A Song to Walt Whitman, Doctor Who, and the Open Road: Allons!

allons

EXCLAMATION

• ‘Let's go’; (also) ‘come now’, ‘there you are’ (used by way of encouragement, or as a general expression of acceptance, resignation, etc.).

Origin

Mid 17th century; earliest use found in George Tooke (1595–1675), army officer and writer. From French allons, 1st person plural imperative of aller to go from post-classical Latin alare, ultimately a variant (with loss of the unstressed medial -u- and subsequent assimilation of consonants, although the exact phonological history is unclear) of classical Latin ambulāre to walk.

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"Allons-y? It means, Let's go!"

--The Tenth Doctor Who

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"Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless....” 

--Walt Whitman

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Perhaps you have seen the Volvo commercial which begins with the phrase, "Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road." The stunningly gorgeous commercial imagines a modern day Walt Whitman, voiced by actor Josh Brolin, wandering the wonderous world in his S90 luxury sedan.  

Anyway, I heard Josh Brolin's melodic voice and those words really spoke to me. A quick search landed me on the full version of Walt Whitman's "Song of the Open Road," a poem from his 1856 collection, Leaves of Grass.

The original poem is 328 lines in 15 sections. I quickly realized that Josh Brolin reads but a few lines from the poem and some are presented out of order. I also noticed that the original contains many instances of the word, Allons, all edited out of the Volvo ad. Being a Doctor Who fan, my appreciation for the original Walt Whitman text deepened. 

The TV spot is superb, but you really must invest the 2 minutes and 47 seconds it'll take you to watch the extended version. This longform video is part of Volvo's "Our Idea of Luxury" series featuring artful, cryptic, non-linear story-telling. I defy anyone to watch it only once. It took me a couple of viewings before I noticed the explicit reference to Walt Whitman. Can you spot it?

I love the stirring poetry of Walt Whitman, the campy fun of Doctor Who, and the endless appeal of the open road. Volvo makes a nice vehicle, but I'll take my Road King. 

Song of the Open Road

Related Poem Content Details

BY WALT WHITMANThis version is edited. Read the original, all 328 glorious lines of it, here

1 

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, 

Strong and content I travel the open road. 

2 

You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here, 

I believe that much unseen is also here. 

6

Here is realization, 

Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him, 

The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them. 

5 

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.

9 

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 welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while. 

13 

Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless, 

To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts, 

To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you, 

To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls. 

You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you. 

15 

Allons! the road is before us! 

Rumi to the Rescue

To be fully human is to feel the full range of human emotions. Perhaps we are free to pursue happiness, but in no way is happiness guaranteed. We may know the highest heights if we have felt the lowest lows. What then, is the proper response to emotional challenges? Rumi to the Rescue!  

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

Poem by the Sufi mystic, Rumi, from a translation by Coleman Barks. Portrait of Rumi from the public domain (i.e., Wikipedia). I snagged the beautiful blue mosaic off of the cover of a book called Rumi: Bridge to the Soul: Journeys into the Music and Silence of the Heart. See also, Rumi: The Book of Love.

That's How the Light Gets In

The birds they sang

at the break of day

Start again

I heard them say

Don't dwell on what

has passed away

or what is yet to be.

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything. 

That's how the light gets in.

from the lyrics to 

Anthem

by

Leonard Cohen

H/T: AN

"Anthem"

The birds they sang
at the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be.
Ah the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again
the dove is never free.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

We asked for signs
the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed
the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood
of every government --
signs for all to see.

I can't run no more
with that lawless crowd
while the killers in high places
say their prayers out loud.
But they've summoned, they've summoned up
a thundercloud
and they're going to hear from me.

Ring the bells that still can ring ...

You can add up the parts
but you won't have the sum
You can strike up the march,
there is no drum
Every heart, every heart
to love will come
but like a refugee.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in.

To All My Fellow Scotsmen, Happy Rabbie Burns Day!

Robert Burns, born 25 January 1759

Rabbie Burns Day falls on a Sunday this year, so I thought it apropos to prepare by participating in a special Saturday Scots Ale tasting event at UnWined. Six beers were on offer, including one on draft from their brand new 6-tap growler filling station. I arrived late and consequently missed out on the Innis & Gunn which sold out quickly owing to its incredible awesomeness rather than a lack of foresight on the organizers' behalf. They'll get more! 

The quintessential Scots Ale

Brings new meaning to the word, viscosity

Pointing to Arbroath on the east coast of Scotland

An American take on the style with more smoke and hops--my favorite of the mix

Offerings included Founders Dirty Bastard on tap at the growler filling station

Finished the set with an orange-spiced ginger beer

I also enjoyed reading "The Cotter's Saturday Night" over dinner. I did not find a haggis, but I did enjoy a dish that included sausage of questionable provenance and decided to call it good. The poem I picked is pasted below for your convenience! I especially liked the line that an honest man's the noblest work of God.

