Image: Walt Whitman Library of Congress/Getty Images
Walt Whitman’s “I Hear America Singing”
In “I Hear America Singing,” Walt Whitman’s speaker is offering a musical tribute to the laborers of America as they “sing,” that is work, cheerfully. This 19th century hat-tip also recognizes the partiers who fill the night time with their good cheer.
Introduction and Text of “I Hear America Singing”
Walt Whitman’s “I Hear America Singing” is a song of praise. As a useful metaphor, “song” becomes the tool with which the speaker in Walt Whitman’s “I Hear America Singing” expresses the cheerful nature of the people he daily encounters in their labors and in also in their play.
By claiming to hear them “singing,” he is rendering them cheerful and skilled in their labor. The speaker’s heart is overflowing with praise for his fellow citizens. As the speaker commences his tribute, he reports that he hears “America singing.”
Each song he encounters is unique. Each “song” constitutes a different carol, not ordinary in the least, but each one offering praise and demonstrating joy in its being.
The joy and praise impress the speaker so much that he seems to be bursting with pride to be a part of such an honorable conglomeration of laboring folks. His admiration makes him abundantly happy as he sings himself, making his poem.
As the speaker observes his fellow citizens, he becomes optimistic, and his feelings no doubt color his reportage. He offers what one might consider to be an exaggeration of the joy and gratitude inspiring these people who are ordinary workers. These folks are certainly not likely to become sycophants of the nothing-to-lose-but-our-chains crowd.
Each of the eleven lines sprawls across the page and spills into the adjoining line to facilitate a new line. The elongated sentences must be broken in unusual ways to accommodate the thoughts that this speaker wishes to share. Whitman’s free verse style virtually always employs this rambling, sprawling form as he catalogs all the things his speakers see, hear, think, feel, or enjoy.
I Hear America Singing
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
Reading of “I Hear America Singing”
Commentary on“I Hear America Singing”
Walt Whitman’s “I Hear American Singing” features a speaker who is offering a musical tribute to the laborers of America; they cheerfully sing as they work. This 19th century effusion also recognizes the partiers who fill the night time with their good cheer.
First Movement: Varied Laborers
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The speaker then commences listing the varied laborers whom he hears singing their joyous, praise songs. First, he hears the mechanics. Each mechanic remains busy working in his own unique way. The speaker finds their manner “blithe and strong.” He then mentions the carpenter whose song sings out the measurement of “plank or beam.”
The mason is singing while he prepares himself for his workday even before he leaves for work. The speaker hears the boatman caroling about the items that he possesses, items that fill his boat, while the deckhand also is singing on the steamboat’s deck. The shoemaker is also singing, working at his bench, as the hat maker offers his carols where he stands.
Second Movement: A Mother’s Delicious Singing
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
Continuing his catalog, the speaker hears the “wood-cutter’s song” and the song of the farmer, who is plowing his fields in the morning, at noon, and even as the sun sets in the evening. A mother’s carols exemplify a “delicious” song.
The young wife is singing as she works, and a girl, who is likely serving as a maid, also sings as she sews and does the laundry. All of these ordinary folks are performing their tasks uniquely—each in his/her own unique way. They are not a faceless mass of working slobs.
They are priceless human beings living their American dreams. Thus, they deserve respect, affection, and attention, and this speaker is revealing the love and cheerful attitudes these hard-working Americans are portraying as they simply go about their daily work routines.
Third Movement: Young Fellows and Party Time
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
There is a time for work, and there is a time for leisure. The speaker’s respect for work is equaled by his respect for party time. The time of fellowship is also important as the revelers sing their leisure time.
Just as workers, they have offered their service, now as partiers they demonstrate that time away from work is also valuable. The speaker describes a scene of the partiers as they sing open-mouthed. They are young, cordial, hale and hearty as they carouse singing their “melodious songs.”
While day time offers all the beautiful songs of various workers and service providers, night time offers a time for the beautiful songs of leisure, fellowship, and renewal of spirit. The sweet melodies of work and leisure are all significant and well worth noting.
1 Madame Roulin’s pudgy body fills up the chair. She’s a short-waisted dump of a woman, her hair scraped back tight away from her eyes, her eyes peer two blanks downward, her mouth matches the empty look of the eyes but adds a sour touch with those pursed lips.
The happy flowers on the wallpapered background contrast with her face. Her cold countenance makes me shudder for the pauvr’enfant in her care, she rocks the cradle with a rope.
2 This is her moment to muse about those early days in the cafes, when the soldiers and their women preened and crowed, and the hookers with their painted faces stole tips from the waitresses and then her man took her for a virgin and after little Marie died, and after he cried and went back to sea, she settled down with a cradle and a rope to keep house for other people and is well fed.
In his poem “Lapis Lazuli,” William Butler Yeats has his speaker explore the issue of peace and tranquility despite a chaotic environment.
Introduction and Text of “Lapis Lazuli”
The speaker of William Butler Yeats’ Eastern-philosophically influenced piece “Lapis Lazuli” opens his disquisition by announcing to his readers that the hysterical women are dismayed by artists who remain in non-attachment, while the times seem to require some definite movement against evil in order that they do not fall victim to obliteration.
