Anyone Else Dislike Walt Witman?

First, let me say I appreciate all Walt Witman did for poetry. He revolutionized it structurally and topically, and I respect that.

But, damn, is it a bore to read. I have had to read Song of Myself three times now for different classes, twice just exceprts and once the whole thing. And try as hard as I have, I just don't like this poem. It is boring and pretentious.

Does anyone else agree?

You can come on here and point out the infinite reasons why I am wrong if you want, I have heard it before.

I agree completely, though I kind of got lambasted for it on another thread about overrated writers.. hahaha... I respect what he did for poetry, in basically inventing free verse, and being the father of many of my favourite poets, including Pablo Neruda, who I think is the best poet of all time.... but his poetry is quite mediocre, egotistical, pretentious (as you say), and far too dry when it shouldn't be, and flowery when it shouldn't be as well... or so I find... but with poetry what one likes is so subjective... I don't think there really can be any definite guidelines to what makes good poetry, otherwise free verse itself would never have been created...

but I myself think what Whitman did for poetry was great, but his poetry is far far far from great...

How much poetry have you read? Is Whitman boring because you don't like poetry in general? Does he go against you concept of what poetry is or should be? Personally I find him to be a magnificent poet... unequaled since... certainly the center of the American contribution to world literature... and I am not alone in this opinion: T.S. Eliot, Fernando Pessoa, Wallace Stevens, Hart Crane, William Carlos Williams, Pablo Neruda, D.H. Lawrence, Ezra Pound, Allen Ginsberg, John Ashberry, and endless other writers of real merit were profoundly impacted by Whitman. Personally, the innovation of his form of "free verse" is of little importance to my opinion of Whitman's verse. The beauty of his language and diction speaks for itself:

This is thy hour, O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done.
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering, the themes thou lovest best
Night, sleep, death, and the stars.

Whitman speaks in a language that can be crude... and then as fiery and magnificent as a Biblical Hebrew prophet and visionary, San Juan de la Cruz, or William Blake. He takes on the personae of the everyman, of just plain ol' Walt, of the mystic and seer, of the American Jesus Christ:

In vain the nails were driven through my hands
I remember my crucifixion and bloody coronation
I remember the mockers and the buffeting insults
The sepulchre and the white linen have yielded me up
I am alive in New York and San Francisco,
Again I tread the streets after two thousand years

Whitman states that he contains "multitudes"... going far beyond Goethe's notion of two souls battling for dominance within his breast... but Whitman's audacity goes even further... suggesting that he is as God... as the very spirit of life or nature to be found everywhere:

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 nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged
Missing me at one place, search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Whitman offers what must be the greatest poetic elegy since Shelley's Adonais in When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd:

When lilacs last in he dooryard bloom'd
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourned, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spiring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love...

Coffin hat 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 crape-veiled women standing,
With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night...

Come lovely and soothing death
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later delicate death...

Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet,
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?
Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly...

I have read some poetry. . . I'm not sure what your definition of a lot or a little would be. I enjoy reading and writing poetry. I have no preconcieved notions as to what poetry should be, as poetry can be anything. I said very clearly I respect and appreciate what Whitman did for poetry, I just don't enjoy reading his poems, although what you posted is not that bad.

I have read some poetry. . . I'm not sure what your definition of a lot or a little would be.

Don't take my question the wrong way. I was just trying to get some idea of where you are coming from. Many people have very little experience with poetry and struggle with it. My own preference probably leans more toward poetry (and other forms) than toward the traditional novel... although I've probably read more than my share of those as well. I know that my own opinions of Whitman and Dickenson were less than favorable when I was younger. There's no way I or anyone else can make you like Whitman or any writer you dislike. I can only offer some thoughts as to why I think he is a great writer.

Well, I definately wouldn't put the idea of liking him in the future out of question, because the number of artists, literature or otherwise, I have disliked at first and then liked later are plenty.

Sorry Mutatis but I too think Whitman's a great poet. He defintely has flaws, but really he has such a daring reach and breaks through so many barriers that he is a great poet. Here's one of my favorites:

Quote:

---

A child said, What is the grass?
by Walt Whitman


A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.

---

I couldn't agree more with St. Luke's Guild and with my
dear Latin-reading Virgil.
One cannot even begin to talk about American literature
indeed poetry without discussing Whitman.
He broke free from the mannered forms and artifice of
the Romantic Poets and truly created an poetic that was uniquely American and indisputably brand-new. The greatest poets known for their strong "voice" owe everything to Walt Whitman.

Readers who somehow believe that "free verse" means broken lines randomly arranged on a page are sadly mistaken!

And likewise anyone who would state that "poetry can be
anything"(!) hasn't really read enough poetry. Otherwise he would have never have arrived at such an ill-informed
conclusion.

Mutatis, sorry, but I agree whole-heartedly with St.Luke, Virgil, and Aunt Shecky....Whitman was one of the greatest poets ever and he did break through new territory. All poets have their flaws - they are only human beings, you know. He left such a legacy of unique poetry. I was freaked out to see your post at first, but now I am glad so many have responded to you comments and hey, several people have posted such great poems. I will copy them to my hard-drive. Thanks!

