Following Walt Whitman, and: The Open Heart of Democracy

Following Walt Whitman

“Whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.”

Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, 48

First, a furlong’s not that long, two hundred twenty yards,not much more than the length of two football fields,or if you’re a runner, just an eighth of a mile,so it’s a matter of never getting that fardown the field, around the track or into a poem,for this, after all, is a poet walking along,noticing all along the way plowman and woodman,office boy and soldier, hunter and mothers—youngmothers, old mothers—but as he passes, as they pass,noticing not just the here and now real presenceof each but also the beyond or the withinto which each points, sacramental sign of the graceeach is, though it be passing, he be passing, you be,maybe he can’t, maybe you can’t say where you’re heading,it may only be through fifty-two long sectionsof a poem, but he’s not dressed in his shroud, you’re notif not for long, you’re not without care, you’re attentive.

The Open Heart of Democracy

after The Open Space of Democracy

—Terry Tempest Williams

Goodness knows, the goldfinch does it every timeRight outside my window in front of wetland oaks—Oh my streak of bounding yellow. That bright gashUpends me every time, reminds me Happiness,Not another hour, but this hour. This WhitmanDisciple, ever faithful to his mentor’s mantra.

The open heart, still the first home of the radicalRoots of this land. Oracle for when to take a knee.Understand, I mean the heart knows what’s called for when.The discerning heart, democracy’s hinge: Here praise.Here pray. Here protest. Walking the world around me:Instructive. Again the poet: A leaf of grass isNo less than the journey-work of the stars.Goodness knows, the goldfinch proves that every time.