Yeats composed “Lapis Lazuli” in 1938 as WWII was gearing up in Europe; thus the women are afraid that they will be become targets of the Zeppelins and airplanes that were employed to bomb London in WWI. The allusion to “King Billy bomb-balls in” consists of a pun on William III at the Battle of the Boyne and Kaiser Wilhelm.
Lapis Lazuli
(for Harry Clifton)
I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow, Of poets that are always gay, For everybody knows or else should know That if nothing drastic is done Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out, Pitch like King Billy bomb-balls in Until the town lie beaten flat.
All perform their tragic play, There struts Hamlet, there is Lear, That’s Ophelia, that Cordelia; Yet they, should the last scene be there, The great stage curtain about to drop, If worthy their prominent part in the play, Do not break up their lines to weep. They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay; Gaiety transfiguring all that dread. All men have aimed at, found and lost; Black out; Heaven blazing into the head: Tragedy wrought to its uttermost. Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages, And all the drop scenes drop at once Upon a hundred thousand stages, It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.
On their own feet they came, or on shipboard, Camel-back, horse-back, ass-back, mule-back, Old civilisations put to the sword. Then they and their wisdom went to rack: No handiwork of Callimachus Who handled marble as if it were bronze, Made draperies that seemed to rise When sea-wind swept the corner, stands; His long lamp chimney shaped like the stem Of a slender palm, stood but a day; All things fall and are built again And those that build them again are gay.
Two Chinamen, behind them a third, Are carved in Lapis Lazuli, Over them flies a long-legged bird A symbol of longevity; The third, doubtless a serving-man, Carries a musical instrument.
Every discolouration of the stone, Every accidental crack or dent Seems a water-course or an avalanche, Or lofty slope where it still snows Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch Sweetens the little half-way house Those Chinamen climb towards, and I Delight to imagine them seated there; There, on the mountain and the sky, On all the tragic scene they stare. One asks for mournful melodies; Accomplished fingers begin to play. Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes, Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.
Dylan Thomas’ dramatic reading
Commentary on “Lapis Lazuli”
The speaker is examining the issue of peace and tranquility despite a chaotic environment.
First Stanza: What the Speaker Believes
I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow, Of poets that are always gay, For everybody knows or else should know That if nothing drastic is done Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out, Pitch like King Billy bomb-balls in Until the town lie beaten flat.
The speaker sets up his argument to show that he believes certain complaining women are hysterical because they are lamenting a rather natural flux of history. The speaker will be attempting to demonstrate the healing affects of art, despite what those who descend into hysterics cry and wail about.
Second Stanza: Scenes from Plays
All perform their tragic play, There struts Hamlet, there is Lear, That’s Ophelia, that Cordelia; Yet they, should the last scene be there, The great stage curtain about to drop, If worthy their prominent part in the play, Do not break up their lines to weep. They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay; Gaiety transfiguring all that dread. All men have aimed at, found and lost; Black out; Heaven blazing into the head: Tragedy wrought to its uttermost. Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages, And all the drop scenes drop at once Upon a hundred thousand stages, It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.
The second stanza continues by exemplifying scenes from famous plays. The speaker is alluding to Shakespearean dramas of Hamlet and King Lear. As actors portray the characters in the plays, they do so in a dignified and rather unattached manner. The actors fulfill the drama with their roles but do not allow their feelings to intrude upon their lines with weeping.
The actors never stop to lament over the tragedy that infuses their characters. The actors know that the characters they are dramatizing while sporting great depth of emotion must be portrayed accurately. Therefore they are not steeped in outward displays of lamentation.
Those actors pursuing theatre art remain self-possessed. Otherwise their art would have suffered from over-emotional dabbing. If art is to assist in mitigating sorrow, turbulence, and evil, then it must filter out the bathos that brings on hysterics. The art of the actors prevents them from descending into deep depression over their characters, despite the depth of feeling that they must portray.
While tragedy by definition holds a range of emotion from despair to disdain to sorrowful outbursts, the act of making art brings on a settlement of feeling, otherwise no art could sustain itself.
Theatre art has always served society as a sort of safety valve wherein both actors and audience can view the subject of the performances with some distance. That distance must then be framed in a way that not only lowers the temperature on sorrow but also elevates with the beauty of the truth that the content portrays.
Third Stanza: Civilizations Come and Go
On their own feet they came, or on shipboard, Camel-back, horse-back, ass-back, mule-back, Old civilisations put to the sword. Then they and their wisdom went to rack: No handiwork of Callimachus Who handled marble as if it were bronze, Made draperies that seemed to rise When sea-wind swept the corner, stands; His long lamp chimney shaped like the stem Of a slender palm, stood but a day; All things fall and are built again And those that build them again are gay.
The third stanza reminds readers/listeners that civilization come and go, that the story of humankind is replete with societies rising and falling, like waves in the ocean. While the thought may provoke gloom, it remains a fact that those civilization have indeed been vanquished. Even the great art of a Callimachus has come and gone.
That great sculptor was able to work his magic on marble as if it were a softer material, but where is he now? Like those great civilization, he has come and gone. Despite the fact that societies and great artists come and go, there is still hope because just as they are torn down, they rise again. Civilizations rise again, edifices are rebuilt, and new artists replace the old.
