Lacrimae

Like so much else, they were there,
the words that describe the tears
that form upon seeing what looks
exactly like perfection...
gone again for now.

It doesn't matter where they went;
that they were here at all is fine,
like someone who does right
when it's difficult and few know it,
or when a diver slips
through the surface
after spinning through air,
or the musical note in question is touched
with a sensibility
we haven't dared hope for.

I would like to be able to recognize
the bold genius when I see each new face,
so that that diver who goes in
with the sound of ripped cloth,

and the oboe-player, the weaver, the surgeon,
are all revealed despite their guises
as normal human beings, and what they do

that comes so close to perfection
is visible in the shopping aisle,
in the middle seat on an airplane,
or in the car alongside at the stoplight.

And every genius would be revealed further:
the mother in whose neck the world could burrow,
the driver who senses all the road around him,
the pipefitter who takes extra care

knowing that the joints will be needed strong
long after he is gone, and the winner
who teaches all his tricks.

~~~~~~~~~~

Douglas Logan

Comments

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Nice one, Doug -

You remind me that I have the coolest job in the world - Listening to the earnest words & (tears) of dreaming geniuses from neighborhoods - divers, drivers, pilots, oboe-players, weavers; yes and even the amazing mothers and pipefitters -- all of us getting in the groove of this common root-system of Normal Human Being.
And then getting to go home to a neighborhood to slumber in this lovely snore- duet.
The first breaths of springtime are in the air: Tonight the bedroom windows are open and I hear those Normal Geniuses voicing human sounds.
Surfing on jello-shot joy.

Walt Whitman (1819-1892):
I Hear America Singing.

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe
and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deck- hand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The woodcutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

The above version of the poem is as it appeared in the 1867 edition
of Leaves of Grass. It can be found in:
Whitman, Walt. Leaves of Grass: Comprehensive Reader's
Edition. Harold W.Blodgett & Sculley Bradley, eds. New York:
New York University Press, 1965.

The original version of the poem was number 20 in the section
Chants Democratic in the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass, and can be found in:
Whitman, Walt. Leaves of Grass. Boston: Thayer and Eldridge,
1860. (as found in the facsimile edition printed Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1961.)