I sang about a person. I sang about a person, an ordinary single person.
However, the lyrics sung are democratic, and the lyrics mean the whole.
I sing physiology, from the top of my head to my toes,
It is not only the appearance but also the mind that deserves the attention of the muse.
I said that a complete body has higher value,
I sing equality between men and women.
I sing about a passionate, excitable and powerful life.
Excited by the freest action under the sacred law,
I sing about this modern man.
I hear America singing.
I hear America singing and all kinds of happy songs.
The mechanic sang, and everyone sang the cheerful and magnificent songs that he deserved.
The carpenter is singing, measuring his boards and beams,
The masons are singing. They are working and singing at work.
The boatman sings for everything that belongs to him on the ship, and the sailor sings on the deck of the ship.
The shoemaker sits on the bench and sings, while the hatter stands and sings.
Loggers sing, farmers and teenagers go to the fields in the morning, rest at noon and go home at sunset, singing while walking.
Mother is singing a sweet song, and so are the working girls, sewing and washing clothes.
Everyone is singing for everything that belongs to him or her instead of anyone else.
During the day, songs belonging to the day are sung-at night, groups of young people are friendly and strong, singing loudly with their throats open, beautiful and loud.
2. Whitman's poem "I sing myself" I praise myself and sing myself. Everything I say applies to you as well as to every atom that belongs to me. This belongs to you, too-(America) Whitman's curtain fog in the morning glows with white light in the obscure sunlight, and the leaves are shining with crystal dew and unnatural drowsiness. The flowers have a little fragrance of flowers and mints. When I open the curtain, I breathe everything new, and the squeaky blood absorbs the sound and the birds. The first call of the bug made me seem to have washed away my dirty eyes and looked particularly bright. Facing a huge mirror, I looked at myself carefully and didn't want to die in the mirror. Even though I have never seen myself in the mirror, I just demonized myself with a momentary illusion and sadness. Napoleon cannot compare with me. Stephen hawking can't compare with me. I have a healthy and strong body. Nietzsche is inferior to me. I am a mentally sound person. There are also ideals and ambitions. My whole body exudes gratifying specialties, and millions of people have the same specialties. That's not what I meant. I need to absorb more fresh air to nourish my poor soul. Grow into a towering tree and grow in the place where people must pass to worship the disabled in the world. I was as dirty as the wind and went to the poor trash can to complain about my stomach. I am waiting for a kind person to give me more food and some food that can easily satisfy my pity. This is just a habit. I don't work. I only eat the residue left by others, which is a very subtle feeling and rich in nutrition-it can grow into my proud appearance. Even though I hate their straightness and their ugly painted faces wrapped in ghost skin, I am still in the fly camp. I like a win-win situation. I want to take one of my helicopters to a very distant paradise, where there is a magical and vast ocean. Mixed with the lost self, wandering in the crowd, ignoring and suffering. Ritual binding in the face of people is like a pile of poison. My face and face, but I still don't want to go to heaven. It's so sad. Too beautiful. Hell is my choice. There are many people busy here. It suddenly dawned on me that a natural farce was about to begin. 10 decibel The sound of turning over a book is muttering a language I can't hear clearly. I was dragged alive from one end of hell to the other, and then I was kicked out of hell. Maybe I just exist in the concept of hell. Slavery fills my mind. I continue to cheat. I walked sideways in the street, and the sun set off my vague figure. I suddenly feel in a trance. I climbed the Statue of Liberty, shaking my broken body and looking fearfully at the endless heaven. I see my eyes are so extravagant. Far away, I solidified the beauty of this moment, immersed in a romantic atmosphere, and the noisy voice broke my calm vision. I feel very satisfied, because this is God's blessing to me and the Statue of Liberty. I kissed the Statue of Liberty quietly. Although I surpassed myself, I was silently protested and reviled by thousands of people. I'm completely white-haired. I quickly stepped down from her plump body and continued my uncomfortable trip. I'm just used to dog life, but it seems unfair that God makes dogs cute, but it also makes me extremely comfortable. But it also makes me dirty like a dog. I doubt the truth of this world, just as the world