Fourth Stanza: The Carving
Two Chinamen, behind them a third, Are carved in Lapis Lazuli, Over them flies a long-legged bird A symbol of longevity; The third, doubtless a serving-man, Carries a musical instrument.
In 1935, four years before the death of William Butler Yeats, the poet Harry Clifton gave Yeats a carving that according to Yeats some Chinese sculptor had done in lapis lazuli. The gift accounts for Yeats’ dedication of the poem to Clifton. That carving of lapis lazuli feature a scene in which three Chinese men are trekking up a mountain-side.
Also featured is a long-legged bird flying overhead. The speaker claims that this bird is a symbol of a long life. One of the Chinese men, the speaker claims, is a servant because he is transporting a musical instrument.
Fifth Stanza: Men on a Stone
Every discolouration of the stone, Every accidental crack or dent Seems a water-course or an avalanche, Or lofty slope where it still snows Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch Sweetens the little half-way house Those Chinamen climb towards, and I Delight to imagine them seated there; There, on the mountain and the sky, On all the tragic scene they stare. One asks for mournful melodies; Accomplished fingers begin to play. Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes, Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.
The three men are hiking up the mountain toward what Yeats’ speaker assumes is a little half-way house. Readers, however, might sense that that little house might be a temple. (Oddly, Yeats even claims that building is a “temple” in his letter to Dorothy Wellesley. See below.)
Yeats’ speaker is interpreting that edifice as a building that resembles an Irish pub, in which the men may stop for refreshment and listen to some sorrowful tunes before trekking on.
It may also be likely that the men are Buddhist monks, and they will stop at a temple to meditate, worship, and pray; the musical instrument will be employed for their chanting. But for the Yeatsian sensibility, as the scene unfolds, one may ask to hear a sad, melancholy tune, and the player begins to offer a rendition.
Thus, Chinese men listening to melancholy tunes may parallel the Western theatre audience watching Hamlet or King Lear. The ancient faces of the Chinese men look on smiling but rather detached as they enjoy the melodies.
The painter, Sesshu, produced a long scroll of his painting inspired by his trek through China in the 15th century. Both the theme and the appearance of the painting and this sculpture in lapis lazuli are similar.
Letter to Dorothy Wellesley, July 6 1935
The following excerpt from his letter to Dorothy Wellesley describes the sculpture that inspired his poem “Lapis Lazuli”:
[Lapis Lazuli] carved by some Chinese sculptor into the semblance of a mountain with temple, trees, paths, and an ascetic and pupil about to climb the mountain. Ascetic, pupil, hard stone, eternal theme of the sensual east. The heroic cry in the midst of despair. But no, I am wrong, the east has its solutions always and therefore knows nothing of tragedy. It is we, not the east, that must raise the heroic cry.”
William Butler Yeats retained an interest in Eastern philosophy and art, and many of his poems, plays, and essays reflect that interest. Although his understanding of Eastern religious philosophy was tantamount to a “romantic misunderstanding,” as described by T. S. Eliot, his poems are still worth studying.
Vincent’s tortured paint has drawn me To a place I would never go, Now that saintly solitude has become my solution. But then of the six people in the cafe Only a man and a woman back in the left corner Sit together, Sharing a bottle & whispers, I guess. Later, after they leave their empty glasses, Will they stay together or shuffle down The solemn streets alone?
A man slumps at the table nearest the couple, No glass or bottle on his table. A bottle, half a drink, & three empty glasses stand On the table near the slumping man; a carafe, an empty Bottle & two half-empty glasses on the next table As I travel towards myself marking the abandoned tables. A pool table casts an unlikely shadow over too much floor, & a man has risen from his chair, stands by the pool table Gazing at me through the troubled paint. Shying away from his eye, I mark behind him another table holds a half-full bottle & a full glass, probably his bottle & glass. The last two figures also slump, also without drinks. Sitting Catty-cornered they seem to face each other, having A less than intimate conversation. But then they, as well As the first slumper, are perhaps sleeping, likely homeless men & these tables their only warm bed. I wonder if Vincent knew.
The Night Cafe—a place I could not go: Those red walls & green ceiling & friendly lamps Hanging down & the booze bottles Standing brazen on a cabinet Against the back wall; a curtained Doorway suggests someone Lives back there behind the cafe, Unless, of course, I’m turned around & that is the entrance. In any case I would never go there (well, maybe If you invited me, for a drink and some intimate conversation)
Because—at this writing— I know I have more in common with artists Than I do with the saints.
Image: T. S. Eliot – National Portrait Gallery, London
Life Sketch of T. S. Eliotand Poem Commentaries
T. S. Eliot remains one of the twentieth century’s most influential poets and critics. Born in the USA, he later became a British citizen, and he influenced modernist literature through his poetic innovations, cultural critiques, and dedication to forms.
Early Life and Education
Thomas Stearns Eliot was born on September 26, 1888, in St. Louis, Missouri, to a prosperous and intellectually active family [1]. His father, Henry Ware Eliot, was a successful businessman, and his mother, Charlotte Champe Stearns Eliot, was a teacher and poet.
