leaves of grass

i wish those words you whispered in the privacy of the night had come to pass. i wish for once what i believed would be true hadn't fallen through. i wish for the thousandth time i could love you.

i discovered something today. tonight to be specific. hiding in the corner of the Jacqmein's shelf was a copy of Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. i am a sucker for a first edition or a worn out, yellowed, smelly book. the crisp pages...the smell of ink long since fresh, the uneven edges which define the authenticity of the words. its beautiful. so i was sitting there after the kids went to bed and i stumbled upon this treasure. i recently have been intriguied by Whitman due to my love of poetry, The Notebook, and reading passages of his in school.  I sat there for over an hour reading.  he is amazing. who could write a poem 30 pages long....its beautiful. he has such an amazingly simplistic yet completely masterful way with words...he takes them, molds them...uses them to his own design. he can take the simplest of words and form something eternal. it is something i wish came to me with great ease. i want a copy of it...nice, old, yellow....worn out, rugged with the passage of time and laced with the scent of past readers, past lovers of words and makers of poetry. i want that.

.:Beautiful dripping fragments, the negligent list of one after
another as I happen to call them to me or think of them,
The real poems, (what we call poems being merely pictures,)
The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me,
This poem drooping shy and unseen that I always carry, and that all
men carry:.

Walt Whitman, Spontaneous Me