February Snow
“I felt so symbolic yesterday” —Adam Duritz, “Mr. Jones”
Standing in the doorway,
sniffing the 20 degrees outside,
a late February snow
blowing down
covering the ground
in one of its last fiestas
before spring sets in,
I feel so literary—
like, man,
I’ve felt this stormy
snow and wind
many times
in the pages
of books.
The Empty Room
for Lyn
Well, there it is.
As pink as you painted it.
The bed stripped naked.
No need to make it.
But I probably will.
But not right now.
No, I will walk past it.
Close the door.
Not think about it.
How bare it is.
How you won’t be there tonight
Or tomorrow or any night now.
And though you are a smiling bride
On your wedding day,
For a brief moment
You saw it too
And felt that pull
Away from the room,
Away from your home
And me.
A Walk through the City after the Rain
In a blaze of memory the streets flare up
Between the concrete cells of my brain—
Hard as night the rain has not loosened the fire
That tears through the walls of my mad heart.
You rise out of the demolition of buildings.
With the axe of your words you hack through the cement—
Sidewalks and down alleyways you gain speed
Surefooted and safe from this mad stalker heart.
My thoughts dangle at the end of a long line—
A stranger assures me that many fish still swim
In the oceans and time has a way with mad hearts—
But she has not heard your boots on hardwood.
And she has not watched you brush grass from her hair
And she did not feel the thunder in your voice
The night that lightning struck the house
And put out the fire with your naked hands.
Walt Whitman’s “Cavalry Crossing a Ford”
Walt Whitman’s seven-line poem titled “Cavalry Crossing a Ford” offers a simple, single unified image, much as a photograph of the same scene would offer.
Introduction and Text of “Cavalry Crossing a Ford”
This signature sprawling poem “Cavalry Crossing a Ford” is one of Whitman’s most widely anthologized poems from his Civil War experience; it first appeared in the section “Drum-Taps,” in 1865 in his much revised Leaves of Grass, his collection that he continually added to and revised for many years.
The speaker of this poem adds no commentary about what he sees; he simply reports the image as it appears to his sight. Each line becomes a single unit that gives its supporting value to the entire poem.
Cavalry Crossing a Ford
A line in long array where they wind betwixt green islands,
They take a serpentine course, their arms flash in the sun—hark to the musical clank,
Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing horses loitering stop to drink,
Behold the brown-faced men, each group, each person a picture, the negligent rest on the saddles,
Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just entering the ford—while,
Scarlet and blue and snowy white,
The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind.
Commentary on “Cavalry Crossing a Ford”
This seven-line poem offers a simple, single unified image, much as a photograph of the same scene would do.
Line 1: ”A line in long array, where they wind betwixt green islands”
The speaker is riding with a line of cavalry soldiers as they move into battle. The small group of soldiers is in the process of crossing a river, as the speaker commences his portrayal of this event. The attention of the viewer is directed to a line of the cavalrymen who are on horseback, “wind[ing] betwixt green islands.”
Whitman eschewed any traditional riming scheme with this poem; however, the assonance of words with such as “wind,” “island,” and “line,” offer a stand-in and function as rime would do in helping to render the line a unified whole. The viewer can see the whole group of cavalry in just the first line.
Line 2: ”They take a serpentine course— their arms flash in the sun–Hark to the musical clank”
The line of soldiers seems to form a snake-like line as it glides through the landscape. Crossing the river the “serpentine” line appears to move as the snake would move through grass.
The speaker now refers to the soldiers by reporting that, “their arms [are] flash[ing] in the sun.” The speaker then adds to his description a sound: “Hark to the musical clank.” The poem, therefore, is offering an image that a snapshot could never do.
Line 3: ”Behold the silvery river—in it the splashing horses, loitering, stop to drink”
The speaker now dramatizes the river, reporting that it is “silvery” with the horses “splashing” the water, taking a gulp of the water every time they halt to wait their turn to trot ahead. The speaker adds a marvelous touch by commanding his reader/listerner/viewer: “Behold the silvery river.”
Line 4: ”Behold the brown-faced men–each group, each person, a picture—the negligent rest on the saddles”
Employing this line and the following line to dramatize the soldiers, the speaker again commands his listeners to look at the “brown-faced men.” The speaker then asserts that each soldier represents a “picture,” as the whole group of soldiers also paints its own picture. He notes that some seem rather laid-back and seem to be merely relaxing in their saddles before they begin their difficult journey again.
Line 5: ”Some emerge on the opposite bank–others are just entering the ford—while”
The speaker then claims that a section of the line of soldiers is completing their crossing of the river, as others remain in the process of stepping into the river. The line connects immediately to the following line employing the subordinating conjunction “while,” giving the section obvious dependence on the following line.
