Whitman’s Universal Appeal

I find the Latin American embrace of Whitman interesting, yet surprising.  As I’ve made clear, I knew little about Walt Whitman before this class, so his universal appeal strikes me as somewhat strange.  The poems we read today seem to hail Whitman as some kind of prophetic voice for all people.  I always considered Whitman a poet of the American identity and experience; however, reading these poems coupled with our discussion in class about the idea of transnationalism, I realize how wrong I am.  Whitman was a poet who strove to reveal the universality of the human experience.  We are all different, and that is a great thing, but we all share the basics of human life.  The fact that these Latin American poets crave Whitman and continue the legacy of his voice proves how influential he is to all people, not just Americans.  Anaya, particularly, in “Walt Whitman Strides the Llano of New Mexico” tells us the effect the discovery of Whitman had upon him.  Whitman is necessary, his poetry helps children to find their own voice: “Save our children now!…Put Leaves of Grass in their / lunch boxes!  In the tacos and tamales!”  While this is a humorous extreme, it showed to me the importance of poetry to Latin Americans in general.

Thinking about the appeal of Whitman to Latin American poets, I wanted to look at Jorge Luis Borge’s “Camden, 1892”.  When I first read it, my surface analysis of the poem was that it was an interesting look at someone’s daily life, “Sunday and its monotony”.  However, as I looked at it closer I noticed the sonnet form and made connections between the descriptions of poetry in the beginning and the look in the mirror at the end and the realization that “The end is not far off…/ I’m almost gone and yet my verses scan / Life and its splendor”.  I looked up the title and learned that Whitman died in 1892 in Camden, New Jersey.  So, this poem looks at Whitman’s death but acknowledges that his verses, and thus the man, will live on and continue to influence.  The fact that this poem was written in 1975 shows the continual influence Whitman has, whether in the freedom of his voice or the call to poetry, like for Anaya.  I keep discovering new Whitmans, but I know there are many more to experience.

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Rudolfo Anaya and Hope through Whitman

I thought that Rudolfo Anaya’s “Walt Whitman Strides the Llano of New Mexico” was one of the most moving poems that I had ever read. The tango of Spanish and English vocabulary was nothing short of beautiful. The power of the speaker in this poem is incredible. Anaya writes:

I knew you would one day leap across the Mississippi!
Leap from the Manhattas!…Leap over slavery!… Leap to Miracles!
I always knew that. I dreamed that.

Anaya’s words are so full of hope and maintain such a confidence in Walt Whitman. There is a certain level of energy and ecstasy in “Walt Whitman Strides the Llano of New Mexico”. I found myself choked up while reading the seventh stanza:

I kept the faith, don Walt, because I always knew
You could leap continents! Leap over the squalor!
Leap over pain and suffering, and the ash heap we
Make of our Earth! Leap into my arms.

This particular moment in Rudolfo Anaya’s poem is so powerful and so moving. I think it epitomizes the degree of faith that so many people are clinging to in the world. Of course, not everyone is waiting with bated breath for Whitman to leap into their arms but I feel that Whitman stands to represent the change that people so desperately desire.

This poem is a timeless poem, it’s words are still relatable. Although most people wouldn’t blink an eye at “dark child” entering university in today’s society this poem remains a piece of literature that people can find a piece of themselves in.

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Leaping Whitman

In the last section of Song of Myself, Whitman writes “I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, / I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.” He sees hurdles and he jumps them, no matter how incessant or redundant. He nearly defines himself in these lines as the leaping Whitman Rudolfo Anaya later calls him.

Untamed and wild, he is found in Anaya’s “Walt Whitman Strides the Llano of New Mexico”, in which Anaya has Whitman leaping all over the place. I like how the leaps progress through time and human advancements:

He moves from “Leap from the Manhattas! Leap over Brooklyn Bridge! Leap over slavery!” to “Leap over the violence! Madonna! Dead end rappers! Peter Jennings and ungodly nightly news!” Here Whitman becomes timeless, striding forth with a solution to even today’s menial “ungodly nightly news”.

Just as Anaya is tired of these things and calls on Whitman to leap and skip past them, Pablo Neruda is tired of himself and of his world in “Walking Around”:

“Comes a time I’m tired of being a man…. A whiff from the barber shops has me wailing.”

