Ah poverties, wincings, and sulky retreats,
Ah you foes that in conflict have overcome me,
(For what is my life or any man's life but a conflict with foes, the
old, the incessant war?)
You degradations, you tussle with passions and appetites,
You smarts from dissatisfied friendships, (ah wounds the sharpest of all!)
You toil of painful and choked articulations, you meannesses,
You shallow tongue-talks at tables, (my tongue the shallowest of any;)
You broken resolutions, you racking angers, you smother'd ennuis!
Ah think not you finally triumph, my real self has yet to come forth,
It shall yet march forth o'ermastering, till all lies beneath me,
It shall yet stand up the soldier of ultimate victory.
There was this time in the past when I was hunting around for more traditional canonical literary things to stuff into my brain, and I remember coming across Whitman and having it decidedly not stick at all. I've been having another such brain-stuffing mood, and for some reason this time, he's making a lot of sense, at least when he is at his less sexual and more abstract. Or maybe I shouldn't say "making sense", but "having some kind of effect".
I mean, I don't characterize myself as the typical kind of person that likes fuck-all loud, thrashing, cock-out, rock-out music, but indeed I do like that sometimes. I likewise don't expect to get into passionate, body-idolizing, adolescent-America, fuck-it-I-am-so-awesome poetry, but he really has a way with the language, you know? I think I just unintentionally figured out how to hear it in the last few years.