Leaves of grass

I have always found the title* of Walt Whitman's 1885 collection of poetry rather odd since grass has blades, surely, not leaves? But these reeds or rushes or sedges growing where the stream runs into the beach at Aber Rhigian do have a certain leafiness about them. Along with the remains of the dog daisies and other dry stalks and seed heads they gave a distinctly summer's end feel to this dull day.

Some years ago, while waiting for an early morning train out of Richmond, Virginia, we happened upon a small farmers' market setting up near the rail station. With a couple of hours to kill we browsed around the produce and craft stalls, getting into conversation with some of the sellers. Among them was a woman with a table of books and some electronic gear. She went under the title 'laptop librarian', some sort of information outreach enterprise I think.

One of the books on her table was a large format copy of Leaves of Grass, a 1940 edition with a leaf-green hessian binding and illustrations by an artist of the time. I was rather taken with the period style of the book and spent a while admiring it. Before we left to catch our train I returned for one last look and the librarian picked it up, handed it to me and said 'It's yours!' 'Oh no' I said, 'you can't do that! 'Why not?' she said, 'It's mine and I can do what I like with it.' So now it is mine, and Patty Parks - you're not forgotten.

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.


[* Wikipedia: The title Leaves of Grass was a pun. "Grass" was a term given by publishers to works of minor value and "leaves" is another name for the pages on which they were printed.]