Everything becomes contrived; he wants “neither buildings nor gardens, no shopping centers, no bifocals, no elevators.” All these small miracles of ease that he lives among are grueling. Gardens no longer suffice as an excuse for nature; they too are arranged by humanity. The days burn him and are inescapable.

I like how both Neruda and Anaya move past the enormous hurdles of humanity which Whitman leaps over with a “barbaric yawp” and call on him for help with their own smaller, more compact hurdles. Peter Jennings and bifocals: these are the things imbedded in their everyday lives that get to these poets. And there are things this small and this daily that Whitman passed by as well in his day. It seems fitting that Anaya would call on him to carry him through these things, saying to Whitman “Leap into my arms”.

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Whitman under the footsteps of Charles Simic

Today I was talking with Carol Ann Davis and Dana Thieringer about poetry and specifically a poem by Charles Simic “A Letter.” Professor poem brought up another poem by Simic, “The Prodegy,” and then told us her theory that the “retired professor of astronomy” in the poem refers to Whitman because of his poem “When I heard the Learn’d Astronomer”.

Here are the two poems.

Audio of Prodigy by Charles Simic

Prodigy

by Charles Simic

I grew up bent over
a chessboard.

I loved the word endgame.

All my cousins looked worried.

It was a small house
near a Roman graveyard.
Planes and tanks
shook its windowpanes.

A retired professor of astronomy
taught me how to play.

That must have been in 1944.

In the set we were using,
the paint had almost chipped off
the black pieces.

The white King was missing
and had to be substituted for.

I’m told but do not believe
that that summer I witnessed
men hung from telephone poles.

I remember my mother
blindfolding me a lot.
She had a way of tucking my head
suddenly under her overcoat.

In chess, too, the professor told me,
the masters play blindfolded,
the great ones on several board
at the same time.

When I heard the Learn’d Astronomer

by Walt Whitman

WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick; 5
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

Charles Simic was born in Yogoslavia in 1938 where his childhood was deeply marked by the second world war. He moved to America when he was sixteen later to become the US Poet Laureate. In an interview at NYU Simic recently said that he began to write poetry to better understand his post-war experience. The poem, “Prodigy” talks about a chess game, but another subject of the poem is Simic’s childhood. During the war, Simic had to spend most of his time indoors due to the dangers of being outdoors as well as a Nazi-imposed 8 pm curfew. Simic and others spent their time doing indoor activities like cards and chess.

Chess was a way for Simic to deal with his war experience during the war and poetry is how he deals with his experiences afterwards.

In Whitman’s poem “After I heard the Learn’d Astronomer” the speaker has gone to a lecture where he feels “tired and sick,” probably due to the weight of listening to a man try to unpack the mysteries of the universe within a lecture hall. The speaker eventually goes out and “wander[s] off by [him]self”, allows himself the space to come up with his own original ideas, and “look[s] up in perfect silence to the stars.”

Whitman is not shut down by the lecture, he still comes to his own conclusions about the universe independently. The child in Simic’s poem is taught how to play chess to distract him from the “Planes and tanks [that shook the house’s] windowpanes.” If we think of the relationship between the roles chess and poetry have played in Simic’s life than we can read this also as a poem about Simic learning to write.

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Re-writing Neruda

The translation of poems into a new language, by a poet who did not write the original poem, is an odd concept. In the introduction to The Essential Neruda: selected poems, one of the translators, Mark Eisner quotes another previous Neruda translator, John Felstiner’s feelings on multiple translations of the same poem:

“We have always to ask if a given translation comes across in its own right, as convincing as any poem of the day. In most cases the idiom of translators goes stale sooner than that of other writers, so that ideally, the salient poets from any period deserve retranslating for the ear of each new generation.”

This theory isn’t new, the bible for instance has thousands of translations and someone continues every decade or so to produce a more hip or contemporary reading of the ancient text. But does something having been written in a language apart from our own give us the right to update it a hundred years later? I doubt there have been any re-translated versions of the text in Spanish.

