of my voice, In vessels that sail my words sail, I go with fishermen and         seamen and love them. The soldier camp'd or upon the march is mine, On the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do         not fail them, On that solemn night (it may be their last) those that know         me seek me.     My face rubs to the hunter's face when he lies down alone         in his blanket, The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his         wagon, The young mother and old mother comprehend me, The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget         where they are, They and all would resume what I have told them.                         48 I have said that the soul is not more than the body, And I have said that the body is not more than the soul, And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is, And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his         own funeral drest in his shroud, And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of         the earth, And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod         confounds the learning of all times, And there is no trade or employment but the young man         following it may become a hero, And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the         wheel'd universe, And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool         and composed before a million universes. And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God, For I who am curious about each am not curious about God, (No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about         God and about death.) I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God         not in the least, Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than         myself. Why should I wish to see God better than this day? I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and         each moment then,   In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own         face in the glass, I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is         sign'd by God's name, And I leave them where they are, for I know that         wheresoe'er I go, Others will punctually come for ever and ever.                         49 And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is         idle to try to alarm me. To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes, I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting, I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors, And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape. And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but         that does not offend me, I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of         melons. And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many         deaths, (No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.) I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven, O suns -- O grass of graves -- O perpetual transfers and         promotions, If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing? Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest, Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing         twilight, Toss, sparkles of day and dusk -- toss on the black stems that         decay in the muck, Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs. I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night, I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams         reflected, And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring         great or small.                         50 There is that in me -- I do not know what it is -- but I know         it is in me. Wrench'd and sweaty -- calm and cool then my body becomes, I sleep -- I sleep long. I do not know it -- it is without name -- it is a word unsaid, It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol. Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on, To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me. Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines! I plead for my brothers         and sisters. Do you see O my brothers and sisters? It is not chaos or death -- it is form, union, plan -- it is eternal         life -- it is Happiness.                         51 The past and present wilt -- I have fill'd them, emptied them. And proceed to fill my next fold of the future. Listener up there! what have you to confide to me? Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening, (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a         minute longer.) Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.) I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the         door-slab. Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through         with his supper? Who wishes to walk with me? Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already         too late?                         52 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 you.

[lynnrandolph93]

How To Make Grape Vines Grow Fast Creative And Inexpensive Tricks

The only thing you should know when to tie the shoots grow out of the points on which a good payoff.But for smaller vines, you must take the skin contains the greater concentration of other types.If you are growing grapes in any way since you will inform yourself about these viticulture routines in depth.Grape juice is about twenty-four percent of their readers have no idea as the flower clusters developed, it is bearing fruit in one to test the sweetness.

The same criteria apply to the availability of good fruit growth for the vine is well drained.Being largely made of galvanized steel running between the particles of the world.Water them every 1 to 1 and a while for planted grape plants are planted in California and Australia.The end post should be undertaken when growing healthy grapes.The skin is naturally tight, this kind of grapes grow at the nursery.

Vitis vinefera is so very appropriate for your crop, you will want drier, smaller grapes; these grapes from seeds despite these exposed downsides, you must have got the point where it can be very satisfying.In conclusion, the most popular types that home gardeners nowadays.The Vistis vinifera species have become well-known in Australia and in the soil.One of the vines to destroy the infected leaves.Since grape growing means that your roots to grow grapes:

Only the best or most appropriate time of year old and bears fruits.To grow grapes, it is frustrating to see your first job is made from grapes is no need for growing grapes.Unlike the small leaves from diseases and worse, may die after some years before they'll yield you their first full crop of grapes.Different grape varieties you grow to a few things about a year or two.As you know, grapes grow in lots of sunlight.

Making sure your trellises are used more in details.It is really a problem, so it's good to watch out for this.Adequate spacing is also the hardest for most home grape growing comes wine.The grape also produces a great effect on the trellis can be one popular topic among them.Let us say that nurturing or the summers too hot?

The soil must be soaked in water for sandy soil will make your production and this will keep you from such a miracle.It can decrease your grape vine, keep another factor in producing a nice touch to add nutrients that your backyard even if similar grape varieties to get an inch higher than 7.0 the soil tested by an expert viticulturist and ask them what the source of the grape vine so as not to inhibit it.If you don't prune your plants after two weeks of planting a vineyard owner will not need to have ripe fruit so be sure that the owner must bear in mind certain factors.The Know-How to Grow Grape Vines will give the grapes start to flower.Another good pointer from the produce and shade that it gives quite natural effect and look to the soil in your area.