If I were you, Mutatis , I would definitely give Whitman another try.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by AuntShecky

I couldn't agree more with St. Luke's Guild and with my
dear Latin-reading Virgil.
One cannot even begin to talk about American literature
indeed poetry without discussing Whitman.
He broke free from the mannered forms and artifice of
the Romantic Poets and truly created an poetic that was uniquely American and indisputably brand-new. The greatest poets known for their strong "voice" owe everything to Walt Whitman.

Readers who somehow believe that "free verse" means broken lines randomly arranged on a page are sadly mistaken!

And likewise anyone who would state that "poetry can be
anything"(!) hasn't really read enough poetry. Otherwise he would have never have arrived at such an ill-informed
conclusion.

---

but who stated "poetry can be anything"??? I don't see that anywhere here... and secondly each of us define poetry for ourselves, so it can be almost anything... what may be the most beautiful poetry for someone else may be garbage for you or I...

I agree that free verse, at least good free verse doesn't mean broken lines randomly arranged on a page... but what does all this have to do with Whitman?

and to call free verse uniquely american is silly if that is what you are doing, he may have created it, but free verse is worldwide, in every language... it is the poetry of the world... and it allows so much more freedom of expression then any other form of poetry... and here is where I agree with all of you, what Whitman did in creating this style of poetry was amazing, wonderful, great, one of the best things ever done in poetry...

but... what he did for poetry with this creation, and the quality of his poetry are still two different things... and in my opinion it is the quality that is lacking... and no, I am not saying he was a terrible poet, not even a mediocre poet... just not a great poet in my mind... that's all... just because one can't discuss american literature, or free verse poetry, without allusion to Whitman, doesn't mean his poetry is great...

cheers

Don't mind me, I'm just a "Proctalgia fugax; " however:

Reply #5 said that "poetry can be anything." Actually, it could be ABOUT anything, but there are certain guidelines and ineffable qualities that separate poetry from prose.
I know I know, we can -- and do --have bad poetry and beautiful prose.
Whitman broke the rules, but he invented other ones. For instance, there had been an "I" as the speaker of a poem since the 17th century. In metaphysical poetry The "I" sometimes meant the poet himself, but mainly just the speaker or narrator. In Romantic poetry (Keats, Shelley, etc.) the speaker and the poet were pretty much the same guy. But in Whitman, the "I" mean Whitman himself and damn straight -- someone much much larger -- ALL of us,
as part of the universal soul. The Self encompasses something larger than our own puny "selves." Whitman read a lot of Emerson, and vice versa. Here's some illustrative lines:

I have said that the soul is not more that the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is. ."

If you don't like the meaning of those lines, at least you must like the rhythm and the cadence and the distinct "voice" -- the reader somehow knows that Walt is
speaking DIRECTLY to him, across lo these many centuries.

How about this couplet near the very end of "Song of Myself":
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."

You mean to tell us you don't LIKE that? Come on! What do you want, here?

sorry, you are right there.. my mistake.. I do see that in post 5 now...

I also agree with you about poetry having some guidelines and qualities that distinguish it from prose... I just meant there are so many possibilities and different ideas of poetry, almost endless, that is pointless to argue whether it can or can't be "anything"...

Whitman and Emerson did have quite the relationship, even in one of my copies of Leaves of Grass, is a letter from Emerson full of praise...

I don't like the first lines you posted, I like poetry that isn't so obvious, full of metaphors, etc... I do find the meaning interesting though...

The second couplet though I do quite like... I do like sections of Whitman.. and that one is full of imagery, and sound, and feeling, which is what I like...

Who knows, someday I may like him more, for now though, it is only little sections...

cheers

If anyone who loves Whitman would like to love him more, I highly recommend the Fred Hersch album "Leaves of Grass."

He's a brilliant composer and pianist, and has set excerpts of Whitman to music, sung by two vocalists. It's one of my top 5 favorite albums of all time, and a great way to hear the poetry in a new light.

I've only read the preface to leaves of grass, but my gosh to sum up the man is vein, and not vein like Franklin, that I can tolerate and understand, but this man is vein, and he damn well knows it, and yet while reading his work i think to myself am i bashing the Walt Whitman, the bard of America, but this man is far from Bryant's golden tomb, Whitman had a mausoleum to be buried in, full of pride, and self contradictory, so to end may i be as so bold but to quote Homer Simpson- America's common man, whom I think Whitman would permit me to refer to, but "Leaves of Grass my ***"

I. Phase 1---5 : The initial insight into the creative nature ("the procreant urge") of the self and initiating of creative power which follows spontaneously upon that insight.
II. 6---16: Recognition of the relation of the self to its world and a seeking after the metamorphosis which follow spontaneously upon that recognition.
III. 17---25: The role of the self in and through its world. The poet is not simply a force, but a force defined in terms of its world, now he is fully a person and can name himself: " Walt Whitman, a Kosmos of Manhattan the son"
IV. The poet is fully at home, in his newly defined world, fully sure of himself and his " procreant urge"...." I am an acme of things accomplished, and I am encloser of things to be".

Walt Whitman is really the only poet in history who i feel thinks and feels like myself. Really its a revelation to discover him. Im not really a great fan of a lot of poetry but whitmans poetry is the only one so far that really moves me.