doubts my truth. The dry wind cracked my hands and lips. I began to look for a place to live, curled up my body and body spirit. Extreme atrophy makes people mistakenly think that I am just a roasted corpse, but I am not content with my ignorance and blank past. I began to think about finding a screen imitator to build me into an excellent porn artist and go to a brothel to finish all the timid women. I thought this was a paradise of human nature, and the light of human nature hurt myself, including my own Eucharist. Holy soul, I always thought that the dim sunshine sprinkled on the world along the eternal route, leaving us the brightest side of the sunset aura, which is unforgettable. Although it is only an endangered sunset, we still believe in its immortal magic, because we believe that it will set today and shine in front of your eyes tomorrow, and will confuse you again in its daily cycle, but I don't admit that this so-called cycle is also a part of nature. Why can there only be one after death? Why can't people be resurrected here after death? I came to a restaurant dirtier than me to think about this suspicious question, which gave people life and ruined people's lives. This is God's ignorance, not our ignorance, but why doesn't God die? But as the sun shines, I am ashamed of being lazy, but I am still alive. I must create an eternal self and let God know how infinite my strength is as an ugly person. I can control myself and fantasize about Superman's power. I showed off my ignorance, stayed in a dark corner, ate the last chicken of the day quietly, and then fell asleep quietly. In my dream, I swam in hell again. This time, hell didn't abandon me. Maybe I have become a superman.
3. What does my own song Whitman express? Whitman wrote at the beginning of the poem "My own Song": "I praise myself, praise myself, and you will bear what I bear, because every atom that belongs to me belongs to you."
In the last verse of this poem, the poet wrote: "If you can't find me for a while, please don't be discouraged. If you can't find a place, look elsewhere. I will always wait for you somewhere. " The whole poem begins with "I" and ends with "you", which has its unique artistic charm.
Throughout the poem, although this "I" always occupies a dominant position in the poem as a narrator, this "you" always accompanies me and sings "my own song". Before Whitman, no American poet paid so much attention to the role of readers.
Whitman, like many romantic poets in the19th century, has a strong sense of self, and uses the first person "I" as the protagonist in his poetry creation to express the poet's personal feelings.
4. What writing techniques did Whitman use in his own songs? 1 I praise myself and sing myself.
Everything I say applies to you,
Because every atom that belongs to me belongs to you.
I invited my soul to walk with me,
I looked down and leisurely observed a summer blade of grass.
My tongue, every atom in my blood, is made of this soil.
This air is made up of,
I grew up here, my parents grew up here, and their father
My mother grew up here,
I'm thirty-seven years old now, and I'm completely healthy.
I hope to sing until I die.
Dogma and school aside,
Take a step back and be content with what they give me now.
But we must never forget all of them,
Good or evil, I will do whatever I want,
Without scruple, tell nature with a primitive vitality.
5. What is Whitman's poem to Lincoln? Oh, captain, my captain! Translated by Jiang Feng. Captain, my captain! Our sinister voyage is over, our ship has weathered the stormy waves safely, and the reward we are looking for has been obtained. The port is not far away, I have heard the bell, thousands of people are cheering and shouting, and they are calmly returning to meet our ship. Our ship is magnificent and brave. But, heart! Heart! Heart! Oh, deep red blood drops. On the deck lay my captain. He fell, died, and cooled down. Oh, captain, my captain! Get up, please listen to the bell, get up,-flags fly for you-horns ring for you. For you, the shore is crowded with people-for you, countless bouquets, ribbons and wreaths. For you, the bustling crowd is calling and turning many eager faces. Here you are, captain! Dear father! Under your head is my arm! This is a dream on the deck. You have fallen, died, and cooled down. Our captain didn't answer, his lips were pale and silent, my father couldn't feel my arm, he had no pulse and no life, our ship had anchored safely, and the voyage was over. The victorious ship returned from the sinister journey, and the victory we sought was won. Cheers. Oh! Ho, oh, Hong Zhong! However, I moved my sad steps lightly. On the deck, there was my captain. He fell down, dead and cold. Note: This poem is the most absurd and symbolic elegy of Lincoln, which is the most widespread and influential in the United States.
