"This is what you shall do", Walt Whitman

 

Walt Whitman

“This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”

                                                                  —Walt Whitman

“...re-examine all you have been told in school or church or in any book, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent lines of its lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in every motion and joint of your body."

                                                                —Walt Whitman,

                                                                from the preface to Leaves of Grass

“A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibility of their own souls.”

                                                                 ―Walt Whitman

“I like the scientific spirit—the holding off, the being sure but not too sure, the willingness to surrender ideas when the evidence is against them: this is ultimately fine—it always keeps the way beyond open—always gives life, thought, affection, the whole man, a chance to try over again after a mistake—after a wrong guess.”

                ― Walt Whitman, Camden Conversations

Song of Myself [Part I]

I Celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and

their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,

Nature without check with original energy.

                                                                                ―Walt Whitman

The Voice of the Rain

And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower,

Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:

I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,

Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea,

Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd, altogether changed, and yet the same,

I descend to lave the drouths, atomies, dust-layers of the globe,And all that in them without me were seeds only, latent, unborn;

And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own origin,

and make pure and beautify it;

(For song, issuing from its birth-place, after fulfilment, wandering,

Reck'd or unreck'd, duly with love returns.)

                                                                                  ―Walt Whitman

O Captain My Captain!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills;

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,

You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

                                                                                ―Walt Whitman

When I Heard At the Close of Day

When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv'd

with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow'd;

And else, when I carous'd, or when my plans were accomplish'd, still I was not happy;

But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,

refresh'd, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,

When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light,

When I wander'd alone over the beach, and undressing, bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,

And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his way coming,

O then I was happy;

O then each breath tasted sweeter--and all that day my food nourish'd me more

--and the beautiful day pass'd well,

And the next came with equal joy--and with the next, at evening, came my friend;

And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores,

I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to me, whispering, to congratulate me,

For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,

In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined toward me,

And his arm lay lightly around my breast--

and that night I was happy.

                                                                                      ―Walt Whitman

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry [excerpt]

Flood-tide below me! I watch you face to face;

Clouds of the west! sun there half an hour high! I see you also face to face.

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes! how curious you are to me!

On the ferry-boats, the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning

home, are more curious to me than you suppose;

And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence, are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose

.

The impalpable sustenance of me from all things, at all hours of the day;

The simple, compact, well-join'd scheme--myself disintegrated, everyone disintegrated, yet part of the scheme:

The similitudes of the past, and those of the future;

The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings

--on the walk in the street, and the passage over the river;

The current rushing so swiftly, and swimming with me far away;

The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them;

The certainty of others--the life, love, sight, hearing of others.

Others will enter the gates of the ferry, and cross from shore to shore;

Others will watch the run of the flood-tide;

Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east;

Others will see the islands large and small;

Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high;

A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them,

Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring in of the flood-tide, the falling back to the sea of the ebb-tide.

It avails not, neither time or place ― distance avails not;

I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence;

I project myself ― also I return ― I am with you, and know how it is.

Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt;

Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd;

Just as you are refresh'd by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh'd;

Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood, yet was hurried;

Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships, and the thick-stem'd pipes of steamboats, I look'd.

I too many and many a time cross'd the river, the sun half an hour high;

I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls ― I saw them high in the air,

floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies,

I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies, and left the rest in strong shadow,

I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward the south.

I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,

Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,

Look'd at the fine centrifugal spokes of light around the shape of my head in the sun-lit water,

Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and southwestward,

Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,

Look'd toward the lower bay to notice the arriving ships,

Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,

Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops--saw the ships at anchor,

The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars,

The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants,

The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses,

The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels,

The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set,

The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glistening,

The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite store-houses by the docks,

On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank'd on each side by the barges―the hay-boat, the belated lighter,

On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night,

Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and yellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets.

These, and all else, were to me the same as they are to you;

I project myself a moment to tell ― I return.

                                                                                    ―Walt Whitman

When Lilacs Lase in the Dooryard Bloom’d

From Memories of President Lincoln [1-6]

1

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,

And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,

I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,

Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,

And thought of him I love.

2

O powerful western fallen star!

O shades of night ― O moody, tearful night!

