I have a difficult relationship with Uncle Walt. As a poet who writes nearly exclusively in free form, I admire Whitman’s innovation as the father of free verse. But in grade eleven I read “Song of Myself,” where Whitman recounts the divine stench of his armpit hair. A line exists. Whitman crossed it.
Disorder has never been a sacred thing to me. Yet Whitman revels in it. He was a disheveled-looking man, raised Quaker, who abandoned his parents’ sense of morality for transcendental humanism. Deeply devoted to Emerson (perhaps his first mistake), Whitman threw himself headlong into the Great Circle of Life and accepted his place in the so-called “Oversoul.” To the essential Modernist question of “Is there a God?,” Whitman answers, “I am god.”
Poetry as Utterly Human
In high school I decided that Whitman’s philosophy is the ultimate display of egotism. While I was in college, my parents bought me a volume of Whitman for Christmas. I thanked them but inwardly groaned.
Between self-indulgent, sprawling lines and poems with sexually deviant explorations, I found little to compliment; that is, until I came across a poem called “The Wound-Dresser.”
Whitman is famous for his adoration of Abraham Lincoln. As Whitman was a champion of self-expression and freedom, his attraction to the author of the Emancipation Proclamation follows. But what many people do not know is that Whitman backed up his ideals through his actions. He worked in makeshift hospitals and helped dress the wounds of injured Union soldiers. “The Wound-Dresser” is an exploration of the price of war, which Whitman would have known firsthand:
Was one side so brave? the other was equally brave.
Upon reading these words, I was forced to consider whether Whitman is smarter than I gave him credit for. At the very least, he is reflective. Let no serious reader of poetry ever pass over an admirable quality, even if the poet possessing it is, in general, an oaf.
I dwell not on soldiers’ perils or soldiers’ joys, / (Both I remember well—many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content.)
Here I encountered the stunning ambivalence of a man who hated the tragedy of war but fully embraced the cause of war, and who found his place in the immense conflict.
Bearing the bandages, water and sponge, / Straight and swift to my wounded I go.
And then—
I stop, / With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, / I am firm with each . . . / One turns to me his appealing eyes—poor boy! I never knew you, / Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.
Despite his long and rambling lines, Whitman knows how to turn a phrase.
I never knew you, / Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.
I remember stopping for a long moment and dwelling on that sentence. In two lines Whitman personalizes not only the Civil War, but all wars. Servicemen and -women believe in an ideal—so much so that they put their lives on the line for strangers. In my life I have known maybe ten servicemen, but none who have died in war. So every single fallen serviceman or -woman is a stranger to me. Despite (and perhaps because of) this, I feel a deep gratitude and respect for their selflessness. I feel a kinship.
Whitman acknowledges the heavy sacrifice. As he tells his narrative line by line, he articulates his strikingly prayer-like thoughts in parenthetical statements:
On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!) / The crushed head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away,) . . . / Life struggles hard, / (Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death! / In mercy come quickly.)
Post-university, I still believe Whitman is egotistical and pompous. But historical context and shared empathy color my perceptions now. Whitman, for all his faults, did what all poets do: he observed, felt deeply, and wrote about it.
Whitman did what all poets do: he observed, felt deeply, and wrote about it.
Whitman is utterly human, and that in itself is not wrong. I am moved similarly when I read Jesus’ prayer in Gethsemane (the major difference between the two being Whitman’s claims of divinity are significantly less founded than Jesus’). In Gethsemane we are presented with a picture of the Son of God expressing His full humanity.
And that is what good poems do. They make us more human. They connect us to each other and to our humanity. They help us understand our world—for all its beauty and brokenness—and our place in that world. We will never lack the need for understanding each other, even (and especially) when we disagree with each other.
That is what good poems do. They make us more human. They connect us to each other and to our humanity. We will never lack the need for understanding each other.
An in-depth study of Whitman’s words connected us. I read Walt Whitman the person, and not just his poetry, for the first time. He taught me the urgency of poetry—its necessity. I’m thankful.
Letting Grief In
What I did not expect was to continue learning lessons from Uncle Walt. Last year I enrolled in a Modern Poetry course to analyze my craft more deeply. (While not a true Modernist, Whitman is a forerunner to the Modern era of poetry, and his work strongly influenced Modernist writers.)
Good poetry is timeless. And what is more timeless in a broken world than grief? One of Whitman’s most anthologized poems is “O Captain! My Captain!,” a eulogy to Abraham Lincoln. Whitman also eulogizes Lincoln in the highly anthologized “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.”
Good poetry is timeless. And what is more timeless in a broken world than grief?
I first read “Lilacs” in grade eleven, when I had dismissed Whitman, and when I had no clue what grief was. I last read “Lilacs” three months ago, after grief in its satin-slippered feet had carved out a home in my heart.
Grief matures a person. I’m older now than I ever was. And after reading “Lilacs,” I identified strongly with Whitman on a personal level for the first time. Of course, to quote myself, Whitman’s lines continued to be sprawling and untamable. But that is the truest nature of grief.
“When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” explores grief in four cycles of verse:
Cycle 1 = stanzas 1-4
Cycle 2 = stanzas 5-9
Cycle 3 = stanzas 10-13
Cycle 4 = stanzas 14-16
As is typical for (good) poems, the title is the key to understanding the poem. Here, Whitman uses lilacs to represent love, and a dooryard to represent the world. He is exploring when love last existed in the world.
Using three primary symbols, Whitman mourns and celebrates Abraham Lincoln.
Star = Abraham Lincoln
Lilac = love
Bird/thrush = poet & poetic expression
In “Lilacs,” I found more than a pastoral elegy. The poem is a highly human expression of grief over a then-current event. In his own words, it is “the song of the bleeding throat,” a sorrowful melody he shares with the thrush.
But “Lilacs” also highlights the conflicting emotions of bereavement through the use of pastoral and celestial symbols. He ends his dirge in gladness. Even in his mourning, Whitman comes to the universal conclusion that joy, hope, and love can persist in the midst of grief—something I am learning day by day. Whitman, for all his eccentricities, is timeless.
I emerged from my reading with a respect for Uncle Walt. What a wonderful thing, to have been wrong in my initial assessment of his work. I am not, as I may seem to imply, a Whitman fanatic. But at the very least, for the time being, I concur with Ezra Pound.
A Pact Ezra Pound I make truce with you, Walt Whitman— I have detested you long enough. I come to you as a grown child Who has had a pig-headed father; I am old enough now to make friends. It was you that broke the new wood, Now is a time for carving. We have one sap and one root— Let there be commerce between us.
Excellent reflections here, Renee!