Delycia and I are reading Walt Whitman's poetry now and then, usually for a few minutes after lunch, and it has reminded me, yet again, of what a large and wonderful influence he has been on my life, and my poetry. He wrote with his soul and heart wide-open, almost as if he had decided that writing poetry was as easy as opening yourself and letting words do what they wished. Not surprisingly, Delycia seems to love his poetry, too -- not surprising, because she, in her special way, is as wild and free as Whitman was.
I've been reading Walt Whitman lately, and loving his work all over again. It takes me back to my bright and happy days at The University of Kansas in grad school, when I first discovered this wild and loving poet. Reading him these past few days, I feel again the sense that the universe is a large and spectacular place, and that I need to forget about my own bothersome concerns and focus more on the amazing details surrounding me on this vast planet. Reading his poetry makes me feel way more alive, more alert, more surrounded by small, fascinating wonders.
