Triply inspired by Miya's New Zealand Haiku, Christopher Benfey's terrific essay on Whitman in the NYRB, and the sight of Ronaldo gallivanting luxuriously across the rain-soaked pitch, I present to you a selection from Whitman's "Song of Myself." Egoism has never been so magnificent: it almost makes you understand ol' Ron a little bit.
Song of Cristiano Ronaldo
Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am
The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.
If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of
my own body, or any part of it,
Translucent mould of me it shall be you!
Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you!
Firm masculine colter it shall be you!...
I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious,
Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy.
I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish,
Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the
friendship I take again...
I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires,
I turn the bridgroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself,
I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips.
My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs,
They fetch my man's body up dripping and drown'd.
I understand the large hearts of heroes,
The courage of present times and all times...
All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine,
I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there.