LEAVES OF GRASS

 LEAVES OF GRASS

 

In “Leaves of Grass,” I am a container of endless verse throbbing with the rhythm of life, reflecting Walt Whitman’s philosophy of life. Within my pages are the outpourings of Walt Whitman’s soul, each word a testament to the magic and depth of this great poet himself. Yes, the man needs no introduction: he is the great American poet, journalist, and essayist. He is the Father of the Free Verse. I house his scribblings for anyone interested in immersing themselves in a world of exquisite poetry.

 

'Leaves of Grass' is a gateway to Whitman's world, inviting readers to lose themselves in my pages. It is a collection of some of the most refined verses, each a testament to the poet's imaginative prowess. I give a glimpse into the personality of Walt Whitman and the thoughts and influences that shaped his beliefs and world.

 

But my relationship with the shelf where I am kept is very turbulent. I am imprisoned here and long to be set free, held, to be read, marked, highlighted, cherished and discovered forever. I wouldn’t mind my pages being dog-eared from constant use, for it would bring me back to life and awaken me from a deep slumber. Yet I am overlooked, neglected and left on my own to turn yellow and gather dust as the world outside flashes past me at a breathtaking speed.

 

In my solitary moments, I hold whispered conversations with the other books on the shelf, each of us sharing stories contained in the depths of our pages. We fantasise about the day when we will be picked up lovingly, caressed, cherished and go on a journey of self-discovery with some curious, benevolent soul eager to immerse himself in the magic of my pages.

 

As the days slowly pass me by, I wait patiently for that one enlightened soul; I long for his touch. I want him to discover what’s inscribed on the back of my body: “That you are here- that life exists and identity; that the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.” It would give me a kick to challenge him, coax him and encourage him to contribute his own verse. I am waiting for him to be inspired and influenced by Walt Whitman so that he may contribute a poem draped in poetic fancy that is eternal in its essence and beliefs. And because grass grows in and around the graves, there is life after death. The father of free verse lives on. The torch will be passed, and his legacy will continue forever.

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