This
Journal

November
1999

I've got hospitals on the brain. Mom's in (and reports are that she's doing OK after surgery today), and Murray just got out. Seems he had a teeny little stroke the other day and will be getting some rehab for language problems. He sounds fine and was in good spirits tonight. Aging sucks; but, as they say, consider the alternative. I just hate to see these precious folks getting knocked around like this.

But enough of this. Today I did something new, fresh and inspiring (to me, at least). Regular readers know of my dissatisfaction with the sophomore American Literature anthology. Yesterday we began Whitman and I realized that I would not (could not) get through it on the textbook alone, whose joyless, disembodied, sexless chunkettes of "Song of Myself" made me want to to scream. But I didn't scream. Instead, I ran to this here Internet and found an e-version of the 1855 text. Copy and paste. Voila! (I didn't go for the whole poem, but at least I've got a continuous coherent section.) As I was setting it up, I remembered that I had never worked very closely with this first edition of the poem - had read it only a few times some years ago. What a wonderful discovery! This is a leaner (if not meaner) poem, long and sleek. I couldn't wait to get it into student hands and minds and hearts. I was psyched.

Needless to say, the crowd was skeptical this morning when I set these eight sides of fairly tiny print before them. I tried to restrain myself. Nothing kills the good stuff quicker than an over-enthusiastic teacher spouting off about how Great this crap is. I had to remind myself to stick to the poem - let Walt do the work. To this moment I'm not sure how they took it. First period seemed to be cautiously with me after awhile. Second is always a tougher sell. (I was at one point accused of being obsessed with sex. Can you believe it? Me?) They only had to read about half tonight.

Loafe with me on the grass . . . . loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want . . . . not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

Have you read this great poem? I hope you have. I hope you will give it a try. Some day. And then forget it. And then later, when you're older and a bit more tired, find it again. It's like a perfect day full of good air. Or is this just me talking? Some people really don't like this guy or his poems. I know the arguments; I see the flaws. I'd like to get into some of these poems with my red pen, write 'em over in my own image. But the bombast is part of the whole and contributes to the whole . . . . and pleases well the soul in its own way. Sorry.

Mr. Whitman's muse is at once indecent and ugly, lascivious and gawky, lubricious and coarse.
Lafcadio Hearn