Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892) was an American poet, journalist, and essayist who is often called the “father of free verse”. His innovative style broke away from traditional forms, using long lines, catalogs, and a conversational tone to celebrate American individuality and diversity. Whitman’s poetry is known for its frankness, sensual imagery, and celebration of the human body and nature.
A Glimpse (1860) by Walt Whitman
A glimpse through an interstice caught
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark’d seated in a corner
Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand
A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word
When I Heard at the Close of the Day (1859) by Walt Whitman
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
Jay Hulme (1997 – present) is an award-winning transgender poet, theologian, speaker, and educator. With a special interest in queer rights, nature, and theology, Jay’s work engages particularly with ideas of faith, place, and identity. Here there are no boundaries, as he intertwines the urban and pastoral; the sacred and mundane; the likely and the impossible. At the heart of all of Jay’s work is a vision of a world full of beauty and possibility, offered up to us all through strange lichenous poems full of wilderness, mysticism, and love.
Jesus at the Gay Bar (2021) by Jay Hulme
He’s here in the midst of it – right at the centre of the dance floor, robes hitched up to His knees to make it easy to spin
At some point in the evening a boy will touch the hem of His robe and beg to be healed, beg to be anything other than this
And He will reach His arms out, sweat-damp, and weary from dance
He’ll cup this boy’s face in His hand and say . . .
“My beautiful child there is nothing in this heart of yours that ever needs to be healed”
Donde Hubo Fuego - Where There Was Fire
Que donde hubo fuego . . . dicen tendenciosas.
Las lenguas malevas que insinúan traiciones.
Que las cenizas quedan . . . dicen maliciosas.
Las amargas hieles de frustrados corazones.
Pero es que las cenizas se las lleva el viento,
Y ni siquiera el rescoldo sobrevive en el olvido.
De fogatas que fueron tan solo un lamento . . .
De querencias y pasiones que amores no han sido.
Yo difiero en pensamiento de los verbos acuciosos
Que incubando intrigas de amorios frustrados,
Aseguran que no creen en los amores acabados,
Y si alientan en el retoño . . . de los amores mozos.
Que donde hubo fuego . . . cenizas han de quedar . . .
Aseguran por complejo los amantes fracasados,
Y no cuentan que la lluvia también las pueda arrastrar,
Disolviéndolas por siempre en el lodo del pasado.
No puedo yo compartir . . . un concepto tan errado,
Sobre ciertas simpatías que cual yesca carcomida,
Ardieron fugaces sin una huella haber dejado . . .
Solo malicias infundadas por sus cenizas esparcidas.
Crude English translation . . . the Spanish version is much better
They say where there was fire . . . they say with bias.
The wicked tongues that hint at betrayals.
That the ashes remain . . . they say maliciously.
The bitter gall of frustrated hearts.
But the ashes are carried away by the wind,
And not even the embers survive in forgetfulness.
Of bonfires that were just a lament . . .
Of affections and passions that have never been love.
I differ in thought from the eager verbs
That, hatching intrigues of frustrated loves,
Claim they don’t believe in love that’s ended,
And if they encourage it in the sprout . . . of young love.
That where there was fire . . . ashes must remain . . .
Say the failed lovers out of some complex,
And they don’t consider that rain can also wash them away,
Dissolving them forever in the mud of the past.
I cannot share . . . such a mistaken concept,
About certain affections that, like decayed tinder,
Burned briefly without leaving a trace . . .
Only unfounded malice from the ashes scattered.
Meaning . . .
Las cenizas no son prueba de que el fuego siga vivo; son la evidencia de algo que existió.
The ashes are not proof that the fire is still alive; they are evidence of something that existed.