I've always been fascinated by the word, electric. and more so, electric blue. it sends a shiver through my spine, it makes me feel as though I am at the very edge of a jumping board above a pool and the first few seconds when I take the plunge and am suspended mid-air, a few feet away from the water- are the most exhilirating moments, electric moments.
I was reading a few blogs online today and thinking how my blogging/writing has evolved. It is not the calm, meditative, burning writing anymore. my words don't pierce nor do they inspire pain, longing or nostalgia. my words are, now, electric. I think. they run, they are zagged, with unruly edges and sharp. so today I want to share with you a poem i have loved ever since i first heard it and a poet who i relate to the most at this point in my life. the liquid energy in his writing, the "electric" element, draws me to his words, and i make them my own.
this poem breaks the mold - words don't rhyme here, it doesn't have stanzas and verses. it is, at it is. and that's exactly how i feel at this point in my life -- as i am. breaking the mold, making my own. the poem is about a city i have lived in but not loved as I love philadelphia. but if you look beyond what it is about and feel the energe of the words, you'll know what I'm talking about.

Manhatta - by Walt Whitman

I WAS asking for something specific and perfect for my city,
Whereupon, lo! upsprang the aboriginal name!

Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient;

I see that the word of my city is that word up there,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, with tall and wonderful
spires,
Rich, hemm’d thick all around with sailships and steamships—an island sixteen
miles
long, solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streets—high growths of iron, slender, strong, light, splendidly
uprising toward clear skies;
Tide swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the
villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the black
sea-steamers well-model’d;
The down-town streets, the jobbers’ houses of business—the houses of business of
the
ship-merchants, and money-brokers—the river-streets;
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week;
The carts hauling goods—the manly race of drivers of horses—the brown-faced
sailors;
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft;
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells—the broken ice in the river, passing along, up or
down,
with the flood tide or ebb-tide;
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form’d, beautiful-faced, looking you
straight
in the eyes;
Trottoirs throng’d—vehicles—Broadway—the women—the shops and
shows,
The parades, processions, bugles playing, flags flying, drums beating;
A million people—manners free and superb—open voices—hospitality—the
most
courageous and friendly young men;
The free city! no slaves! no owners of slaves!
The beautiful city, the city of hurried and sparkling waters! the city of spires and
masts!
The city nested in bays! my city!
The city of such women, I am mad to be with them! I will return after death to be with
them!
The city of such young men, I swear I cannot live happy, without I often go talk, walk,
eat,
drink, sleep, with them!