"Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman

I have a long history of putting books on Christmas lists because I suddenly had the urge to read a certain genre or topic. I honestly cannot remember how this book made its way onto my list, though it has every right to be. This collection of poetry ended up being an incredible stepping stone on my reading list this year since it was later referenced by two other works that I read. This is one of many important reasons to read, listen to, view, consume the classics. You will find them in later works, if not by direct reference then certainly by influence.

Some day when I become more serious and diligent and profound maybe I will return to these poems and give each their due diligence (didn’t I say this about a different book I read this year?) In the meantime, I have two things to note:

1. Look at the man on this cover and tell me you don’t think it wild and beautiful that this very Walt Whitman spent his entire first poem Song of Myself simply delighting in the very act of being. Oh to be the crown of creation and dance merrily knowing it full well. The poem is long and luxurious and manic. This unkempt, bearded, unbuttoned, soft-eyed man delighted and delighted and delighted again.

   
   

2. I cannot and will never get over the power of The Sleepers. Everyone sleeps. How lovely that everyone sleeps. I can say no more because Whitman already did.