O great star disappear'd ― O the black murk that hides the star!

O cruel hands that hold me powerless ― O helpless soul of me!

O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.

3

In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd palings,

Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,

With every leaf a miracle -- and from this bush in the dooryard,

With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

A sprig with its flower I break.

4

In the swamp in secluded recesses,

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary the thrush,

The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,

Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat,

Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know,

If thou wast not granted to sing, thou would'st surely die.)

5

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,

Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris,

Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,

Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen,

Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,

Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,

Night and day journeys a coffin.

6

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,

Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,

With the pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in black,

With the show of the States themselves as of crepe-veil'd women standing,

With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,

With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,

With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,

With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,

With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the coffin,

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering ― amid these you journey,

With the tolling bells' perpetual clang,

Here, coffin that slowly passes,

I give you a sprig of lilac.

                                                                                    ―Walt Whitman

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean

But I shall be good health to you nonetheless

And filter and fibre your blood.

                                                                                    ― Walt Whitman

To the Reader at Parting

Now, dearest comrade, lift me to your face,

We must separate ― ! take from my lips this kiss.

Whoever you are, I give it especially to you;

So long!--And I hope we shall meet again.

                                                                                   ―Walt Whitman

How to write a poem, and reading poems

 

29 May 2014

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,

As to long panoramas of visions.

           --Walt Whitman,  "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d"

Some contemporary poetry is obscure, some of it has an intellectual affectation, it might say to the reader—the reader might intuit—that this poetry is meaningless and that perhaps it was written more for insiders than average people. Of course, there is nothing wrong with being difficult, I applaud being difficult; what is difficult today may be obvious to future readers. But, still, this poetry is more an extension of life's confusion, not an understanding of it, not clarity, not even clarity grounded in an aesthetic presentation, only more confusion. I like direct plain concise language which is an achievement in expression, it is also a very difficult achievement. Poetry deals with the human condition, it isn’t about language, it isn't word play, it isn’t being clever, it isn't jibber jabber, gibberish, abracadabra, or intellectual flim flam... The clue to understanding poetry is that it must be authentic to psyche—that’s all it has to do—otherwise it is meaningless to the reader, it is obscure, obfuscating, pretend intellectual, not real poetry, it doesn’t communicate or offer communion with the reader, it just adds to the overall confusion of life.

There is writing poetry and there is reading poetry, these are two different experiences. If you write poetry then the process is that writing poetry precedes having ideas about poetry and it may take you places—the unknown—in your writing that you never knew you would visit, but if you have preconceptions about what you want to write then you will never visit these new places and new themes in your poetry. It used to be popular to be a Marxist and write about Marxism in one's poems, that is now outdated and old fashioned; today, the popular thing is gender and gender dysphoria, but writing about gender dysphoria doesn't produce real poetry although real poetry may be about gender and gender dysphoria. Poetry isn't prose and some poets should turn to prose if they want to communicate a specific message on some topic of importance to them. 

Writing poetry is different than reading poetry; even though it might be one’s calling in life, writing poetry may only be temporary. Coleridge wrote poems for only two years, it was his calling but it was only for two or so years. Some poetry you read stays with you for a lifetime; poetry or some other art form, for instance visual art or music, changes and deepens as you get older, as you return to it at different times in your life and as you mature as a person, then it gives you a new perspective on what you used to believe. Poetry can also work at an intuitive level, or be an intellectual apprehension, or work at a deeper or different perspective of one's life, and whether one is reading poetry or writing poetry one must always be authentic to psyche. Poetry is visionary and an expression of the soul, it isn't a treatise, a dissertation, it isn't propaganda, it isn’t fiction or prose; for this reason poetry doesn't have a greater place in our contemporary world even though reams of poetry are written and published every year. 

Revised: 07, 08, 11 May 2025

Biographies of Poets, Whitman and Smith

Mickle Street 

One of my favourite biographies of Whitman is Walt Whitman in Mickle Street (1921) by Elizabeth Leavitt Keller describing the last years Whitman's life. Whitman was not the saint that some people have tried to make him out to be, his housekeeper Mary Oakes Davis was the real saint as she cared for Walt and this is Mrs. Davis's story as much as Whitman's. Today we would call Mrs. Davis a care-giver and sympathize with her as she looked after Whitman who is described as thoughtless, self-centered, and having a bad temper.





