Listen!

I  Will  Be  Honest  With  You

Walt  Whitman

Song of the Open Road

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient,

I do not want the constellations any nearer,

I know they are very well where they are,

I know they suffice for those who belong to them

From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,

Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,

Listening to others, considering well what they say,

Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,

Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.

I inhale great draughts of space,

The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

I am larger, better than I thought,

I did not know I held so much goodness.

All seems beautiful to me

Here is the test of wisdom,

wisdom is not finally tested in schools,

wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not having it,

Wisdom is of the soul, it is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,

Applied to all stages, and objects and qualities and its content,

Is the certainly of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things;

Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul.

Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,

They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds

and along the landscape and flowing currents

Allons! whoever you are come travel with me!

Traveling with me you find what never tires.

The earth never tires,

The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first.

Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first,

Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop'd.

I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.

Allons! we must not stop here,

However sweet these laid-up stores,

however convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here..

Allons! yet take warning!

He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance,

None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health,

Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself

I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes,

We convince by our presence

Listen! I will be honest with you,

I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes,

These are the days that must happen to you:

You shall not heap up what is call’d riches,

You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,

You but arrive at the city to which you were destin’d, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction

before you are call’d by an irresistible call to depart,

You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you,

What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,

You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach’d hands toward you

Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless

All parts away for the progress of souls

Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth!

You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it,

or though it has been built for you.

Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen!

It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it.

Behold through you as bad as the rest,

Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people,

Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash’d and trimm’d faces,

Behold a secret silent loathing and despair

Allons! the road is before us!

It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain’d!

Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen’d!

Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn’d!

Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!

Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.

Camerado, I give you my hand!

I give you my love more precious than money,

I give you myself before preaching or law;

Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

It  Is  Time  To  Explain  Myself

Let  Us  Stand  Up

I celebrate myself, and sing myself

And what I assume you shall assume

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

I am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.

This hour I tell things in confidence,

I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.

What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you?

Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel’d with doctors and calculated close,

I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barleycorn less,

And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.

I know I am solid and sound,

I know I am deathless,

I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter’s compass,

I know I shall not pass like a child’s carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.

I know I am august,

I exist as I am, that is enough.

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,

The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,

The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,

And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man.

Through me forbidden voices,

Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil’d and I remove the veil,

Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur’d.

I do not press my fingers across my mouth,

I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart.

I believe in the flesh and the appetites,

Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.

Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from,

The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,

This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.

I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious,

Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy,

Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity,

When I give I give myself.

It is time to explain myself – let us stand up.

What is known I strip away,

I launch all men and women forward into the Unknown.

The clock indicates the moment – but what does eternity indicate?

All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation,

I am the acme of things accomplish’d, and an encloser of things to be.

Long I was hugg’d close – long and long.

Immense have been the preparations for me,

Faithful and friendly the arms that have help’d me.

Before I was born out of my mother, generations guided me.

All forces have been steadily employ’d to complete and delight me,

Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.

My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain,

The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms,

The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be there.

I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured.

I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)

My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,

No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,

I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,

I lead no man to the dinner-table, library, exchange,

But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,

My left hand hooking you round the waist,

My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road.

Not I, not anyone else can travel that road for you,

You must travel it for yourself.

It is not far, it is within reach,

Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know.

Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.

You are asking me questions and I hear you,

I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.

Long enough have you dream’d your contemptible dreams,

Now I wash the gum from your eyes,

You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life.

I plead for my brothers and sisters.

Do you see O my brothers and sisters?

It is not chaos or death – it is form, union, plan – it is eternal life – it is Happiness.

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit untamed, I too am untranslatable.

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,

It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,

It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another.

I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Walt Whitman   from  Song of Myself

Tessa  Maskell

Completed her Angelic Incarnation on June 30, 2021

Angel  of  Life

We do not necessarily anticipate that this human soul is going to live forever. I think that it is inevitable that it would change. In fact I don't think that as an angel of life we'd want the human soul as it now is to hang around us forever. It is useful now, it may be useful tomorrow, it may even be useful next year, possibly ten years from hence—who knows? All that is of concern to us is that we should be in position to make right use of it. Making right use of it, we are present in mind and heart and body in order to make right use of the environment around us, and as long as this present soul can be usefully so employed, presumably we'll make arrangements for it to remain. If it isn't of any more use in this way, then what would be the purpose for its continued existence? We have a realistic viewpoint; and what human beings think of as death, which is the passing of the human soul, means very little. It means very little to the angel of life who is in command, in the sense that its value is based in right use for particular purposes in a specific aspect of the unfoldment of the creative cycle.

If I am the way, the truth and the life, death means nothing; it doesn't exist! That the substance that composed the human soul may be reintroduced into the natural creative cycles on earth is quite satisfactory; that presumably is what should happen. It may be that if, as angels of life, we do play our parts wisely and rightly in these present human souls there could be a transformation in the realm of the human soul which is presently beyond imagination, or unknown. But be that as it may, all that is presently required is to make right use of the human soul in present circumstances, whatever they are. We don't make right use of our human souls with the expectation that changes are going to come in our circumstances to suit the human soul. Therefore it’s quite useless for the human soul to have mental and emotional concepts and desires as to what the changes should be...

So here we are as angels of life, incarnate in these human souls of great variety, not by chance. Obviously, if the angel of life has incarnated in some particular soul, as is the case for all of us, it wasn't a haphazard business. Specific choices were made as to what would be most useful should the human soul reach the point of willingness to allow the angel of life, who one is, to do what one incarnated in that human soul to do. And all these human souls are related, in one way or another, because they have the opportunity of participating in a collective, unified body. The angel of life is also the angel of the way of union. And so union is the natural experience, not only between the human soul and the angel of life who one is but between all the human souls who are the embodiment of the angel of life. On this basis there is one functioning, unified, coordinated body in action on earth, administering the creative cycle. Not making the creative cycle be—it already is—but administering the expression of it within the range of creative responsibility right here on earth. Then the invitation may be extended to all people: “Come out of slavery to the tyrant of death into the way of the fire”…

Coming into the fire, there is the experience of the soul being restored. Now what that restoration for any particular soul might mean remains to be seen, and one shouldn't have expectations and feel slighted if it doesn't happen the way you expect. I'm pretty sure it won't, for any of us. Let it be what it is!—because until there is this yielded openness on the part of the soul, how can the angel of life come forth? And it is the coming forth of the angel of life that burns the bonds, so that there is a new experience known in heart and mind and body because it may be said, “I am present and in expression.” And the whole human soul is unified into the one—there is no separation.

We find, in the natural cycles of living, that we eat and drink day by day; we stay alive that way. Of course we breathe as well, and do other things, but we also excrete. That's as necessary, isn't it? There is something taken in; there is something left behind. This is all natural in the cycles of living. So, with the incarnate angel of life, there is a body and a mind and a heart, a human soul received; and various aspects of waste are left behind day by day from this human soul. Where is the mystery? Where is the mystery of so-called death? At that point just a little more is left behind, that's all. From the standpoint of the angel of life, that is all that is happening. It is human souls who bewail their passing, because they have this sense of separation and isolation and fear and all these things—pain and sorrow and all the rest—of their own choosing.

from

Being the Fire  Martin Cecil  August 15, 1982