This is the female form, A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot, It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction, I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it, Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear'd of hell, are now consumed, Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable, Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused, Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching, Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white- blow and delirious juice, Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn, Undulating into the willing and yielding day, Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet- flesh'd day.
This the nucleus -- after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman, This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the outlet again.
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.
The female contains all qualities and tempers them, She is in her place and moves with perfect balance, She is all things duly veil'd, she is both passive and active, She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters.
As I see my soul reflected in Nature, As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty, See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female I see.
I have perceiv'd that to be with those l 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? I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.
There is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well, All things please the soul, but these please the soul well.
The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks, account, That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.
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.
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 fro in the heave of the water, The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horseman 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 sun- down after work, The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance, The upper-hold and the under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding their 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.
I sing the body electric, The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them, They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.
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? And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?
Project Gutenberg Site
This is a collection of fourteen humorous essays on a range of topics related to human existence. Besides the titular topic of living a life of idleness, other discussions include: love, poverty, vanity, attire, eating, pets and babies. (The latter two being distinct topics addressed in different chapters, though not with an altogether different attitude.)
Much of the humor holds up well considering this book originally came out almost a hundred and forty years ago. That said, it must be acknowledged that some of the humor and a number of the attitudes have not aged well and will not necessarily be relatable.
If you’re looking for a collection of essays on life that are humorous, if not contemporary, this book is worth looking into.
Men say they know many things; But lo! they have taken wings, -- The arts and sciences, And a thousand appliances; The wind that blows Is all that any body knows.
If I’m being entirely honest, everything that’s come out of this enterprise has been of selfish motive — even those activities that seem like they have broader purpose. For example, I started book reviewing because: a.) I found it disheartening how many books I read that I had virtually no recollection of a couple years down the line, and b.) because, while I felt I knew good writing when I read it, I couldn’t really say what it was that made it good or bad without taking a more analytical look into the matter. (And I was pretty sure good writing wouldn’t come to me osmotically — merely by reading good writing — if I didn’t understand why it was good writing.)
I started recording classic poems to get a better sense of the sound quality of well-crafted poetry (and to become more comfortable with the sound of my own voice.)
I guess the honest answer is that I hope to be smarter and more capable as a result of the practice. It is continuing education, a fostering of the Beginner’s Mind.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 