ManicDDaily

It is the 192nd birthday today of the incomparable “Walt Whitman, a cosmos, of Manhattan the son.” (Born May 31, 1819.)

I love Whitman and confess to being inordinately proud of the drawing of him above, though I admittedly cheated by doing it with the iPad, the Brushes App, and also the Comic Life App (to insert the quote from “Song of Myself”). These lines come from the section in which Whitman talks of grass as the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

One of the things I love about Whitman is his flow. His surge. His abundance. Sometimes, the current can be a bit overwhelming. (One can feel an almost flotsam-and-jetsam rush about the ears.) Other times–(as in most of “Song of Myself”, “The Sleepers”, “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”, “Out of the Cradle Endless Rocking”, “As I Ebbed With the Ocean of Life”, “This Compost”, “When Lilacs Last In the Dooryard Bloomes”–actually most of the time), the flow is absolutely crystalline, every droplet sparkling. Happy Birthday Walt!

(This is a re-post of earlier post to be sure to make a correction to typo in Whitman text. Sorry for any inconvenience.)