Early in life Eliot was physically frail and exhibited introspective leanings. A hernia limited his childhood mobility; thus he was motivated to dive deeply into literature [2]. Early on, he developed a strong affection for classic and French literature, especially Dante and Baudelaire.
Eliot attended Smith Academy in St. Louis and later Milton Academy in Massachusetts. At Harvard University, he majored in philosophy and literature, [3] studying under major literary figures including Irving Babbitt and George Santayana. He earned his B.A. and M.A. at Harvard.
As Eliot’s interest in philosophy deepened, he began to study Sanskrit and Eastern philosophy; these studies helped to provide the spiritual atmosphere around his poetry. He also became acquainted with the works of F. H. Bradley, whose ideas on metaphysics impressed him strongly.
In 1910, Eliot traveled to Paris to study at the Sorbonne under Henri Bergson and others. He returned to Harvard for doctoral work but left before completing his dissertation on Bradley. His intellectual journey then led him to travel to England, where he settled permanently.
Eliot’s European education and philosophical bent became the foundation upon which he built his unique style and achievement [4]. His understanding of American pragmatism and European modernism afforded him the ability to compose a type of poetry that was intellectually rigorous, culturally resonant, and spiritually honest.
Accomplishments and Awards
T. S. Eliot became a British citizen in 1927 and was awarded the Order of Merit by King George VI in 1948 [5]. That same year, he received the Nobel Prize in Literature. He was also awarded the Dante Prize from the Dante Society of America and received honorary doctorates from prestigious universities, including Oxford, Harvard, and the University of London [6].
Eliot’s powerful impact on literature and culture has continued to extend beyond prestigious awards. As an editor at Faber & Faber, he encouraged the careers of numerous writers, including W. H. Auden and Ted Hughes [7].
Eliot’s achievement in the field of drama is still recognized today. His plays, including Murder in the Cathedral and The Cocktail Party, have earned praise from critics as well as popular success, broadening his influence into theatrical literature.
Publications
Eliot’s first major poem, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” was published in 1915; the subject and style of that poem began to point to a new direction in modern poetry [8]. The poem’s fragmented, stream-of-consciousness structure and dour ironic tone surprised—even shocked and startled—many readers.
Published in 1922, his monumental poem, The Waste Land, cemented him as the primary voice of modern disillusionment with the approaching spiritual dryness [9]. Edited with the input from Ezra Pound, the poem mixes myth, earlier literary pieces, and clips from foreign languages in its depiction of the fragmentation of culture.
In “Ash Wednesday” (1930) and Four Quartets (1943), Eliot’s poetic vision put on display its maturity. These later works took on a spiritual tone, influenced by his conversion to Anglicanism in 1927 [10]. Four Quartets in particular reveals his meditative musings on time, historical progression, and soul redemption.
In addition to poetry, Eliot became a productive essayist. His work on criticism, The Sacred Wood (1920), introduced and elucidated his literary concept of the “objective correlative,” which continued to influence literary studies for decades [11].
Eliot also edited The Criterion, a ground-breaking literary journal that became a major source for modernist literature and critical thought between 1922 and 1939. His editorial prowess influenced literary conversations in Europe as well as in the USA.
Special Interests/Controversies
Eliot’s spiritual journey, resulting in his 1927 conversion to Anglo-Catholicism [12], shaped his personal life as well as his poetic perspective. He felt that Anglicanism was a stabilizing force amid decay and modern unruliness. Eliot’s social criticism, especially in Notes Towards the Definition of Culture (1948), promoted tradition and Christian values [13].
An area of controversy [14] involves Eliot’s early poetic depictions of Jewish characters. Passages from “Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar” and other poems have led some scholars to accuse the poet of anti-Semitic sentiment.
Eliot later defended himself from such accusations, and his other defenders have argued that his work simply reflected the cultural climate of his time rather than any personal bigotry. Nevertheless, that distraction continues in certain academic enclaves, particularly those indoctrinated in political correctness and identity politics.
Another controversial issue surrounds Eliot’s difficult marriage to Vivienne Haigh-Wood. Their marriage was scarred by emotional instability and illness and ended with her being institutionalized in Northumberland House [15], where in 1947 she died. Although Eliot never divorced Vivienne, he did later confess that the marriage had been a disaster.
In 1957, Eliot married Valerie Fletcher, who had been his secretary. Unlike Eliot’s first marriage, his life with Valerie proved very happy, leading to a quiet contentment for the couple. After Eliot’s death in 1965, Valerie served as curator of his literary legacy. She edited his works and letters, helping to preserve his literary reputation [16].
She approved the adaptation of “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats” into the musical “Cats,” which proved a financial success for the Eliot estate as well as all involved in that Broadway project.
Despite—or maybe even because of—such personal trials and tribulations, Eliot’s work continued to address questions of identity, morality, and spiritual awakening. While the depth of his intellectual capacity remained somewhat hidden, it seemed to be veiling his personal anguish, and critics have continued to explore that issue.
