Walt Whitman (1819-1912) was born in a small farming community (West Hills) close to Huntington, Long Island, New York. His mother Louisa, was of Dutch origin, and his father (carpenter) was a descend of English. At the age of three, the young Walt moved with his family to Brooklyn, where his father hoped to take advantage of the economic opportunities in New York City. But his bad investments prevented him from achieving the success he craved. At 11, Walt Whitman was taken out of school by his father to help out with household income. He started to work as an office boy for a Brooklyn-based attorney team and eventually found employment in the printing business. After he became a journalist. At 23, he assumed a journal direction in New York (the Long Islander). This journal was collapsed when Whitman was accused for supporting the liberal fraction of the Democratic party for matters of slavery. Walt moved to New Orleans, after another unsuccessful attempt at liberal journalism, he dedicated himself to building houses from 1850 to 1855, during this time he read a lot and started experimenting with a new style of poems, long free verses with popular language. Whitman's work breaks the boundaries of poetic form and is generally prose-like. He also used unusual images and symbols in his poetry, including rotting leaves, tufts of straw, and debris. He also openly wrote about death and sexuality, including prostitution.

In 1855 he self-published the collection Leaves of Grass; the book is now a landmark in American literature, though at the time of its publication it was considered highly controversial. Whitman later worked as a volunteer nurse during the Civil War, writing the collection Drum Taps (1865) in connection to the experiences of war-torn soldiers.
Nowadays, he is considered one of America’s Lyric Poet. It is undeniable his poetic vision absorbed in the exaltation of everyday reality.

I was looking for some book at home and I found this one, I took it and I decided to read a bit. I want to share with you this poem in English and Spanish version. I really love how he describe that even a simple detail is absolutely a miracle.

Miracles

by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with anyone I love, or sleep in the bed at night with anyone I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships with the men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

Milagros

por Walt Whitman

¿Por qué hacer tanto alboroto por un milagro?
Sólo conozco milagros, ya sea que camine por las calles de Manhattan,
o mire hacia el cielo por encima de los techos,
o camine por la playa al borde del mar,
o permanezca de pie debajo de los árboles del bosque…
U observe a las abejas volando en torno de la colmena en el verano,
o a los animales que pastan en las praderas,
o a las aves
o a los maravillosos insectos que vuelan por el aire,
o la maravilla del atardecer,
o de las estrellas que brillan en la noche, mudas y resplandecientes,
o la exquisita curva delicada de la luna nueva en primavera.
Estos y los demás, todos, son milagros para mí.
Todo está vinculado y, sin embargo, cada cosa es diferente y ocupa su propio lugar.
Para mí, cada hora de luz y oscuridad es un milagro,
cada centímetro cúbico de espacio es un milagro,
cada metro cuadrado de la superficie de la tierra contiene lo mismo;
cada fragmento de su interior bulle con lo mismo.
Para mí el mar es un milagro continuo, los peces que nadan,
las rocas, el movimiento de las olas, los barcos y sus navegantes.
¿Es que existen milagros más extraños?

References

https://www.internal.org/Walt_Whitman/Miracles
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman
https://www.biography.com/people/walt-whitman-9530126
https://www.zendalibros.com/5-poemas-walt-whitman/
https://www.elperromorao.com/2011/10/walt-whitman-milagros/

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