Arts & Ideas: The yawp heard round the world
One hundred and fifty years ago—on or close to the Fourth of July—Walt Whitman, Brooklynite and sometime journalist, published the first edition of an utterly original book of poems. The great New England sage Ralph Waldo Emerson quickly recognized that Leaves of Grass marked the beginning of what he had long been calling for: a truly distinctive American literature.
Dana Gioia, chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts and a poet of distinction himself, talked to U.S. News about Whitman's enduring legacy:
What was the immediate impact of Leaves of Grass–on American poetry, on American readers, on American culture in general?
Leaves of Grass had little immediate impact. Whitman published the book himself in a small edition that had limited distribution and few sales. In order to stir up publicity, Whitman actually reviewed the book himself–anonymously, of course.
When did Whitman finally become popular?
His fame grew very slowly. Most of his early admirers were writers, and for years he remained a cult figure. His work was too openly sensual for most American readers 150 years ago. Emily Dickinson wouldn't even read Whitman because of his unsavory reputation. Even his first champion, Ralph Waldo Emerson, found the sexuality of Leaves of Grass disturbing. By the time the "Good Gray Poet" had become moderately famous, he was already an old man in ill health. Only posthumously did Whitman become the preeminent poet we now celebrate.
In what ways, good and bad, has Whitman's poetry influenced the development of American poetry?
Much of what is great and glorious about American poetry comes from Whitman. So does much of what is pretentious and self-indulgent. Whitman's range, energy, and originality set a standard of ambition and invention that has inspired American literature ever since. But his influence has also been troublesome. Whitman made himself the central subject of his poetry. Who else would create an epic poem titled "Song of Myself"? Whitman brought it off with humor, tenderness, and joyful exuberance, but his example gave permission to lesser poets to talk endlessly about themselves. Not everyone's life deserves an epic poem. That is the trouble with genius–it's so hard to imitate.
One arguable defect of contemporary poetry is that, in terms of subject matter, it tends to bite off far less than it can chew. That certainly couldn't be said of Whitman. How would you characterize his large ambitions in this regard–and how well did he realize them?
No one can accuse Whitman of being modest. "I am large," he boasted. "I contain multitudes." He tried to squeeze all of America into his poetry–the cities, people, landscapes, technology, and politics. He wrote brilliantly about the Civil War, Lincoln's death, and the western frontier–consciously trying to capture the spirit of the unruly new democracy in which he lived. This shameless grandiosity might be annoying in another author, but Whitman makes it oddly irresistible. The more cosmic his vision, the more personable his style. He brims with affection and goodwill. He embraces the reader in a joyful bearhug, and there is really no escaping him.
Did Whitman succeed in becoming America's national poet?
He is, to use an old phrase, first among equals. We have a number of great American poets, but none is more convincingly patriotic than this bohemian maverick–not even Frost or Longfellow. Whitman succeeded so well that he is not merely the poet of America but of the Americas. He is as popular in Argentina, Chile, and Mexico as he is in the United States.
You have eloquently lamented the declining influence of contemporary poetry on the larger society. Is there something that poets can learn from Whitman in order to make their verse more vital to the reading public and possibly to increase their audience?
Perhaps the most important thing poets might learn from Whitman is to love and respect their readers–not just the literary elite but also the common reader. He treats the reader as an equal. Whitman understood that poetry's place in a democracy was necessarily different from its position in an aristocratic society. It didn't bother him that the right audience didn't yet exist. His work called it into being.
Do you have a favorite poem, or favorite lines, within the larger work? Would you comment on it or them?
I find the last section of "Song of Myself" both astonishingly beautiful and perpetually surprising. Whitman imagines his own physical death and poetic immortality with humorous bravado. There is really nothing like it in previous poetry. The section begins:
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering. /
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, /
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
American literature really started with that untranslatable barbaric yawp. It was the yawp heard around the world.