Illness and Death
In later years, Eliot’s health declined as he suffered from emphysema and other health complications [17]. He died in London on January 4, 1965, at the age of seventy-six. Eliot’s ashes are interred at St. Michael’s Church in East Coker [18], the Somerset village from which his ancestors had emigrated to the USA.
Legacy
T. S. Eliot’s influence is still felt in the literary genres of poetry, criticism, and the theater. His commingling of tradition with innovation redirected the orientation of English-language literature.
By integrating metaphysical speculation with poetic form, Eliot reconstituted modern poetry. His ability to describe cultural decay while at the same time suggest spiritual awakening affords his writings lasting importance.
His poetry continues to attract interest from scholars, critics, general readers, and other poets. In a century splattered by chaos, Eliot’s voice offered—and continue to offer—a rigorous response to the chaotic leanings of modernity and life in general. Eliot remains an essential figure for study in the area of twentieth-century literary studies.
Sources
Most of the sources, which I originally used in print form, are now conveniently offered at Internet Archive.
They have plowed, sowed, And reaped their fields in peace. Upon the riverbanks, They cast their eye. Yet, they have never prayed For quick release From tasks that last Until the last goodbye. They went about on wings, Helped others rise. They raised their food And used their useful tools. Their little worries sparked With shouts and cries, But then their product proved They knew the rules.
Bridges, buildings, gardens Grew year by year. Their music wafted nightly From their strings. Exalted words went Sparkling far and near: The king would dance, And then the queen could sing. They plowed the fields And many came to see That rustic life As robust as a tree.
II. The Fisherman
I used to write poems that left a fish smell on the page. You had to scale them to taste them so they left too much of me out And made me sound as if I were about to sprout Fins, but that was before I met the man with the net— The man whose tackle box opened like Pandora’s.
He tried to humor me with night crawlers big a fingers, Called me his little mermaid, which made me half happy. We’d sit by the river, his pole in his hand ready to land a big one.
Once I asked him to let me hold it but he said My hands were too small and being a woman I wouldn’t give enough slack to the line.
Suddenly, he yelled, “I got one! It’s big! Grab the net!” I grabbed it, handed it to him, Then jumped in a started swimming upstream.
As I looked back, I saw him Pulling his hook out of a big, green, rubber boot.
I used to write poems that left a fish smell on the page, But that was before I met the fisherman who showed me his sole.
III. Never Poke a Rough Beast from the Past
Never poke a rough beast from the past: Likely, you will find yourself ambling Among tombstones in the rain Through a ramshackle garden From which you fled So many years ago.
Out of that moldy drizzle, you emerged. Into healing waves, you progressed.
From a death-star specter, into the life-breathing spirit, You returned, grateful that the Unsensed Force Had directed your return home, Where poetry could spray in joy.
Never poke a rough beast from the past, Unless you are willing to be singed By the bile spewing through his forked tongue. Unleashing his aggressions, he is rabid To strangle you with his tangled verbiage, To erase you as he covets your triumphs.
Never poke a rough beast from the past— The present will secure your future As you walk in Spirit.
IV. A Colorful Flowerhorn
The incarnation began with a bright foot Curling her toes in the dark hours— She confessed to greater sins In the brute waters of the river Where she gasped as she Imagined she was drowning In the muddy gloom of the dark waters. She was without canoe or paddles As a colorful flowerhorn bloomed from her nose; She sought myriad breathes In the steel blanks of the rose rims. The colorful flowerhorn loomed Before her bulging eyeballs Searching the reaches of a netherworld. She would not sense the essence Of some monster’s soul. Her pink fingers become knives. A yellow finch pecks at ears of corn. She can no longer feel her hands. Her head no longer moves to speak. She snores but does not wake up yet Until morning blasts sunlight through the window. Staggering to the bathroom Nearly falling over the colorful flowerhorn She squeaks the shower tap Starts in relief That she sees water and not blood— A quick glance at the mirror, And the colossal flowerhorn blooms again from her nose. She is ready to meet the new day.
V. City Slacker
Richmond, Indiana, April 1968
His preening smothered his brain. His high school shelved him Into the Air Force Which booted him for acting Like a loon. He grew up In the north end, married A co-ed, country girl way south Of the south end— Two wrong sides of all the tracks, But he did own a set Of Encyclopaedia Britannica.
The day the town exploded, He took his wife for a walk To look at the rubble. Back In their tiny apartment, He returned to his Machinations in lunacy; She went on stumbling Down the course That would blow up Inevitably in divorce.
From 1922–1928, poet William Butler Yeats served in the senate of the newly formed Irish Free State. In “Among School Children,” the poet creates a speaker who dramatizes an event from the poet/senator’s official duties—visiting a classroom of children at an Irish school.
Introduction with Text of “Among School Children”
While William Butler Yeats is without a doubt a great poet, who delved deeply into truth and tried to understand historical events, he was not always successful in understanding certain principles.
He set out on a journey of study that led him to Eastern philosophical and religious thought, but he did not quite understand the Eastern concepts that he attempted to exploit in many of his poems.
Although not among his works that directly broach the Eastern philosophical concepts, “Among School Children” is one of Yeats’ most anthologized poems. It features numerous allusions to ancient Greek mythology and philosophy. Yeats was always a thinker, even if not always a clear thinking one.