I am not arguing the practice of translation, without it I would have had to learn another language in order to fall in love with Neruda and other non-English poets. But if one states that he/she believes that there are unlimited translations of a text, that have the right to be updated to accommodate the current readers, then these translated poems are put at an advantage over older classical poetry that was written in English. Imagine if we were to take Whitman’s poetry and replace wording that is uncommon in today’s language with wording that is, or that scholars have determined years later is more “Whitmanian.” It is because of this that I have a difficult time comparing the “New-world” qualities of these two poets, and other translated poets. Even though Whitman is contemporary in his form, evocative subjects and images, and language, there is a quality to Neruda that greatly resonates in the now, which I attribute mostly to his ingenious use of language, but also to the continual renewal of his work through translation.

Never-the-less, I still very much enjoy reading the various translations, and even trying with the bits of Spanish I know to translate Neruda on my own. The book is very helpful in that it provides us with the original version of the poem, and therefore allows the reader to keep in mind that he/she is in fact reading someone else’s close reading of the poem, and not the poet’s exact words. If you’re interested more in the translation of Neruda, I found a cool blog online that has a post on a project where kids in Spanish classes tried to translate Neruda and then wrote about the arguments over word-choice and the findings from their own close readings.

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Walt Whitman, Wendell Barry, and the Workings of an Agrarian Poet

As we begin to look at the national and international poets and writers inspired by Walt Whitman, it has become even more clear to me the vast influence cast by Walt Whitman upon 19th and 20th century literature.  Since I started taking this class I have found bits and pieces of Whitman throughout my readings.  Whether these writers are actually inspired by Whitman, of if Professor Vander Zee has just made me so paranoid about looking for Whitman references that I see them in my sleep, I may never know; however, while I was reading one of my favorite poets, Wendell Berry, I could not help but be overcome by the Whitmanian style of his poems. (Not to mention the similarity in dress as seen in the pictures above)

In a sense, I feel as if Berry, a contemporary Agrarian poet who still lives on his farm in Kentucky, embodies Whitman’s cry for the purpose of the American Poet.  In the preface to Leaves of Grass, Whitman states:

American poets are to enclose old and new for America is the race of races.  Of them a bard is to be commensurate with a people…His spirit responds to the country’s spirit…he incarnates its geography and natural life and rivers and lakes ( 6-7).

By calling Berry an Agrarian poet I mean that his poetry calls individuals to return to the more traditionally rural and and local cultures that America was founded upon.  Berry “encloses old and new” by critiquing the industrialization and urbanization of America and revealing the beauty that still remains in nature and rural America.  Like Whitman, Berry’s writing reflects his actions.  He is not a modernist poet writing about the intricacies of nature from his one bedroom loft overlooking Brooklyn, rather Berry is a working farmer whose intimately close relationship with nature can be seen in his writings.

Also like Whitman, one of Berry’s main focuses in his poems is community and even communion: the community and communion between individuals, families, and especially humans and nature.  Berry writes in his poem “Healing:”

The grace that is the health of creatures can only be held in common.
In healing the scattered members come together.
In health the flesh is graced, the holy enters the world (9).

These lines echo Whitman’s Song of Myself” as he writes, “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you” (188).  Berry’s urgent writings about the communion of people can be seen in response to the individualistic mindset of man in the modern world.  His writing is very much a response “to the country’s spirit,” as he urges America to not get ahead of itself in the age of technology and to remember the rural roots from which it came.

Berry portrayal of man’s relationship with the natural world also reminds me of Whitman.  Take for example his poem “The Meadow.”

In the town’s graveyard the oldest plot now frees itself
of sorrow, the myrtle of the graves grown wild.  The last
who knew the faces who had these names are dead.
and now the names fade, dumb on the stones, wild
as shadows in the grass, clear to the rabbit and the wren.
Ungrieved, the town’s ancestry fits the earth.  The become
a meadow, their alien marble grown native as maple (31).

