(Poem #54) When I heard the Learn'd Astronomer 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;
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.
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I like this poem. This does not, however, imply that I agree with any of the
sentiments expressed therein <g>. Whitman presents the ages-old argument
that science, in its relentless probing of nature, has somehow contrived to
rob it of its beauty, its mystery. Of course, it has done no such thing;
there is a beauty in the proofs and equations that gladly coexists with, and
complements the more 'poetic', sensory side of things.
Returning to the poem, note the wonderful quality of the verse itself. There
is a common misconception that 'free' verse implies a total disregard of
form; this is, of course, far from the truth. I urge you to read this poem
aloud, the better to appreciate the way in which Whitman has echoed his
reaction to the lecture in the long, somewhat droning lines that make no
attempt to mirror the natural rhythms of speech, and the instant easing of
strain when he leaves, allowing 'poetry' to reassert itself.
And for Thomas's view on the matter [curiously enough, written after mine;
it seems that great minds *do* think alike <g>]:
<comment>
Much as I hate to do this to Martin...
There are some poems which I don't mind too much, some which I tolerate,
some which I positively dislike, and some which I cannot stand. Today's
poem, I'm afraid to say, is one of the latter.
Not that I have anything against Whitman, mind you. I like most of his
poetry a great deal. But even great poets have their off days, I
suppose...
The thing that gets my goat about today's poem is the basic conceit -
that Science, by measuring and analysing the natural world, somehow
detracts from its innate beauty. I guess it comes down to a personal
point of view (though I for one am against this entire 'two cultures'
divide - I don't see why the two world-views should collide at all);
nevertheless, I take issue with all those poets (and yes, scientists)
who propagate it. I fail to see how understanding Nature gets in the way
of appreciating it; indeed, to me, there is something wonderfully poetic
about the notion that there are millions of stars in millions of
galaxies, further than the eye can see, each with their own solar
systems and cometary halos and asteroid belts and ringed planets and red
spots and blue planets...
Any poet who thinks that science is an impersonal, mechanical monster,
committed to destroying beauty and truth and the joy of individuality,
reducing the Universe to facts and figures, charts and numbers, doesn't
know the first thing about science.
Any scientist who thinks that poets are woolly-headed romantics, living
in a world of their own, indulging in utterly impractical flights of
fancy, building castles in the air without knowing or caring about the
basics of structural architecture, doesn't know the first thing about
poetry.
There, that's my quota of invective for the day.
thomas.
</comment>
Biographical Note:
b. May 31, 1819, West Hills, Long Island, N.Y., U.S.
d. March 26, 1892, Camden, N.J.
in full WALTER WHITMAN, American poet, journalist, and essayist whose verse
collection Leaves of Grass is a landmark in the history of American literature.
Whitman had spent a great deal of his 36 years walking and observing in
New York City and Long Island. He had visited the theatre frequently and
seen many plays of William Shakespeare, and he had developed a strong love
of music, especially opera. During these years he had also read
extensively at home and in the New York libraries, and he began
experimenting with a new style of poetry. While a schoolteacher, printer,
and journalist he had published sentimental stories and poems in
newspapers and popular magazines, but they showed almost no literary
promise.
By the spring of 1855 Whitman had enough poems in his new style for a thin
volume. Unable to find a publisher, he sold a house and printed the first
edition of Leaves of Grass at his own expense. No publisher's name, no
author's name appeared on the first edition in 1855. But the cover had a
portrait of Walt Whitman, "broad shouldered, rouge fleshed,
Bacchus-browed, bearded like a satyr." Though little appreciated upon its
appearance, Leaves of Grass was warmly praised by the poet and essayist
Ralph Waldo Emerson, who wrote to Whitman on receiving the poems that it
was "the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom" America had yet
contributed.
[...]