Among School Children
I I walk through the long schoolroom questioning; A kind old nun in a white hood replies; The children learn to cipher and to sing, To study reading-books and history, To cut and sew, be neat in everything In the best modern way—the children’s eyes In momentary wonder stare upon A sixty-year-old smiling public man.
II I dream of a Ledaean body, bent Above a sinking fire, a tale that she Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial event That changed some childish day to tragedy— Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent Into a sphere from youthful sympathy, Or else, to alter Plato’s parable, Into the yolk and white of the one shell.
III And thinking of that fit of grief or rage I look upon one child or t’other there And wonder if she stood so at that age— For even daughters of the swan can share Something of every paddler’s heritage— And had that colour upon cheek or hair, And thereupon my heart is driven wild: She stands before me as a living child.
IV Her present image floats into the mind— Did Quattrocento finger fashion it Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind And took a mess of shadows for its meat? And I though never of Ledaean kind Had pretty plumage once—enough of that, Better to smile on all that smile, and show There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.
V What youthful mother, a shape upon her lap Honey of generation had betrayed, And that must sleep, shriek, struggle to escape As recollection or the drug decide, Would think her son, did she but see that shape With sixty or more winters on its head, A compensation for the pang of his birth, Or the uncertainty of his setting forth?
VI Plato thought nature but a spume that plays Upon a ghostly paradigm of things; Solider Aristotle played the taws Upon the bottom of a king of kings; World-famous golden-thighed Pythagoras Fingered upon a fiddle-stick or strings What a star sang and careless Muses heard: Old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird.
VII Both nuns and mothers worship images, But those the candles light are not as those That animate a mother’s reveries, But keep a marble or a bronze repose. And yet they too break hearts—O Presences That passion, piety or affection knows, And that all heavenly glory symbolise— O self-born mockers of man’s enterprise;
VIII Labour is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, How can we know the dancer from the dance?
Reading
Commentary on “Among School Children”
William Butler Yeats served from 1922-1928 in the senate of the newly formed Irish Free State. His speaker in “Among School Children” is dramatizing what was likely an official, mandatory visit to a Catholic school.
First Stanza: An Old Man Visiting a School
I I walk through the long schoolroom questioning; A kind old nun in a white hood replies; The children learn to cipher and to sing, To study reading-books and history, To cut and sew, be neat in everything In the best modern way—the children’s eyes In momentary wonder stare upon A sixty-year-old smiling public man.
The speaker is visiting a Catholic school and “a kind old nun in a white hood” is escorting him through the “long schoolroom,” explaining the lessons that the pupils are studying.
They study math and music; they read and study history. They receive instruction in sewing, as they learn to be “neat in everything.” All this is accomplished in the “best modern way.”
The speaker then notices that the children are staring at him, who is a “sixty-year-old smiling public man.” Yeats was born is 1865; thus he would be 60 years old in 1925, which means that he is visiting this school in the third year of his service in the senate.
As a political man, he, of course, would be smiling, as he meets his public, even if they are only school age children.
Second Stanza: The Politics of Perversion
II I dream of a Ledaean body, bent Above a sinking fire, a tale that she Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial event That changed some childish day to tragedy— Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent Into a sphere from youthful sympathy, Or else, to alter Plato’s parable, Into the yolk and white of the one shell.
The speaker has begun his narration in which he refers to himself as a “smiling public man.” As a political official his public must always see him smiling; thus, he keeps up the façade even as he meets with little children. He then veers off into a “dream” of a young girl whose copulation with the god Zeus has been considered a rape by some including the smiling man himself in his poem “Leda and the Swan.”
The speaker paints a drama of the event with the brush of a “body, bent / Above a sinking fire.” He adds into the mix the young girl telling “a tale” “of harsh reproof.” Or perhaps it was merely a “trivial event” but still it alters the child’s day from “childish” to “tragedy.”
He then implies a coupling by employing the images of “two natures blent” into which the swan’s semen and the girl’s ova blend into a version of “Plato’s parable” of “yolk and white of the one shell.”
Third Stanza: Rape Musing
III And thinking of that fit of grief or rage I look upon one child or t’other there And wonder if she stood so at that age— For even daughters of the swan can share Something of every paddler’s heritage— And had that colour upon cheek or hair, And thereupon my heart is driven wild: She stands before me as a living child.
The speaker then continues his musing about the rape of Leda by the Zeusian swan. While continuing to muse about that coupling, he is staring intently at “one child or t’other” as he wonders if this child’s countenance and behavior may resemble that of the young Leda. And as he thinks of this scenario, the speaker asserts that his “heart is driven wild,” observing this little girl standing in from of him “as a living child.”
Fourth Stanza: A Dream of Indulgence
IV Her present image floats into the mind— Did Quattrocento finger fashion it Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind And took a mess of shadows for its meat? And I though never of Ledaean kind Had pretty plumage once—enough of that, Better to smile on all that smile, and show There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.
The speaker then unveils an image of his own qualities, suggesting that they might change the little girl if she were impregnated with his spawn. He wonders how stately and beautiful such a creature would be if resulting from a grandiose Irish senator and little girl attending this Catholic school.
