No one could possibly deny that the greatest, most influencial of all American poets (so far anyway... although it's hard to imagine him ever being dethroned) is Walt Whitman. Leaves of Grass is absolutely essential reading for anyone even remotely interested in American history and culture -- the fact that it takes the form of a collection of poems is almost an afterthought. And yet, as a collection of poems, it is nearly unmatched in its astonishing breadth and diversity of styles/forms. Whitman is, more than anyone else I would argue (i.e., Franklin, Emerson, Melville, Twain, De Tocqueville), The Bard of the American Soul.
The following poem is very famous and beloved by poetry fans everywhere, but I cannot resist adding it to this series... it's just one of my very favorites poems of all time. If I were editing an anthology of poety (and I guess in a way, I am, right here on this site), this one would be a non-negotiable. It might be the most effective, evocative description of a non-living thing I've ever read... let's put it this way: I like trains as much as the next guy, but I'm not what you'd call an enthusiast... and yet, I get shivers up my spine every time I read these astonishing lines:
Fierce-throated beauty!
Roll through my chant, with all thy lawless music! thy swinging lamps at night;
Thy piercing, madly-whistled laughter! thy echoes, rumbling like an earthquake, rousing all!
Why is that, I have often wondered? How is it that mere words can contain such emotional force, such remarkable power to evoke and conjure? I have no idea... I can only chalk it up to the mystery and the majesty of the poetic gift, rendered upon the page in all its glory. To me, these lines are proof positive that the artistic gift is truly a "Divine spark" (as John Paul II has made clear in his remarkable Letter to Artists) with which we, consciously or unconsciously, imitate and glorify our Creator.
If you've never read this poem before, sit back, make yourself confortable, and get ready for your heart/soul/imagination to be stirred. You are in for a rare treat indeed. (And if you feel nothing when you're done, consult your primary care physician immediately.)
*******
To a Locomotive in Winter
THEE for my recitative!
Thee in the driving storm, even as now—the snow—the winter-day declining;
Thee in thy panoply, thy measured dual throbbing, and thy beat convulsive;
Thy black cylindric body, golden brass, and silvery steel;
Thy ponderous side-bars, parallel and connecting rods, gyrating, shuttling at thy sides;
Thy metrical, now swelling pant and roar—now tapering in the distance;
Thy great protruding head-light, fix’d in front;
Thy long, pale, floating vapor-pennants, tinged with delicate purple;
The dense and murky clouds out-belching from thy smoke-stack;
Thy knitted frame—thy springs and valves—the tremulous twinkle of thy wheels;
Thy train of cars behind, obedient, merrily-following,
Through gale or calm, now swift, now slack, yet steadily careering:
Type of the modern! emblem of motion and power! pulse of the continent!
For once, come serve the Muse, and merge in verse, even as here I see thee,
With storm, and buffeting gusts of wind, and falling snow;
By day, thy warning, ringing bell to sound its notes,
By night, thy silent signal lamps to swing.
Fierce-throated beauty!
Roll through my chant, with all thy lawless music! thy swinging lamps at night;
Thy piercing, madly-whistled laughter! thy echoes, rumbling like an earthquake, rousing all!
Law of thyself complete, thine own track firmly holding;
(No sweetness debonair of tearful harp or glib piano thine,)
Thy trills of shrieks by rocks and hills return’d,
Launch’d o’er the prairies wide—across the lakes,
To the free skies, unpent, and glad, and strong.
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