Every single person that visits PoemAnalysis.com has helped contribute, so thank you for your support. The title itself presents the body that can be played to music, in a way comparing the body movements to beats. While describing women he focuses on the sensuality their body emits and the divine function of reproduction. As the poem progresses, he also talks about the similarities and dissimilarities of the female and the male body. : Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves; 5 Please continue to help us support the fight against dementia.Subscribe to our mailing list to get the latest and greatest poetry updates.The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul?And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account,That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face,It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists,It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him,The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards,The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water,The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horseman in his saddle,Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,The female soothing a child, the farmer’s daughter in the garden or cow-yard,The young fellow hoeing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd,The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sun-down after work,The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance,The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes;The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps,The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert,The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv’d neck and the counting;Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother’s breast with the little child,Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count.I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons,And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons.This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person,The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, the richness and breadth of his manners,These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also,He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome,They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him,They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love,He drank water only, the blood show’d like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face,He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sail’d his boat himself, he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner, he had fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved him,When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang,You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other.I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough,To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then?I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.There is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well,All things please the soul, but these please the soul well.I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell, are now consumed,Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable,Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused,Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching,Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice,Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn,Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh’d day.This the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman,This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the outlet again.Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest,You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.The female contains all qualities and tempers them,She is in her place and moves with perfect balance,She is all things duly veil’d, she is both passive and active,She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters.As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty,See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female I see.The male is not less the soul nor more, he too is in his place,Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well,The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost become him well, pride is for him,The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul,Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always, he brings every thing to the test of himself,Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail he strikes soundings at last only here,The man’s body is sacred and the woman’s body is sacred,No matter who it is, it is sacred—is it the meanest one in the laborers’ gang?Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on the wharf?Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the well-off, just as much as you,The universe is a procession with measured and perfect motion.
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Written by Ray Bradbury, the name came from a Walt Whitman poem. He also tries to bridge the gap between body and soul. The images of “swimmer naked in the swimming-bath”, the “embrace of love and resistance”, the “two young boy wrestlers”, the “play of masculine muscle” explicitly defines the sensual desire created through those bodies. I Sing the Body Electric, or similar, may refer to: "I Sing the Body Electric" (poem), an 1855 poem from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman "I Sing the Body Electric" (The Twilight Zone), a 1962 episode of the TV series, written by Ray BradburyI Sing the Body Electric (short story collection), by Ray Bradbury, 1969, including the short story of the same name He again mentions the soul and the connection to physical things. In Whitman also recalls the time he visited the farmer with five sons, “full of vigor, calmness, the beauty of person” even at the age of eighty.
Poetry, literature that evokes a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience or a specific emotional response through language chosen and arranged for its meaning, sound, and rhythm. 1 I SING the Body electric;: The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them;: They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,: And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the Soul. I Sing the Body Electric, poem by Walt Whitman, published without a title in Leaves of Grass (1855 edition), later appearing as “Poem of the Body,” and acquiring its present title in 1867. The episode originally aired in 1962. He also tries to bridge the gap between body and soul.