Your weekly poem: SONG OF MYSELF

🌿 A poem a day keeps the blues away… 

A Song of Myself

— in memory of Liz, aka Baba (1938 – 2026)

🌻 1

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

5

I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valvèd voice.
(…)

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and poke-weed.

6

(…)
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

7

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and am not contain’d between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)
(…)

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.

51

The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them,
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.

Who has done his day’s work? who will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?

Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?

52

(…)

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you. 🌻

—Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892)

 

🪴 Walt Whitman’s poem is made up of 52 numbered sections. I’ve included a link in the comments to the full poem. It’s a beautiful testament to life and what it means to live, to die, and to live once more…

I’ve chosen the sections below because I think Liz, called Baba by those closest to her, would like them especially.

🪴 Section 1 sets the tone right away:

🌱 I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

Whitman opens with self-affirmation, only to immediately state that his self is not separate from his reader’s. This is not just Whitman’s song, it belongs to every one of us, including you and me. His “I” is also our “I”.

📌 So, I invite you, just as I would invite Baba, to say these words out loud—right now—with power and determination:

I celebrate myself, and sing myself.
I loafe and invite my soul

🌱 Whitman goes on to celebrate where he came from: the lineage that was, and the lineage that will be…

He acknowledges the importance of what he’s learned throughout his life. But while they’re “never forgotten”, he’s not defined by them. He fully owns and celebrates who and what he is, in all its facets, “good or bad”. He allows his soul to speak his truth “at every hazard”, unfiltered, uncensored… “nature without check with original energy”.

Baba was a proud, independent Scotswoman. Her dad was a philologist and academic, and she too became a linguist. She and I shared a love and passion for books, especially old books. She had inherited an amazing collection of antique books from her dad, which (upon her request) I was helping her donate to the University of Basel antique book collection.

I don’t know how Baba was as a young woman, but as I got to know her, I appreciated her wit and her sharp, uncensored mind. She wore her heart on her sleeve, and I loved that about her. Simple and direct. It’s a breath of fresh air to sit with someone who is not tongue-tied by what’s woke or politically correct or appropriate. And there was never any maliciousness in whatever she shared. She just spoke her mind and was always open for a good debate.

🪴 Sections 5, 6 & 7 are closely connected:

🌱 I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

The body needs the soul, and the soul needs the body. Both are equal in importance, and neither should demean the other… Like in the rest of his poem, he is inviting us to embrace the duality of our existence: physical and spiritual.

🌱 Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valvèd voice.

He then invites us to relax with him on the grass and loosen ourselves up; lose all the “shoulda, woulda, coulda”s, the competitions, the comparisons… and allow ourselves to be whatever wants to be.

Baba carried a number of “should”s—don’t we all… She also loved to talk about her dad. She was so incredibly proud of his own publications, which she shared with me. And she so dearly cared about his book collection. Her home was littered with books—on numerous shelves in the living room, bedroom, office room, and a gazillion of boxes, stacked on top of each other, all full of books as well. 80% of which were her dad’s. As much as she loved those books, I could tell how they weighed like a heavy burden on her chest—the responsibility to find them a new home before she leaves this one…

🌱 The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, (…)
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Whitman goes on to celebrate every living thing as God’s creation, and part of ourselves just as we are a part of it. And he reminds us that “there is really no death” in one of his most iconic and reassuring philosophical declarations.

Most people know Whitman by his famous verse in section 51, which I’ll get to in a moment. But I’d love for you to bask, just for a minute, in the sun of his belief: there is no such thing as death, only transformation.

But how could one consider death lucky?

He explains that in section 7—not in any suicidal way, on the contrary. He declares his core belief in the immortality of the human soul and the universal equality of all people. We are not defined by our physical “casings”—our “hat and boots”.

