Walt Witman 1861 Poem by James McLain

You are not like some of the others.
Tired old scrawny frightened poets.
Near by seated hereupon, my ivory throne.
Pallets of paint by the tube, full and listing.
I played your harp is to piano a wooden violin.
But as a broad shouldered strong young again man.
Once tall and erect, naked as the day she was born
advancing slowly now light heavy burden.
Faced with the liquid warm sun in your hands.





Is It Poetry