When I was born, my bones already named
Clavicle,utensil, copper wire
I thought I’d reached the apogee of fame

I quickly realised murder was the game
As my brothers set  my hair on fire
When I was born, my bones already maimed

How I escaped with difficulty’s plain.
If you will believe I am no liar.
I thought I’d reached the apogee of fame

We had a ginger cat which no-one tamed
We took it in a bag to Midnight Choirs
When I sang, my voice was full of  shame

The cat got in a trap and so was lamed
We dressed its wounds,it scratched  me something dire
I thought I’d reached the higher, sharper pains

I spoke too soon, from love  and hate I tired
Then vulgar fractions  infinite,  defiled
I was born, my bones with words engrained
Jesus Christ, I understand your game

A dull pain wanders slowly through my  chest
Underneath my heart but  fairly  near
A poignant evocation  of duress

I believe that some folk say  life is a test
And if we fail, is punishment severe?
A dull pain wanders slowly through my  chest

When I was little, I would  have confessed
In my eyes I’d feel the damp, cold tears
A poignant evocation  of distress.

When exactly did mother know best?
When she hit me, when I showed my fear?
A dull pain wanders slowly through my  chest

I loved my mother once, but less and less.
She was my prison guard and my King Lear
I could not bear my own acute distress.

She made me cut my hair off, and impressed
That I was ugly, no boy would come near
A dull pain wanders slowly through my  chest

In my mind the bully boys still jeer
I met one there and yes,I met one here
I was silent for I lived under duress
A dull pain wanders slowly through my  chest

I don’t know my gender
So I am a  pretender
I’m dressing in a modest kind of way
I wear some cotton trousers
A red skirt and three blouses
And I wore a tweed man’s overcoat today
Since I’ve been getting  lonesome
I invented a companion
Half of me is male,I say,I say.
He writes all  the sonnets
And says he knows  who dunnit.
And I write villanelles with love and care.
When someone seems enchanted
I feel  a dilettante
For I dress  quite like a boy and get half fare
And then they see my  tunics
Embroidered and perfumed
They feel confused and have a new excuse to stare,
Thank God for the Muslims
I imitate their costumes
I am happy to modest, don’t  you glare.

A prison is a place to meditate
No distraction  and no  need to fake
Nor murder other inmates by mistake

But do you feel ashamed of your new state?
Think of all the MP’s who’re disgraced
Illness gives one time to meditate

To be alone is not what love dictates
Especially if you have no time to waste
You must not murder others by mistake

If inclined to madness,hesitate.
Think of Leonard Cohen and all he wrote
Depression gives one aeons to meditate

Have an illness rather than  a mate
If you  have no lamb then get a goat
It  could murder apples in a bate.

If you swim  don’t wear a heavy coat
If you wander, you might find  new mates
A bedroom is a place to meditate
Do not murder  lovers by mistake

https://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/walt_whitman_13352

“Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am;
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary;
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head, curious what will come next;
Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and
contenders;
I have no mockings or arguments—I witness and wait.

5
I believe in you, my Soul—the other I am must not abase itself to you;
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat;
Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the
best;
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay, such a transparent summer morning;
How you settled your head athwart my hips, and gently turn’d over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my
bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the
argument of the earth;
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own;
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters
and lovers;
And that a kelson of the creation is love;
And limitless are leaves, stiff or drooping in the fields;
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them;
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, and heap’d stones, elder, mullen and
poke-weed.

6
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is, any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.”

 Today I opened wide my eyes,
And stared with wonder and surprise,
To see beneath November skies
An apple blossom peer;
Upon a branch as bleak as night
It gleamed exultant on my sight,
A fairy beacon burning bright
Of hope and cheer.

"Alas!" said I, "poor foolish thing,
Have you mistaken this for Spring?
Behold, the thrush has taken wing,
And Winter's near.
"
Serene it seemed to lift its head:
"The Winter's wrath I do not dread,
Because I am," it proudly said,
"A Pioneer.

"Some apple blossom must be first,
With beauty's urgency to burst
Into a world for joy athirst,
And so I dare;
And I shall see what none shall see -
December skies gloom over me,
And mock them with my April glee,
And fearless fare.

"And I shall hear what none shall hear -
The hardy robin piping clear,
The Storm King gallop dark and drear
Across the sky;
And I shall know what none shall know -
The silent kisses of the snow,
The Christmas candles' silver glow,
Before I die.

"Then from your frost-gemmed window pane
One morning you will look in vain,
My smile of delicate disdain
No more to see;
But though I pass before my time,
And perish in the grale and grime,
Maybe you'll have a little rhyme
To spare for me.