I suppose we are all a wee bit Scottish on Rabbie Burns Day. (English friends may take mild exception.) So to all my fellow smart, arrogant, chivalrous, brilliant, radical Scotsmen, here's mud in your eye! Now, pour yourself a wee dram of The Balvenie single malt Scotch and revel in the selected poem! [Note: a Cotter is poor laborer who lives in his landlord's cottage.]

The Cotter's Saturday Night

My lov'd, much honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi angry sugh;
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their dad, wi flichterin noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
An makes him quite forget his labor and his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
At service out, amang the farmers roun;
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame; perhaps, to show a braw new gown,
Or deposits her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other's welfare kindly spiers:
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
The parents partial eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
The mother, wi her needle and her sheers
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi admonition due.

Their master's and their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
And mind their labors wi an eydent hand,
And ne'er tho out of sight, to jauk or play;
'And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night;
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.'

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o the same;
Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake.

Wi kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;
A strappin youth, he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen;
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi joy,
But blate an laithfu, scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashful and sae grave;
Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.

O happy love! where love like this is found:
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare,
'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.'

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling, smooth!
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild?

But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief o Scotia's food;
The soupe their only hawkie does afford,
That, 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell;
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin lint was i' the bell.

The chearfu supper done, wi serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride.
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And 'Let us worship God!' he says with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they, with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or, how the royal Bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme:
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head;
How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing.'
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art;
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart,
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the soul;
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way,
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But, chiefly, in their hearts with Grace Divine preside.

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
'An honest man's the noblest work of God';
And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile!
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,
That stream'd thro Wallace's undaunted heart,
Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part:
[The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!]
O never, never Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

One of my previous Odes to Bard of Ayrshire is available HERE. Thanks for reading. Comments are always welcome. How did you celebrate Robert Burns, Scottish heritage, or Scottish food and drink this year? 

50 Reasons Not To Date A Poet | Betty Generic (NaPoMo 24/30)

A post from poet Betty Generic dated June 2013 came to my attention recently when poet Suzi Q shared it via Facebook, and I just had to rebroadcast it here on PhilosFX during #NaPoMo

50 Reasons Not To Date A Poet

by Betty Generic

Selected excerpts

4. They have deep conversations with animals, clouds, and Grecian Urns.

5. Excessive use of  “Poetry Hands.”

26. It takes a least a week to a year for them to form their opinion about something, and that opinion is subject to change.

40. They crave plot twists.


All 50 reasons are HERE. Do you have any favorites today? Share in comments!

Please take a moment and support a budding poet by visiting Betty's Word Press blog, In addition to this post, I also enjoyed her "Bedroom window" haiku series. Her "About" page is particularly intriguing....

Go! Listen, Speak, and Celebrate the spoken word! 

Write. Just Write. (NaPoMo 13/30)

The POEtic Principle

"There neither exists nor can exist any work more thoroughly dignified — more supremely noble than this very poem — this poem per se — this poem which is a poem and nothing more — this poem written solely for the poem's sake."

Edgar Allan Poe

National Poetry Month (NaPoMo 1/30)

This poster, designed by Chip Kidd, is available HERE

It's National Poetry Month, and here at PhilosFX, we'll feature some favorite poems every day for the next 30 days. OK, let me rephrase that. We'll feature 30 poetry-themed posts in April, aiming to post them at the rate of one per day. But, you know, life happens... That is not an excuse. That is a promise. If I have to choose between riding my motorcycle or sharing a post, the post will have to wait!

I am not trying to be a poet, but I may even contribute a few lines of my own verse as a way to show support and appreciation. Mimicry is the sincerest form of flattery. I do love poets and the power of poetry. I love how words spoken by a skillful wordsmith can unlock ancient mysteries. Words can open us to realities seemingly beyond our comprehension.

• Some of my favorite wordsmiths are humorous or even whimsical. Steve Martin, Mark Twain, and Garrison Keillor spring to mind. I don't know if you would think of George Carlin as a poet, but I certainly do. The wry rhythm of his delivery always added another dimension to his profound insights. 
• Some are angry or impassioned. Oppressed people can lash back at the Universe with words as sharp as sabers. Some of my friends at the Busboys and Poets Open Mic nights have shredded me with words. Was Dr Martin Luther King, Jr., a poet? Of course. His speeches were intoned with poetic passion and fire.
• Some are spiritual and profound. My favorite of many in this category is Mark Nepo. I have found such comfort in his embrace, both physically when I met him for the first time, and metaphysically as I read through The Book of Awakening (2000), Seven Thousand Ways to Listen (2012), and Reduced to Joy (2013). 
• And quite a few of my favorite poets earned the honor merely by being especially concise, pithy, observant, witty, or adept at expressing what it means to be a spirit in a body in time on earth. Jhymn Loisel, Angelique Palmer, Rob Krupika and many, many more.

Why do we celebrate poets and their poetic poems? I offer this reply--not in my words, these are the words of Tom Robbins--but in my handwriting.

Celebrate poetry month!