Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
Walt Whitman was born in 1819 on Long Island (the Paumanok of many of his poems). During his early years he trained as a printer, then became a teacher, and finally a journalist and editor. He was less than successful; his stridently radical views made him unpopular with readers. After an 1848 sojourn in the South, which introduced him to some of the variety of his country, he returned to New York and began to write poetry.
In 1855 he self-published the first edition of Leaves of Grass, which at the time consisted of only twelve poems. The volume was widely ignored, with one significant exception. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote him a congratulatory letter, in which he offered his “greet[ings]... at the beginning of a great career.” Whitman promptly published another edition of Leaves of Grass, expanding it by some twenty poems and appending the letter from Emerson, much to the latter’s discomfort. 1860 saw another edition of a now much larger Leaves—containing some 156 poems—which was issued by a trade publisher.
At the outset of the Civil War Whitman volunteered as a nurse in army hospitals; he also wrote dispatches as a correspondent for the New York Times. The war inspired a great deal of poetry, which was published in 1865 as Drum Taps. Drum Taps was then incorporated into an 1867 edition of Leaves of Grass, as was another volume of wartime poetry, Sequel, which included the poems written on Lincoln’s assassination.
Whitman’s wartime work led to a job with the Department of the Interior, but he was soon fired when his supervisor learned that he had written the racy poems of Leaves of Grass. The failure of Reconstruction led him to write the best known of his prose works, Democratic Vistas, which, as its title implies, argues for the maintenance of democratic ideals. This volume came out in 1871, as did yet another edition of Leaves of Grass, expanded to include more poems. The 1871 edition was reprinted in 1876 for the centennial. Several other prose works followed, then a further expanded version of Leaves of Grass, in 1881.
Whitman’s health had been shaky since the mid-1870s, and by 1891 it was clear he was dying. He therefore prepared his so-called “Deathbed” edition of Leaves of Grass, which contained two appendices of old-age poems as well as a review essay in which he tries to justify his life and work. The “Deathbed Edition” came out in 1892; Whitman died that year.
Whitman’s lifetime saw both the Civil War and the rise of the United States as a commercial and political power. He witnessed both the apex and the abolition of slavery. His poetry is thus centered on ideas of democracy, equality, and brotherhood. In response to America’s new position in the world, Whitman also tried to develop a poetry that was uniquely American, that both surpassed and broke the mold of its predecessors. Leaves of Grass, with its multiple editions and public controversies, set the pattern for the modern, public artist, and Whitman, with his journalistic endeavors on the side, made the most of his role as celebrity and artist.
In 1855 he self-published the first edition of Leaves of Grass, which at the time consisted of only twelve poems. The volume was widely ignored, with one significant exception. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote him a congratulatory letter, in which he offered his “greet[ings]... at the beginning of a great career.” Whitman promptly published another edition of Leaves of Grass, expanding it by some twenty poems and appending the letter from Emerson, much to the latter’s discomfort. 1860 saw another edition of a now much larger Leaves—containing some 156 poems—which was issued by a trade publisher.
At the outset of the Civil War Whitman volunteered as a nurse in army hospitals; he also wrote dispatches as a correspondent for the New York Times. The war inspired a great deal of poetry, which was published in 1865 as Drum Taps. Drum Taps was then incorporated into an 1867 edition of Leaves of Grass, as was another volume of wartime poetry, Sequel, which included the poems written on Lincoln’s assassination.
Whitman’s wartime work led to a job with the Department of the Interior, but he was soon fired when his supervisor learned that he had written the racy poems of Leaves of Grass. The failure of Reconstruction led him to write the best known of his prose works, Democratic Vistas, which, as its title implies, argues for the maintenance of democratic ideals. This volume came out in 1871, as did yet another edition of Leaves of Grass, expanded to include more poems. The 1871 edition was reprinted in 1876 for the centennial. Several other prose works followed, then a further expanded version of Leaves of Grass, in 1881.
Whitman’s health had been shaky since the mid-1870s, and by 1891 it was clear he was dying. He therefore prepared his so-called “Deathbed” edition of Leaves of Grass, which contained two appendices of old-age poems as well as a review essay in which he tries to justify his life and work. The “Deathbed Edition” came out in 1892; Whitman died that year.
Whitman’s lifetime saw both the Civil War and the rise of the United States as a commercial and political power. He witnessed both the apex and the abolition of slavery. His poetry is thus centered on ideas of democracy, equality, and brotherhood. In response to America’s new position in the world, Whitman also tried to develop a poetry that was uniquely American, that both surpassed and broke the mold of its predecessors. Leaves of Grass, with its multiple editions and public controversies, set the pattern for the modern, public artist, and Whitman, with his journalistic endeavors on the side, made the most of his role as celebrity and artist.
"Song of Myself" Number 32 of 52
I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and
self-contain'd,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of
owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of
years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
So they show their relations to me and I accept them,
They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their
possession.
I wonder where they get those tokens,
Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?
Myself moving forward then and now and forever,
Gathering and showing more always and with velocity,
Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them,
Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers,
Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms.
A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses,
Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,
Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,
Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.
His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him,
His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return.
I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion,
Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?
Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.
"I Hear America Singing"
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or
at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of
the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows,
robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or
at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of
the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows,
robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.