The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp,
The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanks-giving dinner,
The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm,
The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready,
The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,
The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar,
The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel, . . .
Unmistakably Whitman. Unmistakably pagan, or unimaginably religious, Walt Whitman, a poet whose barbaric yawp I heard in college, did much to shape me, even though today--so many years later--I find him just as dense as I ever did.
The lines above are from Song of Myself, a huge poem he never stopped writing. Its place in the canon of American literature is safe and sound, as long as there is a canon of American literature. That snippet is quintessential Whitman, a compendium of American life, a picture book of men and women he claimed to love, even to embrace. As a poet, he embraced the world, or tried, wanted--desired!--everything and everybody. He knew both the impossibility and the seduction of such a quest, to truly love, and love, well, everything.
The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and looks at the oats and rye,
The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case,
(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bed-room;)
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,
He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manuscript;
The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,
The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case,
(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bed-room;)
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,
He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manuscript;
The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,
What is removed drops horribly in a pail; . . .
The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove,
The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, the gate-keeper marks who pass,
The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though I do not know him;)
The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,
The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,
Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;
The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee,
As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle,
The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other,
The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the musical rain,
The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,
The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins and bead-bags for sale,
The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut eyes bent sideways,
As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers,
The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,. . .
Nothing escapes him or his embrace. He won't let it. Hence, accusations of lewdness made his poems scandalous in their time, maybe even ours. Here was a preposterous egotist who claimed to love the scent of his own armpits, a man whose "self" threatened American sensitivities, even though he taking great joy in that "self" made him--or so he claimed--a part of everything and everyone else. Go ahead and curl your mind around that.
Confusing? Yes. Always. But in 1968, when I was 20 years old, in the middle of a divided nation whose war was beginning to look like a horrible national mistake, Whitman's expansive embrace, his very "common grace," felt somehow like gospel. The game his poetry still plays--"what on earth does he mean?"--I found stimulating, not because there were answers but because there weren't. Leaves of Grass meant something fascinating, that much I knew. But what exactly?--I wasn't sure.
I'd learned my church catechism well as a boy, mastered q and a's well enough to pass muster when I met with the church's ruling council. Whitman's shadowy love poetry threatened the powerful walls catechism answers. In part, I suppose, I grew to love that which I could not know.
Whitman didn't ruin me, but he did please me, even helped me determine what I would do in my life. I remember walking to an American literature class on a sidewalk that's still there, and suddenly telling myself that if a life of teaching literature meant I could play with Whitman's odd singing, that life might be pleasing.
That's a poem, you say? Yes, that's a poem. That's Walt Whitman.
That's a poem, you say? Yes, that's a poem. That's Walt Whitman.
The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove,
The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, the gate-keeper marks who pass,
The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though I do not know him;)
The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,
The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,
Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;
The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee,
As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle,
The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other,
The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the musical rain,
The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,
The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins and bead-bags for sale,
The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut eyes bent sideways,
As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers,
The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,. . .
On and on it goes, a Sears catalog of Americans, all of it of America, Whitman says. That's Whitman.
"It's a poem, you say?"
I don't know what else to call it. Today, Walt Whitman is as outlandish as he ever was. He's buried in a strange-looking vault in Camden, NJ, a stone haunt setup for Halloween, a place where trees all around bear the initials of those who loved him.
Walt Whitman had a birthday this year. Had he lived, he'd be 200 years old.
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