Line 6: ”Scarlet, and blue, and snowy white”
The flags representing the colors of the united country, the union flag, which serve as a guidon for the group remain in a single line to stress their important function of representing the country they are fighting to preserve.
Line 6: ”The guidon flags flutter gaily in the wind”
The final line finds the speaker stressing the colorful flags, “flutter[ing] gaily.” The speaker finds that fluttering a happy event as the flags do what they would simply and naturally do in a light breeze.
Walt Whitman’s “Patroling Barnegat”
Walt Whitman’s American-Innovative sonnet demonstrates the power of the verb form known as the present participle, as his speaker dramatizes the activity of a severe storm at sea.
Introduction and Text of “Patroling Barnegat”
Walt Whitman’s “Patroling Barnegat” is an American-Innovative sonnet, a form which makes various transformations based upon the received sonnets from the past, particularly the Shakespearean (Elizabethan or English and Petrarchan (Italian) forms.
Unlike the English and Italian sonnet forms, the American-Innovative sonnet almost always features a much looser form. While the English sonnet is sectioned into three quatrains and a couplet and the Italian is sectioned into octave and sestet, the American-Innovative sonnets are often subdivided into “movements,” when it appears in its purest form.
The American-Innovative may, indeed, take the traditional form and section into quatrains and octaves, but as it does so, those stanzas are usually vastly altered from the traditional forms. Of course, the American-Innovative form usually dispenses with rime and meter, but again if it employs those devices, it does so in new and different ways.
These sonnet movements depend solely on the sonnet’s total environment. While some American-Innovative sonnets may move in ways similar to the English and Italian, they never feature the entire body of the early sonnet forms.
Walt Whitman’s American-Innovative sonnet moves on present participles: “running,” “muttering,” “pealing,” etc. The speaker is observing a wildly active situation, and in order to convey the activity, he keeps his descriptions moving through a piling on of the present participle verb forms.
Patroling Barnegat
Wild, wild the storm, and the sea high running,
Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering,
Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing,
Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing,
Out in the shadows there milk-white combs careering,
On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting,
Where through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting,
Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing,
(That in the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?)
Slush and sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending,
Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting,
Along the midnight edge by those milk-white combs careering,
A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting,
That savage trinity warily watching.
Commentary on “Patroling Barnegat”
This American-Innovative sonnet “Patroling Barnegat” demonstrates the power of the verb form known as the present participle. The speaker is dramatizing the turbulence of a severe storm on the ocean.
First Movement: Setting the Scene
Wild, wild the storm, and the sea high running,
Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering,
Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing,
Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing,
The first movement of Walt Whitman’s “Patroling Barnegat” includes the poem’s introductory element of depicting the subject by creating the image of the sea wildly churning its wave into a “wild” storm, as the ocean waters are “running” high. The speaker is dramatizing the event of patroling the stormy waters of Barnegat Bay, off the coast of New Jersey.
The speaker emphasizes the severity of the storm by repeating the word “wild.” He shows the sea being whipped up in a frenzy which causes a “roar of the gale,” while a background noise creates an “incessant undertone” that seems to be “muttering.”
The noises bedevil the speaker; thus he calls them “shouts of demoniac laughter.” These sounds seem to pierce to speaker’s ears. He then invokes a “trinity” of “waves, air, midnight,” calling them the “savagest” that lash the sea vessel and the men who are manning it.
Second Movement: Drama of the Waves
Out in the shadows there milk-white combs careering,
On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting,
Where through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting,
Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing,
The second movement includes the drama of the waves as they appear “out of the shadows”; he calls them “milk-white combs” as they come “careering.” He then observes that over the “beachy slush” there are “sand spirts of snow” that come in “slanting” as they move inland.
The storm creates a murkiness through which “the easterly death-wind” comes “breasting.” As the patrol-boat plunges through the storm and snow-filled air, it seems to be “cutting” its way through as the men remain vigilant.
Third Movement: Two Questions
(That in the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?)
The third movement, which consists of a single parenthetical line, dissects the sonnet to pose two questions regarding the sighting of a possible disaster. The speaker excitedly points to something he thinks my might be seeing in the distance. He seems to be asking someone if he is actually seeing something. His question includes the possibility that a wreck may have occurred.
And if there is something there, he then wonders if it may, in fact, be a wreck. Thus, he queries if there may be a “red signal” being sent out. The very purpose of this patrol in this storm is to search for people who might be in trouble on the sea as it whips up possible disasters.
The parenthetical questions are never answered. It seems to appear as a simple incidental thought, as the speaker continues to concentrate upon describing the storm and how it affects the water and the beach. The sounds of the water and winds become important for his description.
