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SPONTANEOUS ME

SPONTANEOUS me, Nature,

The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am          happy with,

The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder,

The hill-side whiten'd with blossoms of the mountain          ash,

The same, late in autumn—the hues of red, yellow,          drab, purple, and light and dark green,

The rich coverlid of the grass—animals and birds—          the private untrimm'd bank—the primitive          apples—the pebble-stones,

Beautiful dripping fragments—the negligent list of          one after another, as I happen to call them to          me, or think of them,

The real poems, (what we call poems being merely          pictures,)

The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men          like me,

This poem, drooping shy and unseen, that I always          carry, and that all men carry,

(Know, once for all, avow'd on purpose, wherever are          men like me, are our lusty, lurking, masculine          poems;)

Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding,          love-climbers, and the climbing sap,

Arms and hands of love—lips of love—phallic thumb          of love—breasts of love—bellies press'd and          glued together with love,

Earth of chaste love—life that is only life after love,

The body of my love—the body of the woman I          love—the body of the man—the body of the          earth,

Soft forenoon airs that blow from the south-west,

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The hairy wild-bee that murmurs and hankers up and          down—that gripes the full-grown lady-flower,          curves upon her with amorous firm legs, takes          his will of her, and holds himself tremulous          and tight till he is satisfied,

The wet of woods through the early hours,

Two sleepers at night lying close together as they          sleep, one with an arm slanting down across          and below the waist of the other,

The smell of apples, aromas from crush'd sage-plant,          mint, birch-bark,

The boy's longings, the glow and pressure as he con-          fides to me what he was dreaming,

The dead leaf whirling its spiral whirl, and falling          still and content to the ground,

The no-form'd stings that sights, people, objects, sting          me with,

The hubb'd sting of myself, stinging me as much as it          ever can any one,

The sensitive, orbic, underlapp'd brothers, that only          privileged feelers may be intimate where they          are,

The curious roamer, the hand, roaming all over the          body—the bashful withdrawing of flesh where          the fingers soothingly pause and edge them-          selves,

The limpid liquid within the young man,

The vexed corrosion, so pensive and so painful,

The torment—the irritable tide that will not be at rest,

The like of the same I feel—the like of the same in          others,

The young man that flushes and flushes, and the          young woman that flushes and flushes,

The young man that wakes, deep at night, the hot          hand seeking to repress what would master          him;

The mystic amorous night—the strange half-welcome          pangs, visions, sweats,

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The pulse pounding through palms and trembling          encircling fingers—the young man all color'd,          red, ashamed, angry;

The souse upon me of my lover the sea, as I lie willing          and naked,

The merriment of the twin-babes that crawl over the          grass in the sun, the mother never turning her          vigilant eyes from them,

The walnut-trunk, the walnut-husks, and the ripening          or ripen'd long-round walnuts;

The continence of vegetables, birds, animals,

The consequent meanness of me should I skulk or find          myself indecent, while birds and animals never          once skulk or find themselves indecent;

The great chastity of paternity, to match the great          chastity of maternity,

The oath of procreation I have sworn—my Adamic          and fresh daughters,

The greed that eats me day and night with hungry          gnaw, till I saturate what shall produce boys to          fill my place when I am through,

The wholesome relief, repose, content;

And this bunch, pluck'd at random from myself;

It has done its work—I toss it carelessly to fall where          it may.

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