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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=415090" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ode For Walt Whitman</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A Translation for Steve Jonas</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Along East River and the Bronx<br>The kids were singing, showing off their bodies<br>At the wheel, at oil, the rawhide, and the hammer.<br>Ninety thousand miners were drawing silver out of boulders<br>While children made perspective drawings of stairways.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But no one went to sleep<br>No one wanted to be a river<br>No one loved the big leaves, no one<br>The blue tongue of the coastline.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Along East River into Queens<br>The kids were wrestling with industry.<br>The Jews sold circumcision’s rose<br>To the faun of the river.<br>The sky flowed through the bridges and rooftops—<br>Herds of buffalo the wind was pushing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But none of them would stay.<br>No one wanted to be cloud. No one<br>Looked for the ferns<br>Or the yellow wheel of the drum.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But if the moon comes out<br>The pulleys will slide around to disturb the sky<br>A limit of needles will fence in your memory<br>And there will be coffins to carry out your unemployed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">New York of mud,<br>New York of wire fences and death,<br>What angel do you carry hidden in your cheek?<br>What perfect voice will tell you the truth about wheat<br>Or the terrible sleep of your wet-dreamed anemones?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not for one moment, beautiful old Walt Whitman,<br>Have I stopped seeing your beard full of butterflies<br>Or your shoulders of corduroy worn thin by the moon<br>Or your muscles of a virgin Apollo<br>Or your voice like a column of ashes<br>Ancient and beautiful as the fog.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You gave a cry like a bird<br>With his prick pierced through by a needle<br>Enemy of satyrs<br>Enemy of the grape<br>And lover of bodies under rough cloth.<br>Not for one moment, tight-cocked beauty,<br>Who in mountains of coal, advertisements, and railroads<br>Had dreamed of being a river and of sleeping like one<br>With a particular comrade, one who could put in your bosom<br>The young pain of an ignorant leopard.<br>Not for one moment, blood-Adam, male,<br>Man alone in the sea, beautiful<br>Old Walt Whitman.<br>Because on the rooftops<br>Bunched together in bars<br>Pouring out in clusters from toilets<br>Trembling between the legs of taxi-drivers<br>Or spinning upon platforms of whiskey<br>The cocksuckers, Walt Whitman, were counting on you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That one also, also. And they throw themselves down on<br>Your burning virgin beard,<br>Blonds of the North, negroes from the seashore,<br>Crowds of shouts and gestures<br>Like cats or snakes<br>The cocksuckers, Walt Whitman, the cocksuckers,<br>Muddy with tears, meat for the whip,<br>Tooth or boot of the cowboys.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That one also, also. Painted fingers<br>Sprout out along the beach of your dreams<br>And you give a friend an apple<br>Which tastes faintly of gas-fumes<br>And the sun sings a song for the bellybuttons<br>Of the little boys who play games below bridges.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But you weren’t looking for the scratched eyes<br>Or the blackswamp-country where children are sinking<br>Or the frozen spit<br>Or the wounded curves like a toad’s paunch<br>Which cocksuckers wear in bars and night-clubs<br>While the moon beats them along the corners of terror.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You were looking for a naked man who would be like a river<br>Bull and dream, a connection between the wheel and the seaweed,<br>Be father for your agony, your death’s camellia<br>And moan in the flames of your hidden equator.<br>For it is just that a man not look for his pleasure<br>In the forest of blood of the following morning.<br>The sky has coastlines where life can be avoided<br>And some bodies must not repeat themselves at sunrise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Agony, agony, dream, leaven, and dream.<br>That is the world, my friend, agony, agony.<br>The dead decompose themselves under the clock of the cities.<br>War enters weeping, with a million gray rats.<br>The rich give to their girlfriends<br>Tiny illuminated dyings<br>And life is not noble, or good, or sacred.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A man is able if he wishes to lead his desire<br>Through vein of coral or the celestial naked.<br>Tomorrow his loves will be rock and Time<br>A breeze that comes sleeping through their clusters.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That is why I do not cry out, old Walt Whitman,<br>Against the little boy who writes<br>A girl’s name on his pillow,<br>Or the kid who puts on a wedding dress<br>In the darkness of a closet<br>Or the lonely men in bars<br>Who drink with sickness the waters of prostitution<br>Or the men with green eyelids<br>Who love men and scald their lips in silence,<br>But against the rest of you, cocksuckers of cities,<br>Hard-up and dirty-brained,<br>Mothers of mud, harpies, dreamless enemies<br>Of the Love that distributes crowns of gladness.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Against the rest of you always, who give the kids<br>Drippings of sucked-off death with sour poison.<br>Against the rest of you always<br>Fairies of North America,<br>Pajaros of Havana,<br>Jotos of Mexico,<br>Sarasas of Cadiz,<br>Apios of Seville,<br>Cancos of Madrid,<br>Adelaidas of Portugal,<br>Cocksuckers of all the world, assassins of doves,<br>Slaves of women, lapdogs of their dressing tables,<br>Opening their flys in parks with a fever of fans<br>Or ambushed in the rigid landscapes of poison.<br>Let there be no mercy. Death<br>Trickles from all of your eyes, groups<br>Itself like gray flowers on beaches of mud.<br>Let there be no mercy. Watch out for them.<br>Let the bewildered, the pure,<br>The classical, the appointed, the praying<br>Lock the gates of this Bacchanalia.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And you, beautiful Walt Whitman, sleep on the banks of the Hudson<br>With your beard toward the pole and your palms open<br>Soft clay or snow, your tongue is invoking<br>Comrades to keep vigil over your gazelle without body.<br>Sleep, there is nothing left here.<br>A dance of walls shakes across the prairies<br>And America drowns itself with machines and weeping.<br>Let the hard air of midnight<br>Sweep away all the flowers and letters from the arch in which you sleep <br>And a little black boy announce to the white men of gold<br>The arrival of the reign of the ear of wheat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jack+Spicer">Jack Spicer</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=415090" data-title="Ode For Walt Whitman de Jack Spicer" data-description="A Translation for Steve Jonas

Along East River and the Bronx
The kids were singing, showing off their bodies
At the wheel, at oil, the rawhide, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners were drawing silver out of boulders
While children made perspec..."></div>
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