Fourth Movement: A Drama of Tension
Slush and sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending,
Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting,
Along the midnight edge by those milk-white combs careering,
A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting,
That savage trinity warily watching.
The final movement consists of the final five lines that dramatize the tension between the beach of “slush and sand” and that savage trinity of “waves, air, and midnight.” The patrol has lasted all night and finally at the “midnight edge” still “those milk-white combs” continue “careering.”
The speaker concludes by invoking the image of “a group of dim, weird forms” that persists in flailing about in the night as the “savage trinity” continues to watch.
Wednesday’s Irrational God
Your Latin professor, who is seven months pregnant,
Was extremely flushed and you felt obligated
To walk her to her car.
You are still very much interested in my story—
You talked to someone the other day
For twenty minutes about it.
You do hope this isn’t the direction your life is taking,
So formal, arranging times.
You will be free all day
Next Wednesday not having to work
And your afternoon class being cancelled.
But if I will suggest a time next week
You are sure you will be able to drop by, you
Probably can’t stay long but Wednesday right after
Latin class looks the best to you right now so
If that would work for me, let you know.
You are sorry that your life is not convenient
For me, it is not too convenient for you either:
Life is not easy in the hands of an irrational god.
The Letting Go
“First – Chill – then Stupor – then . . .” — Emily Dickinson
They dallied, sweaty on sheets,
Talking all afternoon in the August heat,
Hot tunes playing in the background.
She fancied they’d rock and roll
This way, many afternoons –
The talk so delicious,
As honey-luscious as the kisses.
But by the end of the week,
He spoke a different tongue,
And by the end of the month
He did not speak at all.
She cannot grasp the silence.
The letting go has slashed her heat.
Her tongue hangs across the poem
Like the carcass of a deer across the hood
Of the hunter’s pick up.
Original poem appearing in my collection titled Turtle Woman & Other Poems
Walt Whitman’s “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer”
Walt Whitman’s sprawling eight-line poem showcases the poet’s freewheeling style while dramatizing the wildly romantic world view portrayed in almost all of his poems.
Introduction and Text “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer”
Whitman’s “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer” provides a study in contrasts between science and poetry. The speaker makes his preference known that he favors looking at the stars over studying them. The speaker is a transcendentalist-romantic individual who is more interested in the life of the senses than the life of the mind.
Interestingly, however, this speaker demonstrates that, in certain instances, the senses can lead to a more spiritual experience than the mind. The speaker prefers to indulge his fancy rather than pay attention to the measured distances between heavenly bodies.
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 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.
Reading:
Commentary on ““When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer”
Walt Whitman’s sprawling eight-line poem showcases the poet’s freewheeling style while dramatizing the wildly romantic world view portrayed in almost all of his poems.
First Movement: When vs After
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 diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room
The first movement of Whitman’s influential poem consists of four adverbial clauses beginning with “when”:
1. when he listened to the lecture,
2. when the numbers were presented,
3. when “the charts and the diagrams” were shown,
4. when he heard the audience’s cheer the “learn’d astronomer.”
A fascinating riddle poses the question: “When the man jumped off the building, where was he?”
Possible answers: —Until he hit the ground, he was in the air—
What’s wrong with that answer? That was “after” he jumped.
Then the person riddled might respond: —still standing on the top of the building— Wrong because, that was “before” he jumped.
This riddle is instructive for language use especially use in poetry. The adverb “when” is a flabby word, causing the ambiguity of unclarity as associated with an action. Thus if possible, one needs to consider whether the action occurred “before” or “after” the first event.
Whitman was such an astute observer of both events and language, but this poem could use one last revision changing the “when” clauses to “after” clauses because that is the accurate time frames for each of the actions that he mentions.
The reader will note that is was, actually, “after” all the following that he became “tired and sick” and determined to get up and leave:
1. after he had heard the scientist
2. after he had seen the stats and numbers
3. after he had been presented the charts
4. after he had heard the other audience members applauding the astronomer.
Second Movement: After Growing Sick and Tired
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.
After the speaker had listened to a portion of the lecture, he gets up and leaves the lecture hall, goes out into the refreshing night air and looks up at the stars. The event is simple, but the speaker’s dramatic portrayal of his actions enhances the act and makes it so much more interesting and meaningful than the mere event.
For example, the use of the word “unaccountable” contrasts with all the counting that was going on by the lecturer. The speaker is simply remarking that he grew “tired and sick” while listening, but he does not know why.
The speaker seems to have no reason for this reaction. He is cleverly leaving that reasoning up the reader to discern, after he paints his portrait of natural beauty in the final three lines, in which reports that he rose from his seat, moved out into the night alone, and then off and on gazed upward to the heavens where he was treated to the “perfect silence at the stars.”