On the other hand, all these intrusive images might be resulting from nothing more than “a mess of shadows,” as he speculates. Then the speaker seems to be wrenched out of his dream as he claims he was “never of Ledaean kind,” though he once went about as a very handsome man indeed, with “pretty plumage”—akin to the Zeusian swan, no doubt!
But then “enough of that”—he must snap back into senator, public man persona, smile and show that he is still a “smiling public man” who resembles more a “comfortable kind of old scarecrow” than the dramatic features of the Ledaean scenario, including a Zeusian swan with fine feathers.
Fifth Stanza: Uncertain Future of Each Child
V What youthful mother, a shape upon her lap Honey of generation had betrayed, And that must sleep, shriek, struggle to escape As recollection or the drug decide, Would think her son, did she but see that shape With sixty or more winters on its head, A compensation for the pang of his birth, Or the uncertainty of his setting forth?
The speaker then instead of remaining that comfortable old scarecrow now continues to envision the result of copulation. He now imagines a “youthful mother” holding a baby.
He then wonders—through the gestation period and the difficulty of giving birth and then the reality of the child right there on her lap—if the young mother could possibly think of that child after it has lived for sixty or so years as a worthwhile accomplishment, that is, would the “pang of his birth” be worth it. After all, his future will always remain an “uncertainty.”
The speaker now is ruminating on his own uncertainty, as he has further delved dreamlike into the issue with these little girls—an issue that has inexplicably resulted in images of himself.
Sixth Stanza: The Prospect of Scaring a Bird
VI Plato thought nature but a spume that plays Upon a ghostly paradigm of things; Solider Aristotle played the taws Upon the bottom of a king of kings; World-famous golden-thighed Pythagoras Fingered upon a fiddle-stick or strings What a star sang and careless Muses heard: Old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird.
Again the speaker inserts himself into the narrative, “old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird”—the scarecrow image again. He seems to be railing against his own aging and appearance. But he nevertheless cannot leave the notion that his own hidden nature has imposed unexpected, disturbing dreams including these innocent little girls.
Thus the disgruntled speaker then enlists “Plato” again to insert suggestive words that refer to his libido, for example, “nature but a spume,” and Aristotle playing the taws “upon the bottom of a king,” along with “golden-thighed Pythagoras,” and “fingered upon a fiddle-sick.” These terms have invaded the senator’s state of mind, rendering him contemplative of the nature of hidden drives that spring up unbidden in unlikely places and events.
Seventh Stanza: Images and Worship
VII Both nuns and mothers worship images, But those the candles light are not as those That animate a mother’s reveries, But keep a marble or a bronze repose. And yet they too break hearts—O Presences That passion, piety or affection knows, And that all heavenly glory symbolise— O self-born mockers of man’s enterprise;
The speaker then draws a contrast between what a nun worships and what an ordinary mother worships. They both “worship images,” but those images are not the same. The nun worships images that are hard, harsh, and tinged with craven-spelled beings that break hearts.
Mothers, on the other hand, worship “Presences,” which inculcate passion along with piety and affection that dulls human awareness to the point that those who mock humankind are merely “self-born.”
The wisdom of the ages cannot penetrate a small school where little girls can become targets for aged men who cannot seem to control their hidden urges with which they are born and against which those mothers have no power to struggle.
Eighth Stanza: The Nature of Unity
VIII Labour is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, How can we know the dancer from the dance?
The eighth and final stanza of this poem does not rest comfortably with the first seven. It could, in fact, stand alone as its own full throated poem. It offers a melding of body and soul along with the yogic idea of the unity of knower-knowing-known.
The speaker is offering the notions that the soul need not require the body to suffer for it, that beauty need not come from despair, and that the acquisition of knowledge need not require burning the “midnight oil.”
He, thus, is implying that unity of creation is exemplified in the “chestnut tree” which features roots, leaves, blossoms, and boles, and it, therefore, remains impossible to know which part that “great rooted blossomer” actually is.
Also, when a dancer is dancing and swaying to music, and an observer looks with delight upon that dance, the rhetorical question in the final line, paradoxically asks, “How can we know the dancer from the dance?” The obvious answer, of course, forces itself upon the mind that they are, in fact, united—they are the same entity as one cannot know one from the other.
Uniting the Final Stanza
While the final stanza seems to separate itself from the rest of this poem, the uniting element is that all thoughts and all events ultimately proceed out of the mind of one Creative Force.
The speaker has been visited dreamlike by mythological characters and events that he would likely never have deliberately thought to contemplate, especially as he is performing a civic duty in a public place. Thus the question: are the speaker and his thoughts the same or are they separate entities?
If they are separate then the speaker may be filled with guilt because of his thoughts about the “living” child who stood before him, causing his heart to race. One the other hand, if it is all of one fabric and all is related, his thoughts come as naturally as a dancer dancing or as a tree being the sum of its parts.
Thus readers could take away from the poem the notion that the final stanza works to place in perspective the speaker’s possible self-judgment. He can accept his thoughts as naturally occurring. Or he can self-flagellate and likely disrupt his own ability to continue doing the work he must do.
