i sing the body electric

She is all things duly veil’d, she is both passive and active. Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eyebrows, and the waking or sleeping of the lids. How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring through the centuries? The fantasy is so real it seems normal. For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily roll’d. To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough. The thin red jellies within you or within me, the bones and the marrow in the bones. But no matter, the point being I was made aware of Uncle Walt, albeit I was still too young and living in the Philippines, so it took several more years until I read selections from Leaves of Grass. Upper-arm, armpit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-sinews, arm-bones. It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists. The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sundown after work. I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough,To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then? And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul. These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also. The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet and clean. You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side. Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck, neck-slue. The expression of the face balks account,But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face,It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists,It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him,The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side. Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears. In it and below it the makings of heroes. I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons. He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome. Summary: In "I Sing the Body Electric," Whitman explores the physicality of the human body.In the first section, the speaker likens the body to the soul and argues that the body does just as much as the soul and in a way, the body is the soul—it does not corrupt the soul, as was a common Christian belief.. the same red-running blood! Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn. The same old blood! The 1962 script was written by Ray Bradbury, and became the basis for his 1969 short story of the same name, itself named after an 1855 Walt Whitman poem. All things please the soul, but these please the soul well. You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side. The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost become him well, pride is for him. As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty. (All is a procession,The universe is a procession with measured and perfect motion.). This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the outlet again. Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all nations and times all over the earth? Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves; And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead? © Academy of American Poets, 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038. referencing I Sing The Body Electric, LP, Album, Pit, KC 31352 Bought this December 1972 National Record Mart because of the cover. Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and he or she has no right to a sight? The title story, "I Sing The Body Electric" offers a tale of robotics and artificial intelligence we can only hope comes true, Whether the setting is the 19th, 20th or some far distant future century his facility describing technology, either real or imagined, is unmatched. You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other. Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb, forefinger, finger-joints, finger-nails. Poise on the hips, leaping, reclining, embracing, arm-curving and tightening. Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel; All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your body or of any one’s body, male or female. I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough. Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for it. The male is not less the soul nor more, he too is in his place, He too is all qualities, he is action and … Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast, breast-bone, breast-side. But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face. the same red-running blood!There swells and jets a heart, there all passions, desires, reachings, aspirations,(Do you think they are not there because they are not express’d in parlors and lecture-rooms?). When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang. For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily roll’d. Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances. The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance. Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float, and the soil is on the surface, and water runs and vegetation sprouts, (For before the war I often go to the slave-mart and watch the sale,). Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walking, swimming. No matter who it is, it is sacred—is it the meanest one in the laborers’ gang? She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters. Strong shoulders, manly beard, scapula, hind-shoulders, and the ample side-round of the chest. The young fellow hoeing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd. Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest,You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul. This is not only one man, this the father of those who shall be fathers in their turns. The 2012 song, Body Electric, alludes to Whitman in the lyric: "Whitman is my daddy." Often his stories have an interesting concept at the center of them, but become derailed by meandering soliloquies about beauty and death. The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud. The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards. They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him. Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float, and the soil is on the surface, and water runs and vegetation sprouts, (For before the war I often go to the slave-mart and watch the sale,). I Sing the Body Electric by Walt Whitman | Poetry Foundation O I say these are not the parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul. or the fool that corrupted her own live body?For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves. She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers. Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul? I dare not desert the likes of you in other men and women, nor the likes of the parts of you, I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the likes of the soul, (and that they are the soul,). Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel; All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your body or of any one’s body, male or female. better? Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck, neck-slue. They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love. The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and from the heave of the water. This is not only one man, this the father of those who shall be fathers in their turns,In him the start of populous states and rich republics,Of him countless immortal lives with countless embodiments and enjoyments. Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well. She is all things duly veil’d, she is both passive and active. The curious sympathy one feels when feeling with the hand the naked meat of the body. The circling rivers the breath, and breathing it in and out. The circling rivers the breath, and breathing it in and out. The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul. Each has his or her place in the procession. Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail he strikes soundings at last only here, (Where else does he strike soundings except here?). Man’s, woman’s, child’s, youth’s, wife’s, husband’s, mother’s, father’s, young man’s, young woman’s poems. And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons. The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards,The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and from the heave of the water,The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horse-man in his saddle,Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,The female soothing a child, the farmer’s daughter in the garden or cow-yard,The young fellow hoeing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd,The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sundown after work,The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance,The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes;The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps,The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert,The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv’d neck and the counting;Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother’s breast with the little child,Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count. 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