                                      




Chesterfield Avenue

Canadian poets like Louis Dudek and A.J.M. Smith weren't interested in autobiography or having their biographies written. Considering how often we hear that the public doesn't read poetry people are still interested in the lives of poets. Some people think Smith is a difficult poet, a good biography would have made him more human and possibly have made his work more available to students and other readers. As it is now good luck to anyone trying to find information on Smith's life. Leon Edel, the famous Henry James biographer and old friend of Smith's, wrote a short essay on Smith after he died in 1980. Here is an excerpt from that essay: "I can sketch a few (memories), allowing myself anecdote and biography now that Smith is gone: the touch of cockney in Smith's mother's voice and way of speech, when Smith invited me to take tea in the trim little suburban house in Westmount: the mother openly aggressive about her son's desire to write poetry — "there's no money in it" — "be quiet mother," — "I think it good he's taken up science." "Please mother." She talked to me as if I were a familiar in the house I had entered for the first time, and as if I knew all about her continuing colloquy with her son." Smith's home, where Edel visited in the mid-1920s, is located at 79 Chesterfield Avenue in Westmount.

"Poem of the Daily Work of The Workmen and Workwomen of These States" by Walt Whitman

 

The men who constructed
the Victoria bridge

       This is the poem of occupations;

In the labor of engines and trades, and the labor of fields, I find eternal meanings. Workmen and Workwomen! Offspring of ignorant and poor, boys apprenticed to trades, working on farms, Sailor-men, merchant-men, immigrants, House-building, blacksmithing, glass-blowing, Ship-joining, dock-building, fish-curing, ferrying, The pump, the pile-driver, the great derrick, the brick-kiln, Coal-mines, the lamps in the darkness, echoes songs, Iron-works, the great mills and factories; The slaughter-house of the butcher, the killing-hammer, The hoghook, scalder's tub, gutting, the cutter's cleaver, The men and work of men, on railroads, fish-boats, canals; The daily routine of shop, yard, store, or factory; In them the heft of the heaviest, In them far more than you estimated, In things best known to you, finding the best, Happiness, knowledge, not in another place, but this place; You workwomen and workmen of these States

having your own divine and strong life.

                                            --Walt Whitman, 1855 

 

"A Noiseless Patient Spider" by Walt Whitman

 

A noiseless patient spider,

I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,

Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,

It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,

Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,

Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,

Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,

Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

The cottage garden is all for peaceful co-existence

There is peaceful co-existence among most animals but when a human approaches they all run for their lives. One of my favourite poems is by Walt Whitman, in which he writes,

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.

Sometimes animals fight each other, you see them butting heads in wildlife movies, but usually it isn't fighting to the death. A robin is sitting in the bird bath, he's not greedy, he doesn't mind if a sparrow joins him. There is room for all the birds but they might have to wait their turn, and they do; they know how to queue up. They aren't plotting against each other, they don't have concealed weapons, they aren't pedophiles or perverts.

How do you live with the animals in the limited way that city living affords? I suggest just sitting outside and being quiet, the birds will get used to your presence. They will pay you the highest compliment, they will ignore you.

Make your cottage garden as inviting to animals, birds, and insects as possible. Birds will use the bird bath and ignore you. Butterflies might land on your shoulder. The honey bees will continue to visit the flowers; bumble bees, that used to be so common but are now increasingly rare, will visit your garden and enjoy the bee balm. At night, in July, fire flies will make your garden a place of magic and wonder.

Living with Animals

Last spring when I began working in the garden I wondered why birds and squirrels were afraid of me but not afraid of each other. Then I thought of Walt Whitman's poem (section 32 of "Song of Myself") about living with animals. Do we need to be like St. Francis of Assisi to be on friendly terms with animals? I soon realized the simple answer, just be outside a lot and the birds and squirrels will soon get used to you and not run from your presence. In fact, they'll ignore your presence. Today I began feeding the birds again for the winter. Soon I had a beautiful red cardinal and then chickadees arrived and then some squirrels who didn't seem to like each other. Here is Whitman's poem:

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?