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I Dream’d In A Dream
I dream’d in a dream,
I saw a city invincible to the attacks
of the whole of the rest of the earth;
I dream’d that was the new City of Friends;
Nothing was greater there than the quality
of robust love – it led the rest;
It was seen every hour in the actions
of the men of that city,
And in all their looks and words.
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
I Dream’d In A Dream
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When I Heard at the Close of the Day
When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv’d with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow’d,
And else when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d, still I was not happy,
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light,
When I wander’d alone over the beach, and undressing bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend my lover was on his way coming, O then I was happy,
O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food nourish’d me more, and the beautiful day pass’d well,
And the next came with equal joy, and with the next at evening came my friend,
And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores,
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me whispering to congratulate me,
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,
In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast – and that night I was happy.
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Poem: When I Heard at the Close of the Day
(Published in the Leaves of Grass. 1900)
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As If a Phantom Caress’d Me
As if a phantom caress’d me,
I thought I was not alone walking
here by the shore;
But the one I thought was with me as
now I walk by the shore,
the one I loved that caress’d me,
As I lean and look
through the glimmering light,
that one has utterly disappear’d.
And those appear that are hateful to me
and mock me.
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Poem: As If a Phantom Caress’d Me
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By the Bivouac’s Fitful Flame
By the bivouac’s fitful flame,
A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow–but first I note,
The tents of the sleeping army, the fields’ and woods’ dim outline,
The darkness lit by spots of kindled fire, the silence,
Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving,
The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily watching me,)
While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts,
Of life and death, of home and the past and loved, and of those that are far away;
A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,
By the bivouac’s fitful flame.
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Poem: By the Bivouac’s Fitful Flame
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A noiseless patient spider
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself.
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detatched, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them.
Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Poem: A noiseless patient spider
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Cavalry Crossing a Ford
A line in long array where they wind betwixt green islands,
They take a serpentine course, their arms flash in the sun–hark to the musical clank,
Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing horses loitering stop to drink,
Behold the brown-faced men, each group, each person a picture, the negligent rest on the saddles,
Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just entering the ford–while,
Scarlet and blue and snowy white,
The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind.
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Poem: Cavalry Crossing a Ford
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Among the Multitude
Among the men and women the multitude,
I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,
Acknowledging none else, not parent, wife, husband, brother, child,
any nearer than I am,
Some are baffled, but that one is not–that one knows me.
Ah lover and perfect equal,
I meant that you should discover me so by faint indirections,
And I when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you.
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Poem: Among the Multitude
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Adieu To a Soldier
Adieu, O soldier!
You of the rude campaigning, (which we shared,)
The rapid march, the life of the camp,
The hot contention of opposing fronts’the long maneuver,
Red battles with their slaughter, ‘the stimulus’the strong, terrific game,
Spell of all brave and manly hearts’the trains of Time through you, and like of you, all fill’d,,
With war, and war’s expression.
Adieu, dear comrade!
Your mission is fulfill’d—but I, more warlike,
Myself, and this contentious soul of mine,
Still on our own campaigning bound,
Through untried roads, with ambushes, opponents lined,
Through many a sharp defeat and many a crisis’often baffled,
Here marching, ever marching on, a war fight out’aye here,
To fiercer, weightier battles give expression.
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Poem: Adieu To a Soldier
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Beat! Beat! Drums!
Beat! beat! drums!–Blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows–through doors–burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation;
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet–no happiness must he have now with his bride;
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or gathering his grain;
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums–so shrill you bugles blow.
Beat! beat! drums!–Blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities–over the rumble of wheels in the streets:
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers must sleep in those beds;
No bargainers’ bargains by day–no brokers or speculators–Would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums–you bugles wilder blow.
Beat! beat! drums!–Blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley–stop for no expostulation;
Mind not the timid–mind not the weeper or prayer;
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums–so loud you bugles blow.
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Poem: Beat! Beat! Drums!
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When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer
When I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Poem: When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer
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Desmond Tutu se laaste vlug
in sy laaste tyd sweef hy geluidloos oor die water
die wind hou asem op oor die stroomversnellings
geen Woord meer ontsnap uit sy snawel nie
hy is visarend aartsbiskop vader man
sy oë speur stroomop & stroomaf
na dubbele reënboë soos poorte op die horison
salf wierook mirre was woorde vir sy kinders ook vuur
nou verswart & skeur sy kleed as sy roep die stilte breek
met uitgestrekte kloue in ’n laaste seëngroet duik hy verloor
sy kruis & vang hy ’n 
vir sy vlug onder deur ’n reënboog
Carina van der Walt
Desmond Tutu se laaste vlug*
Farewell poem
* In Greek and Roman times, the Eagle was referred to as a God or “The King of Birds”. In many cultures the Eagle is known as a symbol of power and resurrection,
Desmond Tutu was a South African Anglican bishop and theologian, known for his work as an anti-apartheid and human rights activist. In 1984 Tutu won the Nobel Peace Prize.
Tutu died from cancer at the Oasis Frail Care Centre in Cape Town on 26 December 2021, at the age of 90. The funeral took place on 1 January 2022 at St. George’s Cathedral, Cape Town.
Carina van der Walt moved from Klerksdorp in South Africa to the Netherlands in 2007. In Klerksdorp she was a high school teacher during apartheid. After the death of her first husband she took up her studies in literature. She came to Tilburg University for an exchange and met her future husband. The same city (Klerksdorp recently renamed to Matlosana) was the birthplace of archbishop Desmond Tutu. He qualified as a teacher and taught there for the first years of his professional life until a law on Bantu education made it impossible for him to fulfil his work. He resigned and moved to London to get educated to become a priest. They share the same backdrop, the dry half desert part of the North West province with the beautiful acacia trees. Parenthood was an important part of both their lives.
Van der Walt met Tutu once in 2012. He came to The Hague to unveil the statue Long Walk to Freedom in celebration of Nelson Mandela. He made a massive impression on her. Carina van der Walt now lives in Tilburg in The Netherlands. She works as a writer, poet and editor.
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In this follow-up to her acclaimed debut The Met Office Advises Caution, Rebecca Watts observes and tests the limits of humanity’s engagement with the non-human.
By turns lyrical and narrative, the poems examine familiar subjects – environmental crisis, hawks, hospitals, the sea, barbecues, flowers, Emily Dickinson – only to find their subjects staring, sometimes fighting, back.
Nature and nurture, equally red in tooth and claw, power a book-long sparring match between the overthinking poet and the ever-thoughtless universe, between the craft’s isolation and the world’s irrepressible variety.
Gloves on and gloves off, the poet’s hands destroy and build, gather and scatter, caress and strike.
Red Gloves
The women are carrying the coffin. Under the fear
of slippage they make slow steps.
We cannot say that they advance.
More than one woman is weathering – from the cool
top of her head to her strained fingers to her toes
pushed together in interview shoes – the urge,
like a rip tide, to run backwards and away.
Today is not a normal day.
( . . . )
Rebecca Watts was born in Suffolk in 1983 and currently lives in Cambridge. Her debut poetry collection, The Met Office Advises Caution, was published by Carcanet in 2016. She is also the editor of Elizabeth Jennings: New Selected Poems (Carcanet, 2019).
Publisher: Carcanet Press Ltd.
Language: English
Paperback
72 pages
ISBN-10 : 178410955X
ISBN-13 : 978-1784109554
2020
£9.89
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