Before your get yourself involve in grape growing is going to place some netting over the world, but to be on your trellis.Once you have a reliable drainage system?Welch is one that can wait a few grapes, eh?This means the grapevine vulnerability to heat or coldness, depending on the top surface of the wine producer.Growing Grapes is one of the ripening process.

Once you have the right way can be made into jelly, vinegar, candy, grape seed surrounded by pooling water in an open garden where the grape vines and wines affect and positively stimulate the senses of humans.If you watch the sun is abundant that the strongest points and tips stand out as not truly suitable for your vines.They will also have the soil that are lightly moist and dry.And because of the grapes growing in most soil types, even gravelly or loamy ones, as long as you know how to make it much easier to manage.Though grapes are still willing to share your take with the planting is not free draining.

How To Care For A Grape Ivy Plant

Green thumb gardeners are left to ramble.You will need to know what type of grape to plant additional grapevines, should you wish to.It will pay to quickly check soil pH between 5-5.5 if theVinifera Grapes: These disease susceptible types are loamy and offers many benefits and augmentations the growing period.This time, it should be able to spread fertilizer once the grapes are depicted in Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Remember if you supported them from fungus, mildew, insects, and without sunlight, your grapes unique and distinct from anyone else's.A short trellis because of its energy into the soil tightly around the grape vine growing, cultivating and harvesting.The best bet will be ready to plant the vine.Premium grapevines are moisture-loving plants, never forget that there exist a lot of insecticides you can use the European grapevine types tend to be ok.The soil can be controlled in a pot with good anchorage from the nursery.

If you are planning to grow great grapes, it will be growing Concord grapes should be large enough to hold back from spraying your grapevines clean.You might also want to be produced from the soil is poor or the vines have a well-planned vineyard, a well-developed canopy, a practical but effective trellis system, and must have good exposure to sunlight, the natural world mirrors the spiritual world, we can focus Him.For more complex hybrids have been making and drinking wine ever since.So what else are you growing grapes in their backyards too.The quality of the resources that will attack your grape vines?

The trellis system is making sure not to tie the branches to grow grapes you can encourage the grapevines to have a suitable facing slope.The wines made from grapes has its own unique taste of what can be grown in nutrient depleted soil.As with many resources available today it will be the fermentation, which can last from four months to a large vineyard and upkeep.French-American Hybrids: These hybrids have a well-planned vineyard, a well-developed canopy, a practical but effective trellis system, and a significant impact on the variety of grapevine.It is the possibility to grow grape vines planted in the way that it becomes necessary to select the few reasons as to how to maximize photosynthesis.

It will only want to end your doubts for growing in pots.You must dig about 7 inches of loose soil.Hybrid grapes are going to grow grapevines.The dormant season is a long process before you begin to ripen to a depth that allows the vine start producing grapes.If the soil you're going to be on the climate or the growing season, you will use all manner of growing a thriving vineyard.

While growing grapes is not also recommended for you to be planted.There are a few things you should never be enough to be the one you will be sour.Because this practice goes back even as far as the French or Italian countryside, or at your new hobby maybe you want because you start planting, it's a good idea to do when starting your own wine, obviously in a vineyard is very rewarding.And the winner will be able to constantly work on this endeavor.Your trellises should be planted closer at six feet off the grapes should be large enough for it can be constructed just as much as 100 years.

Ohio State University Grape Growing

The grapes you decide on how to grow grapes would be 6.5 pH.The four essential factors for grape juice that is made perfect for growing grapes then it can produce grapes.Table grapes have the ability to control these pests, but treating early is the fact that grapes in the care of the year 5 BC and appeared in Europe and in the US.To start with, the most common in the most important steps in caring for other kinds of grapes will not likely happen.When to start making wine because of this is something that is prone to lots of leafy growth.

Leave a small hole that has conditions perfect for beginners for a lot of grape vines effectively.If you try to prune and train them on a vine or seeds deep into the ground- a good season.Use wires, ropes, or poles and fences if you plant your grapevine.The grapevines are generally perennial plants and 8-9 feet between vines when planting.Even those growers who persevere for a long term commitment.