Not only do certain images in the poem, such as the “grass,” “the rabbit and wren,” “the myrtle” and “maple,” remind me of Whitmanesque images, but the way in which “the alien marble” is reclaimed by nature reminds me of Whitman as well.  One could argue that these images are commonly used in poetry, but Berry treats these images similarly to Whitman.  Like in Leaves of Grass when Whitman cannot explain to the small child what grass is, Berry views nature as something that cannot be explained, just felt and experienced.  Berry “incarnates” the “natural life” of America by creating poems that celebrate the grace and freedom found in nature.  This graveyard, that was once a place of sorrow, is healed by nature and once again becomes a place of beauty.  In “The Peace of Wild Things” Berry writes, “And I feel above me the day blind stars / waiting with their light.  For a time / I rest in the grace of the world and am free” (30).  Both of these poets try to beautify culture as well as teach a new type of natural culture to America.  In “Damage” Berry writes, “But a man with a machine and inadequate culture is a pestilence.  He shakes more than he can hold.”  The poet is meant to create culture and give culture to individuals, and to create life and give life to people through words.  Berry fights against American globalization and fights for the small American businessman and farmer.  He embodies the attitude of a Whitman poet.

“The attitude of great poets is to cheer up slaves and horrify despots” (Whitman 17).

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Desaparecidos / The Disappeared

I rushed through Neruda’s biography yesterday–I hope you have a chance to check it out on your own before class tomorrow.  Neruda fell in and out of favor with various Chilean governments, but his most profound disappointment came with the overthrow of Allende–the democratically elected president of Chile and the poet’s close friend–in 1973 (also the year Neruda passed away).

The military dictator Augusto Pinochet led the coup with the backing of Washington.  Pinochet’s reign was marred by severe human rights violations–namely, the torturing and killing of political opponents and their families.  Estimates vary, but documents and testimony suggest that he had as many as 3,000 and killed and 10 times that number tortured.  Pinochet’s violent rise to power coincided with Neruda’s last days on earth.

Latin American poetry remains haunted by those counted among the Disappeared–those presumed to have been taken, tortured, and killed by the government during Pinochet’s reign, those vanished without a trace, without a reason, without explanation.  For many, this amounted to a kind of secret or shadow genocide–one easily erased.  But people around the globe have resisted this erasure, and continue to try to bring these atrocities to light.

I hope this brief capsule history will help you experience Martin Espada’s profoundly moving poem, “Rain without Rain,” more completely.  It is a memorial for the Desaparecidos (the Disappeared), for Neruda, and for Whitman himself whose songs are chanted over–where else–the seas.

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The Saddest Verses

Pablo Neruda’s “I can write the saddest verses” is a beautiful poem that desperately tries to comprehend heartbreak. In a way, he has come to terms with the loss of a great love in his life, but recognizes that sadness will linger, no matter how pragmatically he chooses to approach his loss. The title and first two lines–“I can write the saddest verses tonight./Write, for example ‘The night is shattered with stars, twinkling blue, in the distance’”–suggests that although he could revel in and romanticize his sorrows as do many poets, he instead evokes a feeling of sheer hopelessness; nothing will make his loss better; a tragic, but realistic perspective of the human condition – relationships, emotions, and experiences that all end in loss (ultimately, death).

The line “Love is so short, and forgetting is so long” is a hauntingly honest line in this poem. This feeling is so realistic and universal, also bringing up the question is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Although Neruda is attempting to accept his loss, he repeatedly writes “I no longer love her, it’s true, but maybe I love her.” In this line, he genuinely reveals the complications of relationships that are ineffable; love is far from black and white, and he fully understands that whether or not he says he loves her, a mixture of feelings – love, loss, appreciation, sadness, hopelessness – will be present in his “soul” for a long time.

In “I can write the saddest verses,” Neruda brings up the most painful aspects about losing someone; imagining her with someone else (Another’s. She will be another’s), dwelling on subtle characteristics (Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes), feeling that everything in life is somehow devalued, now that he has lost her (To hear the immense night, more immense without her). While there are incredible echoes of hopelessness in this poem, it is possible to find some optimism in the last two lines. This poem seems to act as a sort of therapy for Neruda with the continued attempts of recognition and acceptance of his loss. The last lines are heartbreaking, but also open up possibility. If these are in fact the last verses he writes to her, it suggests that he is closing this chapter in his life and possibly making room for new love.

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And where are the lilacs?