The speaker’s epitaph is titled, “William and Emily,” with no details offered about the pair. But the gravity of the message is unique and interestingly appropriate.
Introduction and Text of “William and Emily”
In Edgar Lee Masters’ “William and Emily” from his American classic Spoon River Anthology, the speaker makes a profound statement about the cessation of passion in a marriage. It is quite likely that he does so unwittingly.
William and Emily
There is something about Death Like love itself! If with some one with whom you have known passion, And the glow of youthful love, You also, after years of life Together, feel the sinking of the fire, And thus fade away together, Gradually, faintly, delicately, As it were in each other’s arms, Passing from the familiar room— That is a power of unison between souls Like love itself!
Commentary on “William and Emily”
The speaker’s epitaph is titled “William and Emily” with no details offered about the pair. But the gravity of the message is unique and interestingly appropriate.
First Movement: Death and Love
There is something about Death Like love itself!
The speaker begins with an intriguing proposition, vaguely offering, “there is something about Death.” Don’t we all know that? We dread it, we crave it, we mostly wonder about it, but yes, dude, there is definitely something about “Death.” What the reader is not expecting is that someone would assert that death is “like love itself.”
Readers have come to expect all sorts of nonsense from the residents, or might one say, inmates of the Spoon River cemetery. So when one of them asserts that death and love have something in common, readers might not blink an eye, as they curiously wait to find out what this dude thinks death and love have in common.
Second Movement: Reason Is an “If”
If with some one with whom you have known passion, And the glow of youthful love, You also, after years of life Together, feel the sinking of the fire, And thus fade away together,
The speaker then offers his reason for making such a statement that love and death have something in common. The curious speaker begins with an “if” clause—if you have known someone with “passion” and “the glow of youthful love,” but you start losing that fiery passion of youth.
Third Movement: A Fiery Thought
Gradually, faintly, delicately, As it were in each other’s arms, Passing from the familiar room— That is a power of unison between souls Like love itself!
The speaker then breaks the fiery thought. This slow loss, “Gradually, faintly, delicately” builds up a drama that might have easily been glossed over. It is a cliché that sexual passion fades with the age of the paramours, but if it is lost slowly, the loss takes on a different context.
The cessation of violent sexual passion between two individuals is scheduled by nature to occur. That cessation allows room for the spiritual bond between them to flower. After all, sexual passion has only one true purpose—to create other human beings.
Once the physical ability to give birth has passed, there is no longer a need for sexual passion, even though, as many erroneously believe otherwise, the ability to be sexually aroused does not subside, unless, of course, there are health issues.
Perfectly healthy octogenarians are as capable of basking in the “glow of youthful love” as they were in their twenties, thirties, etc,—but should they? What do they lose if they do?
Fourth Movement: Soul Unity
That is a power of unison between souls Like love itself!
They lose “the power of unison between souls”—a man who continues to pound his wife as a sex object past the age of the ability to conceive and spawn offspring can hardly be considered a soul-living creature.
The main purpose of sexual coupling long past, all that is left is that “shudder in the loins” that speaks only one word, “selfishness.” Or perhaps two words, “selfish ignorance.” It is the “power of the unison between souls” that speaks to the union with “love itself.”
So what is there about “Death” that is like “love itself”? God is love—pure love: not sex, not physical passion that leads to procreation, which is only a tiny aspect of God. As the human being grows older, s/he becomes more aware of the necessity of knowing God.
After procreating, the human body/mind has only one true, dual-pronged purpose: to pursue and find itself as a soul connected it to the OverSoul, or God. After the human being leaves the body/mind at “Death,” it craves only the company of its Creator. A little preparation beforehand is always advisable on this mud ball of planet Earth.
“Perhaps the time has already come . . . when the sluggard intellectof this continent will look from under its iron lids and fill the postponed expectation of the world with something better than the exertions of mechanical skill.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson, “The American Scholar” 1837
You have mistaken the hands for the heart, The craft for the art, The brain for the mind, The plane for the destination.
The scholar schooled on Man Thinking must ask:
When the fountain replaced the quill, Did the masters tout it as the solution To all pedagogical problems? a fount of creativity?
When the ball point edged out the fountain, Did they once again shout “panacea”? Ideas become more liquid?
When typewriters lined up in classrooms, Did English professors march their students in to improve The essay? keys take on mind power?
All are fragile, who would teach and learn. But our students know the difference Between a tool and a work.
They come to us to search, if not seek, their souls. If we demand that Man Thinking is Man Computing We impede their ability to search and seek.
II. Those Who Fear Big Brother
“Let the scholar not quit his belief that a popgun is a popgun, though the ancient and honorable of the earth affirm it to be the crack of doom.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson, “The American Scholar” 1837
You finger the edge of the new page But refuse to read it: Maybe you can’t control the syntax, Maybe you’ll have to ask someone to help you— Someone who is not as good as you are, Some morale-less underling.
You do fine with your pen and ink— You do write type, though, if the machine Does not plug into the wall.
You suspect that invisible criminal activity Is playing in the network of the system: Whiz-kids accessing your bank accounts, Administrators processing your thoughts.
Your students laugh loud at the clever insults You spit at the machine, But they know the difference between A stagecoach and an airplane.
