I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them
And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them
I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,
But I saw they were not as was thought . . .
Walt Whitman is known for his rhapsodies
On the spirit of his times
Open to both pain and pleasure as one
He was a witness to our great Civil War
In the heat and the cold of the Capital
Caring like a saint for all the casualties brought there to die
Beholding and feeling the guts of America's boys
Holding and healing the guts of their spirits
On each of their dying days
In the bloody display of the war-torn bodies
Of the boys of the blue and gray
Walt Whitman could still see hope for the American way
Walt Whitman could still see hope for the American way
Over the carnage rose prophetic a voice
Be not disheartened, affection
Shall solve the problems of freedom yet,
Those who love each other shall become invincible,
They shall yet make Columbia victorious.
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd
And the great star early droop'd
In the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd,
And yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
When Abraham Lincoln was shot
Walt Whitman mourned his passing
With the song of a thrush
And a star, and lilacs, blooming in the dooryard
Every spring after Lincoln was shot
Ever returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west
And thought of him I love
And thought of him I love
I'm thinking of the Kennedys and King
Their Peckinpah deaths reverberate around
Snapshots lodged in the spine of my brain
I've got images like bullets in the spine of my brain
Images of blistering Japanese: Hiroshima
Images of death through the back of a child: My Lai
Images of fields of Cambodian bones: Pol Pot
Images, television, bullets, I've got
Images like bullets in the spine of my brain
Passing the song of the hermit bird
And the tallying song of my soul . . .
Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves,
I leave thee there in the door-yard,
Blooming, returning with spring . . .
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands -
And this for his dear sake,
Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines and cedars dusk and dim.
Healing is scarce in the land of America
Even with Spring coming up from within
And finding its way to a place in the sun.
Healing's not easy, Walt Whitman, in America
For poisons have entered the bones of your thrush
And taint the hearts of the lilacs each Spring,
And taint the blossoms in the door-yard,
Mr. Whitman, each Spring.
I see behind each mask that wonder a kindred soul
O the bullet could never kill
What you really are, dear friend
Nor the bayonet stab what you really are:
The soul! yourself I see, great as any, good as the best
Waiting secure and content,
Which the bullet could never kill
Nor the bayonet stab O friend
I love to hear you, Walt Whitman, so open and high,
Caressing the War with hope in your eyes.
You witnessed the worst, and yet you prophesied the best.
Those were the days when in God you could trust.
I can't help but love you
Though a nation like yours is long since gone.
We've put our trust in weapons, and hammered our love
And trust not the sun or the moon from above.
I can't help feeling cheated, with my ear to the ground,
The bullet and bayonet, their mark finally found.
Your words make me long for
A nation like yours, but a nation like yours is gone.
America's gone, Walt Whitman,
The country you loved has slipped away.
America's gone, Walt Whitman,
The spirit you loved has passed away.
Benn Bacot - voice of Walt Whitman; Mike Bacile - acoustic bass; Jonathan Jacobs - harmonica; Jeff Massanari - electric lead guitar; Mike Telle - electric rhythm guitar; Phil Hildreth and Marty Bateson - vocals at end; Diesel Cats - acoustic guitar.
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