At the time of his death Whitman was more respected in Europe than in his
own country. It was not as a poet, indeed, but as a symbol of American
democracy that he first won recognition. In the late 19th century his
poems exercised a strong fascination on English readers who found his
championing of the common man idealistic and prophetic.
-- EB
Viewpoint:
Under the influence of the Romantic movement in literature and art,
Whitman held the theory that the chief function of the poet was to express
his own personality in his verse. The first edition of Leaves of Grass
also appeared during the most nationalistic period in American literature,
when critics were calling for a literature commensurate with the size,
natural resources, and potentialities of the North American continent. "We
want" shouted a character in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's Kavanagh (1849),
"a national literature altogether shaggy and unshorn, that shall shake the
earth, like a herd of buffaloes thundering over the prairies." With the
same fervour, Whitman declared in his 1855 preface, "Here are the roughs
and beards and space and ruggedness and nonchalance that the soul loves."
In Leaves of Grass he addressed the citizens of the United States, urging
them to be large and generous in spirit, a new race nurtured in political
liberty, and possessed of united souls and bodies.
It was partly in response to nationalistic ideals and partly in accord
with his ambition to cultivate and express his own personality that the
"I" of Whitman's poems asserted a mythical strength and vitality. [...]
From this time on throughout his life Whitman attempted to dress the part
and act the role of the shaggy, untamed poetic spokesman of the proud
young nation. For the expression of this persona he also created a form of
free verse without rhyme or metre, but abounding in oratorical rhythms and
chanted lists of American place-names and objects. He learned to handle
this primitive, enumerative style with great subtlety and was especially
successful in creating empathy of space and movement, but to most of his
contemporaries it seemed completely "unpoetic." Both the content and the
style of his verse also caused Whitman's early biographers, and even the
poet himself, to confuse the symbolic self of the poems with their
physical creator. In reality Whitman was quiet, gentle, courteous; neither
"rowdy" (a favourite word) nor lawless. In sexual conduct he may have been
unconventional, though no one is sure, but it is likely that the six
illegitimate children he boasted of in extreme old age were begotten by
his imagination. He did advocate greater sexual freedom and tolerance, but
sex in his poems is also symbolic--of natural innocence, "the procreant
urge of the world," and of the regenerative power of nature. In some of
his poems the poet's own erotic emotions may have confused him, but in his
greatest, such as parts of "Song of Myself" and all of "Out of the Cradle
Endlessly Rocking," sex is spiritualized.
Whitman's greatest theme is a symbolic identification of the regenerative
power of nature with the deathless divinity of the soul. His poems are
filled with a religious faith in the processes of life, particularly those
of fertility, sex, and the "unflagging pregnancy" of nature: sprouting
grass, mating birds, phallic vegetation, the maternal ocean, and planets
in formation ("the journey-work of stars"). The poetic "I" of Leaves of
Grass transcends time and space, binding the past with the present and
intuiting the future, illustrating Whitman's belief that poetry is a form
of knowledge, the supreme wisdom of mankind.
-- EB
Criticism:
Whitman's aim was to transcend traditional epics, to eschew normal
aesthetic form, and yet by reflecting American society to enable the poet
and his readers to realize themselves and the nature of their American
experience. He has continued to hold the attention of very different
generations because he offered the welcome conviction that "the crowning
growth of the United States" was to be spiritual and heroic and because he
was able to uncompromisingly express his own personality in poetic form.
Modern readers can still share his preoccupation with the problem of
preserving the individual's integrity amid the pressures of mass
civilization. Scholars in the 20th century, however, find his social
thought less important than his artistry. T.S. Eliot said, "When Whitman
speaks of the lilacs or the mockingbird his theories and beliefs drop away
like a needless pretext." Whitman invigorated language; he could be strong
yet sentimental; and he possessed scope and inventiveness. He portrayed
the relationships of man's body and soul and the universe in a new way,
often emancipating poetry from contemporary conventions. He had sufficient
universality to be considered one of the greatest American poets.
-- EB yet again.
m.
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