6. Write a composition on the topic of "heart". For example, modesty is the ladder of progress, and self-confidence is the heart of victory. I like Tagore's long solo, He Qifang's introverted narrative and Whitman's unrestrained vomit. I like poetry, so I dream of having a poetic heart. A poetic heart is enough to purify my soul, a poetic heart is enough for me to observe the beauty that others have not noticed, a poetic heart. A poetic heart is enough to make my ideological realm reach the highest level ... If I have a poetic heart, when others haven't found that spring is coming, when others complain that spring is coming too late, "spring can't be shut up, an almond is out of the wall" has already made me feel the gift of spring. "cicada forest is quieter, Tonamiyama is more secluded". Others didn't notice it, but I realized it. When I regret the past, I am intoxicated with remorse and guilt. I thought, "I left quietly, just as I came gently and waved my sleeves without taking away a cloud." So I easily bid farewell to the past and began to enter a new journey. If I have a poetic heart and my psychological weight is balanced, I won't stumble in a materialistic and cheating society, and I won't walk out of my persistent pursuit in the wonderful clamor of others for the outside world. Join their game world. Because I know that time is precious and youth is fleeting, I know what I should do. If I had a poetic heart, I wouldn't be anxious to see others speculating in stocks overnight, and I wouldn't be psychologically unbalanced because I saw others speculating in real estate. My poetic mind has benefited me a lot. I can deeply understand the connotation of stillness: stillness is a famous painting and a famous flower. Quiet in the heart, turbid in the world. I'm alone. A poetic heart makes me see everything in the world clearly and clearly. "However, as long as China keeps our friendship, heaven is still our neighbor" makes me understand that the preciousness of friendship lies not in the distance, but in the communication between hearts. "Clear water produces hibiscus, natural carving" taught me that beauty is natural. I like poetry, but I prefer to have a poetic heart. Although my dream is far away, it is possible to come true. I want to be realistic.
7. There are some poems about self-appreciation, such as Wang Guozhen's If Talent Is Not Recognized, but I recommend the American poet Whitman's My Song, which is a bit long. Excerpt: "My own Song" Whitman-I praise myself and sing about myself, and you will bear what I bear, because every atom that belongs to me also belongs to you. I take a walk and invite my soul. I bent down and leisurely observed a summer blade of grass. My tongue, every atom in my blood, is formed in this soil and this air. It was born here by my parents, and so was my parents. So are their parents. I am 37 years old now, and I hope to be healthy all my life until I die. Let's take a step back and get to know their current situation.
8. Whitman's poem "My own Song" I praise myself and sing myself. Everything I say will also apply to you, because every atom that belongs to me belongs to you.
I invited my soul to wander with me, and I bowed my head and leisurely observed a summer blade of grass. My tongue, every atom in my blood, is made up of this soil and this air. I grew up here, my parents grew up here, and so did their parents. I am thirty-seven years old and in perfect health. I hope to sing until I die.
Dogma and school aside for a while, take a step back and be content with what they have given me now, but I will never forget it all. Whether it is good or evil, I will talk about nature with a primitive vitality at will. The house and room are full of fragrance, and the picture frame is also full of fragrance. I breathe this fragrance myself. I know, I like it. It will make me intoxicated, but I won't make myself intoxicated.
Atmosphere is not a fragrance, it has no fragrant taste, it is a tasteless substance, but it is always suitable for my breathing. I like it. I am willing to walk to the shore of the forest and get rid of all artificial decorations. I really like this contact with myself. My own breath, echo, underwater sound, whispering, love grass, acacia, branches and vines, my exhalation and inhalation, the beating of my heart, the flow of blood and air in my lungs, green leaves and withered leaves, the smell of dark rocks on the coast and the sea and the grass in the barn, I spit out the sound of words scattered in the whirlwind several times. When the soft branches are swaying, the branches are playing with light and shadow, the happiness when they are alone, or the happiness they feel in crowded streets, fields and hills.
From Whitman's Leaves of Grass.