Revised: A Critique of Walt Whitman

[heslopian]

I cannot stomach comradeship,
the masculinity you loved, as soldiers sleep by lakes
and woo, women sew the meadow's store,
and everyone is ripe with joy, stranger holding
kind stranger, Indians and whites at peace;
what is this strange utopia, this place we tell children about
to placate them each night?

this optimism of the blind denies the tombs,
the leaves which fall on great stone beds
and wither in the summer light. when you explore
this transaction, this last exchange, immortal fields
of your bright world have more subtance,
feel like home. by acknowledging the moon
you justify the sun. I wish you'd done it more often.

It cannot be emphasised enough, please post any edit on top of the original poem in the original thread. If too long has past, (which isn't the case here) then post them both in the same thread. it's unfair to expect other members to open two pages and flit between them in order to leave feedback./admin