Oh Caftan, My Caftan!

A drafty dig through Walt Whitman’s closet…

Photo by Cassandra Hamer on Unsplash

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1
O CAFTAN! my Caftan! our fearful outing’s done;
I found you on the sale rack, the prize I sought is won;
My home is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
Their eyes follow my head’s appeal, my body not so daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
This long gown of berry red,
As around my body, my caftan flies
No longer hidden in the shed.

2
O Caftan! my Caftan! rise up and ring the bells;
Rise up-for you’re the flag that’s flung-around us the bugle trills;
For us, shawls and ribbon’d scarves hide me from folks a-crowding;
For us they call, the judging mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Caftan! dear friend!
Love me beneath my frock;
It is some dream that has no end,
As folks look on in shock.

3
My Caftan does not answer, his lips are sweet but still;
My Caftan hides my charm, protecting me, he always will;
My virtue's anchor’d safe and sound, this outing closed and done;
From fearful trip, without a slip, come home with object won;
Exult, O bedroom, and ring, O bells!
Now I, with delight tread,
Safe in the closet my Caftan lies,
As sleep I naked, in the bed.

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What a bother it is to leave the house nowadays…one never knows what to wear. Too bright and tight, and everyone stares. Too lose and dull, no one says hello. What’s a poor poet who wants a little love — but not overmuch — to do?

Thankfully, a solution is at hand. A loose and flowing Caftan to the rescue. And what a hunk he is! Soft and silky, loose and flowing, and all of a deep cranberry red. One of my vibrant colors — me being a winter, after all. So, doing what any good and honorable poet does — I wrote an ode to…my lovely Caftan! ~w.w.

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