Melbourne Central Station

I was reading what I still consider to be my favorite poet Walt Whitman. I was reading "Song of Myself" as I sat having brunch at Journeyman on Saturday in Windsor, Melbourne. Check it out all you Melbournian locals ;) I of course had the smashed avocado.

What I like about "Song of Myself" is how hopeful it is. When you're reading it you get this sense of peace, as though everyone and their busy lives are all somehow connected. Walt Whitman has this really nice easy flowing rhythm to his poetry, it's hard to describe without checking it out yourself.

"Song of Myself" is a long poem and there are many iterations, Walt Whitman wrote 7 drafts of his poetry collection Leaves Of Grass. I found a book on my travels, which contains two separate versions, I prefer the earlier 1855 version of the poem myself, it's less controlled and edited. The later version tries to impose structure and order --- where I've always though the best thing about the poetry is how stream of consciousness it is. Check out the first part of "Song of Myself" (1855) , available for a free listen on youtube.

There is a particular passage in "Song of Myself", which in the following poem I've tried to replicate, but in my own modern context. So disclaimer upfront, I acknowledge the following poem is very much inspired by "Song of Myself". I hope you enjoy it and more importantly, it might encourage you to google or look up some poems by Walt Whitman.

Melbourne Central Station

Each morning I stroll towards the station
I walk past them and they walk past me in turn
                                                                     ...so many eyes and faces

Business persons their bags and cases in hands
The florist trimming the stems of his hydrangeas
The wine-seller sitting idly beside the desk staring at a blank screen
The boy stares at his tablet screen
The elder answers his mobile phone
                                                  ...his eyes and ears predating the
language and method of mobile devices

The mother carries along her babe
                                                ...fidgeting in the crib of the stroller

The conductor yells wearily

The advertisements
                              smile...and dance...and laugh
      Their laughter is so loud and odious

The Chinese man sits beside the Indian girl
                 The obese gent waddles between swathes of commuters
The Vietnamese man presses another shit on his dry-cleaner board
The Court clerks wheel their black felt bags
While the tourists cart their life about in fluorescent plastic carry cases
The fruit seller carries his Woolworths emblazoned bag to market
The jeweler catches a whiff of something pungent
                                                                 ...as she passes the vagabond who sits on the pavement
He casts his eyes down into a cap that is empty and which desires to be full

The voyeur lurks nearby he sees a young woman drop a coin into the cap

The sheikh walks conspicuous in the crowd the ends of his beard are curled
                                          ...the length of his robe picking up the dirt from his heels
The priest wears his suit, it is his day off
                                          ...he contemplates brunch...and bacon

The conveyancer passes through a flood of vendors and purchasers...both

The baristas stare down the bleary eyes of their morning customers
                                                                                               ...the air is alive with the stink of
                                               paper, Styrofoam and polyethylene

The McDonalds employee puts on their cap
                                                          ...which rests tottering on the crown of their head
The artisan coffee-makes takes the beans from Ethiopia
                                                          ...draws them into the grinder
                                                             then is heard the churn of dried beans the scent
      harkens the pale miser back to memories unknown and unseen of
dark skins and exotic lands

The alter-er and his staff chat among themselves in the back room
                                                                     ...as suit after suit slam down onto their front desks
The coin launder sits beside his desk he hands out tokens with little chagrin
The hotelier queues beside the publican
The student scans through the gates
                                        ...the sounds of dub-step blares in her ears

The commuters swipe through the gates
They ascend the escalators into the muddy light of a new morning

I am among them and I am them
Like a drone I head up the road
I pass into my own secret world
I sit down at my console
So begins the day.