Song of

NaPoWriMo Day 15, poem 16/30: Today's prompt was to write a parody of an existing poem. There was no one I could possibly choose but Walt Whitman. I have always disliked him - he's too grandiose and self-obsessed. Because of that, he's kind of the perfect foil for me, seeing as I have a hard time loving myself as much as I should and mostly see my worth through other people. I chose sections 1 and 7 of "Song of Myself." This might be a little stilted, since I was sitting with the original in front of me and "translating" line by line or stanza by stanza, but maybe once I distance myself from it I'll be able to sort out some parts to keep. Some lines are taken directly from the original.


Song of

1
When I loathe myself, I sing myself,
And disbelieve these words I write,
For every atom of me as good belongs to you.

I feel about for a soul in the dark,
I pull down the blinds and lean in the dark.

My legs, my breasts, my ears, my womb,
My mind and heart fight the natural shape,
I, now twenty-five years old, begin,
Hoping pain will cease ere death.

My brain that rejects logic and science,
That clings to pills and talks and fears,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
I check nature at the borders of myself.


7
Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform her of the pain that waits, and I know it.

I shun the dying, I avoid the infant, I hide beneath my dresses and my hair,
Despite it all, I can see the beauty,
I love the ocean and the cliffs, the twisted trees.

I will never be a planet - I am just a girl,
Small and finite in this room all to myself,
I do not feel immortal, but do not wish to die.

Every kind I try to be, every shape I fill,
I am the child singing to her dolls,
I am broken and I am rigid,
I am the shy girl who lets the boy kiss her,
I am the shy girl who lets the woman kiss her,
I am the lover at your door without her bra,
I am not immortal, but I'll write you to life,
I am myself when I'm in your eyes.

Undrape, you are not guilty to me, nor stale or discarded,
When translated, your name is a word that means hope,
My name was born when you first breathed it.