People have asked me, ‘ What’s Yawping? ‘
I sometimes say ‘ You know that scene in Dead Poets Society … ? ‘
More often then not, I quote (Uncle) Walt Whitman from his Song of Myself:
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me—he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed—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 bequeathe 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.
As an impressionable girl of 10, I was introduced to these words, and they’ve stuck with me all these years. Subconsciously (and consciously for that matter I’ve …), struggled to live by these words on the many journeys I’ve embarked on, sometimes I’ve been successful, other times not so much.
But I’d rather be on the ride than standing on the sidelines, care to join me?
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