My favourite book is Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman. Walt, as I call him, was a poet, born in 1819, died in 1892. He was a man of his time, yet out of it. In his early pictures, he is a lanky, full bearded white man, usually dressed in slouchy woolens and a soft hat. Young Walt looks dangerous, adventuresome, the kind of man who’d pry you open without first washing his hands and then bury his mouth for a taste. He has written poems with wonderfully suggestive titles like: One’s Self I Sing, Scented Herbage of My Breast, Holding Me now in Hand, Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances, Not Heat Flames up and Consumes, City of Orgies, Behold this Swarthy…
Categories: Poetry
Tagged: 19th Century, Arts, Leaves of Grass, Poetry, Walt Whitman, World Literature
