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A review by tanemariacris
Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman
Some of these poems are part of my all-time favourites, drawing me back to them again and again, nourishing the parts of me that crave their beauty and wit. On the other hand, some are a bit, well, wordy and they are pushing an idealistic, America is the greatest view of the country. While Whitman's fervor and praise for America and for democracy are born from a genuine love of life that offers brilliance to many of his works, it can make others appear disconnected from the bleaker truth.
He takes on himself the role of the universal voice of the people, the quintessential American bard, which may sound (and is) a bit presumptuous of him. But hey. This guy wrote reviews of his poetry under false names and sent them out to publications. He doesn't care if he comes out as a bit arrogant. Or if he comes out at all, to be honest. Given the initial response that this volume of poetry elicited, it's a good thing that he had the courage to go on and the confidence to appreciate himself when everyone else was too busy being outraged by the sexual undertones of the poems. Nothing to see here. Just two guys. Rolling in the grass. Five feet apart from each other.
You have iconic lines such as:
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. (yes, I will always read that with Robin Williams' voice)
And then you stumble upon passages of tedious, repetitive descriptions that are heavily eye-roll inducing.
However, to quote the man himself, he is as bad as the worst, but, thank God, he is as good as the best.
I don't know how accurate is Ezra Pound's proclamation that Walt Whitman is America. As a person who never set food on American land, I'm really in no position to comment on that. But his influence on all subsequent writing of poetry is undeniable.
He takes on himself the role of the universal voice of the people, the quintessential American bard, which may sound (and is) a bit presumptuous of him. But hey. This guy wrote reviews of his poetry under false names and sent them out to publications. He doesn't care if he comes out as a bit arrogant. Or if he comes out at all, to be honest. Given the initial response that this volume of poetry elicited, it's a good thing that he had the courage to go on and the confidence to appreciate himself when everyone else was too busy being outraged by the sexual undertones of the poems. Nothing to see here. Just two guys. Rolling in the grass. Five feet apart from each other.
You have iconic lines such as:
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. (yes, I will always read that with Robin Williams' voice)
And then you stumble upon passages of tedious, repetitive descriptions that are heavily eye-roll inducing.
However, to quote the man himself, he is as bad as the worst, but, thank God, he is as good as the best.
I don't know how accurate is Ezra Pound's proclamation that Walt Whitman is America. As a person who never set food on American land, I'm really in no position to comment on that. But his influence on all subsequent writing of poetry is undeniable.