Whitman’s lilacs are one of the most enduring poetic symbols of the modern age; lilacs in a poem are never just lilacs. Traditionally, lilacs signal the coming of Spring as one of the earliest blooming flowers and represent youthful innocence and the first feelings of love. In “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d”, the blooming lilacs serve as a reminder of Lincoln’s death and evoke a sense of mourning. Although they still stand, “tall-growing…rising, delicate…with every leaf a miracle”, they do not hold the same hope for Whitman. One stanza ends with the line, “A sprig, with its flower, I break”; there seems to be so much tension around the word “break”, ending the stanza on an almost violent note, but with a delicate sad echo in his desire to take the lilacs with him. The entire poem is wrapped up in extended metaphors which put a pretty facade on the deep current of mourning that underlies the poem. However, the war was over and won.

In Pablo Neruda’s poem, “I Explain Some Things”, he opens by evoking Whitman’s lilacs and by drawing attention to their absence. The first stanza sets up the rest of the poem with a powerful series of questions:

You Will ask: And where are the lilacs?
And the metaphysics laced with poppies?
And the rain that often beat
his words filling them
with holes and birds?

The obvious lack of lilacs suggests a spring that will never come; additionally,  it seems Neruda is asserting that the rest of his poem will not be cloaked in  delicate symbols and images. “His words”, filled with, “holes and birds”, suggests a certain lightness which Neruda also seems to suggest will not be present in the work to follow. He then asserts his mission: “I’ll tell you everything that’s happening with me”. He then goes on to tell his story, the story of a boy and his brothers and a beautiful home flushed with beautiful flowers living in a community that is dynamic and thriving and luscious. Then, “one morning everything was burning” when the city was thrown into chaos by “Bandits with airplanes and with Moors… Jackals the jackal would reject”. The image of blood is repeated again and again, emphasizing the degree of violence during the revolt. This is not simply the blood of men, but Neruda writes, “through the streets the blood of children ran simply like children’s blood”. At the end of the poem Neruda addresses the “Traitor generals” as he looks upon the wreckage of his Spain, “Instead of flowers, from every dead house burning metal flows”; his mourning is deep and the desolation of the place is seemingly hopeless.

Neruda ends the poem by addressing the expectations of his poetry once again and offers a powerful challenge in response:

You will ask why his poetry
doesn’t speak to us of dreams, of the leaves,
of the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets,
come and see
the blood in the streets,
come and see the blood
in the streets!

Although Neruda had great admiration for Whitman and his poetry, he was aware that his crisis was on an entirely different scale. For Neruda, no image or symbol could be as powerful as beholding the blood of innocent children running through the streets. Whitman’s poetry is often talked about in terms of crisis and recovery, and in this poem there is no recovery. Neruda’s bold language and jarring images impart the gravity of the devastation of his home, and he will not speak of lilacs.

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Obligation

In his poem, “Poet’s Obligation”, Neruda expresses his desire to bring poetic freedom to those who are not able to reach it. He longs to bring the sea to the prisoner, the career person, and the factory worker–people stuck at home or in the office, women, and people in the street. He artfully shows his pleasure in being the liberator to “arrive and open the door of his prison” so that “freedom and the sea will make their answer to the shuttered heart”. Neruda has clearly found peace through poetry and feels obligated to extend that same gift to others.

Then, I consider Whitman’s, “As I Ebb’d with the Ocean of Life”, and I see his pain from being the liberator. He expresses here that he has tried his hardest to give his understanding to the world, but his reception has left him wounded. He writes:

I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single object, and that no man ever can,
Nature here in sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart upon me and sting me,
Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all

Perhaps the difference is that for Whitman, the poet also has an obligation to be empathetic. In “Song of Myself” he says, “I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as a I lean on a cane and observe”. If we can learn one thing throughout his catalogues, it is that he fearlessly takes on everyone’s persona and everyone’s pain—so observation becomes active.

In “Poet’s Obligation”, Neruda suggests that his connection to the reader is not based on an ability to empathize. In fact he says that “eyes will glance upward saying: how can I reach the sea?” And rather than answering with words, he would transmit the things he has experienced and seen. So instead of taking on another’s sorrow, he would be so confident and aware of his freedom, that other’s would sense it and adopt it.

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