what belongs to the day

Hey so how about that episode of Ted Lasso, like, holy shit, am I right? WHEW. Unfortunately there are no good poems about soccer, but here is some Walt Whitman.

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 deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’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.

—Walt Whitman (1819-1892), "I Hear America Singing" from the 1867 edition of Leaves of Grass; the original version appeared as number 20 in the section titled "Chants Democratic" in the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass.

city of hurried and sparkling waters

Today was not a good day. I didn't get enough sleep last night, and then I got some bad news, and I was (am) anxious and depressed and exhausted and hormonal, and worryingly full, this week, of recriminations and self-doubt.

On the other hand, all the trees in New York City are blooming, and today was a perfect spring day, all flowers and clear blue skies. My afternoon class up at Fordham was unusually excellent, and on the drive back we took the northern route, picking up the Hudson Parkway in the Bronx and crossing into Manhattan at the very top, and the drive along the Hudson in the evening light, watching the sun just start to set over the river, was almost unbearably beautiful. There are days when I love this city passionately; and you know, nobody loves this city quite so much as Walt Whitman.

I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city,
Whereupon, lo! upsprang the aboriginal name!

Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient;
I see that the word of my city is that word up there,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, with tall and wonderful spires,
Rich, hemm’d thick all around with sailships and steamships—an island sixteen miles long, solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streets—high growths of iron, slender, strong, light, splendidly uprising toward clear skies;
Tide swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-model’d;
The down-town streets, the jobbers’ houses of business—the houses of business of the ship-merchants, and money-brokers—the river-streets;
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week;
The carts hauling goods—the manly race of drivers of horses—the brown-faced sailors;
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft;
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells—the broken ice in the river, passing along, up or down, with the flood tide or ebb-tide;
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form’d, beautiful-faced, looking you straight in the eyes;
Trottoirs throng’d—vehicles—Broadway—the women—the shops and shows,
The parades, processions, bugles playing, flags flying, drums beating;
A million people—manners free and superb—open voices—hospitality—the most courageous and friendly young men;
The free city! no slaves! no owners of slaves!
The beautiful city, the city of hurried and sparkling waters! the city of spires and masts!
The city nested in bays! my city!
The city of such women, I am mad to be with them! I will return after death to be with them!
The city of such young men, I swear I cannot live happy, without I often go talk, walk, eat, drink, sleep, with them!

—Walt Whitman (1819–1892), "Mannahatta" from Leaves of Grass, 1900; first published in 1860.

You sleep with those young men, Uncle Walt! In all honesty this is not really my favorite Walt Whitman poem -- although in general, and somewhat to my own shame, I run a little hot and cold on Whitman -- but I did not really get to sing the praises of Manhattan in poetry, last year, and I wanted to make up for that lack this time around.

weather'd every rack

Making up for an unforgivable lack -- really, Olivia, it took you five years to post Whitman? -- with a classic. (We probably should not actually talk about how much of an impact Dead Poets Society had on my formative years.)

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

—Walt Whitman (1819–1892), "O Captain! My Captain!" from Leaves of Grass, 1900. First published in "When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom’d," 1865–66.