Song a Some’n Else

Walt Whitman is a celebrated American poet. His collection Leaves of Grass influenced generations of poets. While I can’t deny Whitman’s impact on American poetry, I’ve never been a fan. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, as the old saying goes.

“Song of Myself” is an infamous poem from Leaves of Grass. The title was an immediate turn off for me; for years I avoided reading it simply because I couldn’t stomach the title.

But at 52 I’ve learned that you can’t judge a book by its cover or a poem by its title. So I decided to set aside my bias and choke down “Song of Myself.” “Choke down” is not an exaggeration because this sucker is loooong, and I don’t like long poems.

In the end, I decided “Song of Myself” is every bit the egotistical romp I thought it was (and then some). While this poem does contain some striking imagery and good writing, overall my biases were right, and I could judge a poem by its title.

Naturally, the only sensible reaction was to write a parody 😆 So I did. And, for some reason, Whitman brings out the redneck in me. Today’s poem, “Song a Some’n Else”, will be in my upcoming book, A Song of Glass.

Song a Some’n Else

Wilt Whatman or What Wiltman, I cayn’t member his name—
gee willikers!—sangin’ bout how he’s the particles a air,
he’s the particles a dirt, n his parents n grandparents too,
he come from a long line a dirt, sniffin’ leaves n incense,
which makes sense cuz who else could spout all that 
bout every man his brother n every woman his sister / lover
(he ain’t ever meetin’ my sister, that’s fer sure),
creation a orgy a ants n moss n weeds, 
an at some point a tongue plunges inta his heart 
while other tongues speak in other languages bout the dead 
(dunno how he knowed them other languages),
yet green tongues comin’ up from the earth
say there is no death cuz they’re sproutin’ from graves
(though my pa, my granny, n a mess a other folks’d disagree),
an manure grows inta sweet scented white roses or the polished breasts a melons,
an then he beekweaths hisself ta the grass so he can live again 
under the boot-soles a those walkin’ by under a runaway sun 
while the earth pours liquid trees inta the sky—
liquid trees!—who ever hearda such things….

Well, in between comin’ from dirt n turnin’ ta grass
there’s carpenters n duck-shooters n deacons n lunatics,
a machinist, a half-breed, some wolverine traps, opium, prostitutes,
and a whole lotta talk about bein’ the deathless poet 
a body n soul, men n women, about him 
holdin’ the pleasures a heaven n the pains a hell
in hisself like he’s god almighty makin’ love ta earth n sea
fer trilluns a winters n summers n quadrilluns a eras
impregnatin’ everything ‘til everywhere is swollen glands
and torpid embreeyos—torpid embreeyos!
But lord, that guy could go on….