And he tells us, even if we don’t believe it, or maybe temporarily forgotten it—too distracted by daily life, doom scrolling, and number of likes—

he hasn’t, trusting that his belief may be enough to sustain us, at least for a while…

🌱 Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, 

Take off those masks and societal garments that are meant to dictate our roles. We are neither broken nor bound to whatever limits others have set upon us…

To his human poetic heart, he sees through our façades and loves and accepts everyone as they are.

When Baba was assigned a social worker, the latter interviewed people who knew her about her character, and she showed me the reports. It angered me that her family doctor depicted her as stubborn, distant, and aloof. That couldn’t be further from the truth—and says more about her doctor than Baba. Society has a tendency to treat its elderly like children—they are not! And when we do, we shouldn’t be surprised if they defy us, act “stubborn”, or start protecting their boundaries by keeping a distance. I’ve known Baba as funny, witty, and compassionate. She enjoyed a hug, a kiss on the cheek, and when she smiled, her whole face shone like a sun.

🌱 And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.

Earlier, he positioned himself as a companion to his readers and now he confirms his promise to us: he is “around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away”.

Who wouldn’t want someone like that by their side—a true friend, an omnipresent force of love and acceptance…

I think each one of us comes in and out of people’s lives for a season, for a reason.

I first met Baba at my local supermarket four years ago. Her body was already quite frail back then, and I noticed how she was struggling to walk and carry her grocery basket, so I approached her and offered to help her shop. I then helped her pack her groceries and offered to take them home with her—turns out she lived ten minutes away by foot from the store.

I left her my phone number in case she ever needed help again. She lived alone: no partner, no children, no family nearby, and no friends.

Sometime later, she called me to help her with some more shopping. Then it was to go pay her bills at the post office counter. And a friendship ensued.

After a while, dementia started getting hold of her, and she would call me telling me she has no food and no money to buy any. So, I would go to her, shop for her, and call the social worker to make sure she got the help she needed.

🪴 Section 51 holds one of Whitman’s most famous quotes.

But before I get to it, he opens the section with a confession:

🌱 The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them,
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Whitman has lived a complete and full life, and he’s not done yet… and he is inviting us in. Time is short, so let’s not waste it on superficial talk.

🌱 (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

And now comes one of the most famous passages in American literature:

🌱 Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

By now, Whitman has written 50 rich sections in which he’s shifted his tone, held opposing views, and here he is, in true Gestalt fashion, embracing his polarities.

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

📌  Say it out loud with me—right now—like before.

And as you read this line out loud: own it! Believe it!
Stand up as you say it.
Go outdoors, or at least look out your window.
Open your arms.
Look up to the sky.
And say it out lo

“I am large, and I contain multitudes.”

I, too, contain multitudes, and so did Baba. I wish I had known her when she was younger. Her love for the written word, linguistics, history and music inspired me.

🪴 And then comes the end—of the poem, but also one’s life: Section 52

🌱 I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun

Whitman knows that his life will inevitably come to an end, and he’s not scared. He’s ready for it. Ready for his transformation.

And he consoles us that he won’t be too far away…

🌱 But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Just like Whitman, Baba lives on.

She lives in my memory and within everyone who has known her and loved her.
She lives on in the students she taught and the knowledge she imparted.
She lives on in the books she so lovingly kept and gifted.
She lives on in spirit, “waiting for you” and me to join her one day…

So…

📌 What multitudes do you contain? How are you embracing them?

📌 What do you need to “Undrape!”? What “stop” do you need to “loosen from your throat”?

📌 Who are you to someone: “around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away from”?

 

🦋 Happy weekend everyone! 🦋

With love,
Dina 🫶🏽

Photo of me and Baba a week after she moved into the neighbourhood’s elderly home. She passed away eight months later, on Friday 29 May 2026.

Resources:

• Curious about Whitman’s full poem—all 52 sections of them? Check it out here.
• This week’s song is A SONG FOR YOU performed by Donny Hathaway—I can imagine Liz would have loved it: