What is the Grass?

Sometimes, you read something, maybe a line, or an extract that makes you question things. That makes you feel like you’re in on a secret, that you’re one step closer to solving the mystery of life. And sometimes, most of those lines are all penned down by one poet.

Whitman. Some of his work is so epic, its overwhelming. It’s like he thought, “These are the things that I felt I must say today!” and “These are the things that have happened to me!”

There are powerful poems, downright optimistic poems, controversial poems; but mostly just brilliant poems. He fits all of human experience. Even when it is grandiose, his writing still feels kind, and tender; he loves being alive, and he loves people. His work is so earnest, somewhat vulnerable, yet leaves me speechless. It feels so direct- like he has to share these things, and is up for genuinely exploring his own experiences. And that is why I’m not going to shirk from quoting him,

“Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)”

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