Song of ME ME ME!

Walt Whitman was slow going. As much as I understand that his use of the first person was to represent America, the "Song of Myself" still reeks of a towering ego (and he does refer to himself in it as "Walt" so I think the "It's Really About America" dodge doesn't hold water). You'd need a towering ego to think you are speaking for an entire country, even in reference to its diversity.
I also needed a dictionary to read this, as he seems to mix esoteric language with childishly made-up terms ("omnific" versus "foofoos"). His spelling is bad ("extatic") and he has a tendency to exaggerate, especially with numbers ("decillions" "sextillions" "quintillions"). So the words egocentric, hyperbolic, and epigrammatic spring to mind. "Song of Myself" is an onslaught, but I was still able to tease out little bits that I liked.

I guess the grass is itself a child .... the produced babe of
the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

...

Whoever degrades another degrades me .... and whatever is
done or said returns at last to me.
And whatever I do or say I also return.

...

I hear the trained soprano .... she convulses me like the
climax of my love-grip;
The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,
It wrenches unnamable [sic] ardors from my breast,
It throbs me to gulps of the farthest down horror,
It sails me .... I dab with bare feet .... they are licked
by the indolent waves ...
[Hmmm, they're starting to pall on me now. I like the euphemism of the "love grip," which I find funny while it probably horrified his audience, but I totally agree about the trained soprano.]

...

And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of
heaven...
[The blackberry is the rose that bears fruit. It lives on the fringes and brings sweetness to life, as well as a touch of bitter. There's no bitterness, though, that a touch of salt can't assuage.]

...

I think I could turn and live awhile with the animals ....
they are so placid and self-contained.
I stand and look at them sometimes half the day long,
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied .... not one is demented with the
mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another nor to his kind that lived
thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or industrious over the whole earth.

Yeah, I must have dropped my tokens, too, Walt, speaking as one who is demented with the mania of owning things - and not even real things anymore. I don't have room for real things. Now I own virtual things and fritter hours of my time searching for more.

I would enjoy this more if it weren't so ponderous. I'll continue to read Whitman, but I'm relieved to be able to get on with Dickinson and sing all her poems to "The Yellow Rose of Texas."