Those final lines contrast the stuffy lecture hall with the lushness of the great outdoors; they contrast the enjoyment of being alone as opposed to being surrounded by people in the stuffy lecture hall. The night air is “mystical”—the speaker is carried to a transcendental height by the simple “moist night-air.”
And the best of all the observant speaker saves for the last; in contrast to the steady pace of the lecture, he leisurely “from time to time”—no hurry, no schedule, no following someone else’s line of thought—gazes up into the heavens and observes the brilliance of the stars themselves, instead of merely hearing about them through charts, diagrams, and numbers.
Walt Whitman remains one of the most important poets in American history. He has influenced every generation of poets since he first began to publish. He is rightly credited for leading American poetry into modernity. His long-lined, sprawling style is always easily recognized.
Early Life, Education, Early Career
Walter Whitman, Jr., was born on May 31, 1819, in West Hills, Long Island, New York, to Walter Whitman, Sr., and Louisa Van Velsor Whitman, a lower middle class family [1]. Walt, Jr’s early life greatly influenced his idiosyncratic world-view and artistic outlook. He became known as “Bard of Democracy” [2] because of his liberating employment of his cosmic, singular poetic voice.
His working-class parents worked hard to meet expenses, and the family changed residences often during Walt’s early years, in order to find better employment. These frequent new locations exposed the future poet to various environments, giving him an expansive outlook on life, as he experienced many different people from various backgrounds.
Walt was the second of nine Whitman children, and similar to the TV family “The Waltons,” the Whitman family often encountered scarce resources and many hardships as the parents labored to meet the needs of a family of eleven.
The poet’s father worked as a carpenter and as a farmer, but his laboring efforts never led to prosperity. This family dynamic led Walt to entering the workforce at an early age in order to help with family stay afloat financially.
The ancestors of the Whitman family had arrived in America as early as the 17th century, which rooted the family’s affection for their country very deeply, as the future poet would so often express in his works.
The poet remained close to his mother for his whole life. Louisa was a very affectionate and compassionate human being, and her positive attitude toward life proved to be a great influence on the life of her son. The poet could always count on his mother for unconditional love and support throughout his life.
Walt Whitman’s experience with formal schooling was virtually nil: he abandoned formal education after he turned eleven years old [3]. After a short stint in the public school system in Brooklyn, he made a swift departure because he family needed him to work and earn money to assist with family finances.
Despite leaving the formal schooling of the public eduction system, Walt continued to read, study, think deeply for the rest of his life. He pursued knowledge as assiduously as a bird seeks its daily nutritional intake. He maintained a life-long, insatiable thirst for knowledge.
After abandoning public education, Walt took a job as an office boy in Brooklyn [4]. After serving as an office boy, he became a printer’s apprentice, eagerly learning the craft of print- and typesetting. Such on-the-job experience brought Walt in contact with literary composition through manipulation of words, making them ready to publish.
Whitman later engaged in school teaching in a number of rural schools on Long Island. The sensationalism of a rumor has it that Whitman was tarred and feathered and chased out of the town of Southold for committing sodomy [5] on a student.
The likelihood of that particular rumor being true is virtually nil, because it has not been clearly established that Whitman ever taught in Southold. Whitman simply abandoned teaching because he found the work stultifying.
Work in the Field of Journalism
Whitman’s actual career in journalism began in the late 1830s [6]. He founded and edited the Long Islander newspaper in Huntington. His early experience in the field of journalism allowed him to develop his writing skills and engage in public discourse.
At age 23, Whitman became the chief editor of the New York Aurora. By September of 1845, four months after turning 26 years of age, he had newspaper experience from working for at least a dozen newspapers.
He flitted from one newspaper to the next, often holding editorial duties. Whitman worked for several different papers in Brooklyn and New York City, including the Daily Aurora and the Brooklyn Eagle. His time as an editor sharpened his skills in crafting clear, concise prose. He also learned to handle deadlines.
Whitman’s experience in the field of journalism afforded him a stage upon which to elucidate his opinions and insight into political as well as social. issues. He became a staunch advocate for democratic principles and often broached topics such as abolition and temperance. His many editorials revealed his growing social awareness and reformist consciousness.
Dedication to Poetry
The publication of Leaves of Grass in 1855 [7], heralded a new era in American literature. Whitman self-published the first edition, which contained only twelve untitled poems. This innovative work defied conventional ideas of poetry, as it brazenly put on display free verse and non-traditional subject matter.
Famously, Whitman continued to revise and expand Leaves of Grass throughout his entire life, producing multiple editions. Each new revision revealed Whitman’s continuing artistic growth as well as the changing social worldviews and mores. The manuscript through its ever widening scope seemed to reflect the very growth of the nation itself.
His poetic style played out in a sweeping scope and direct address, all in celebration of the individual and the everyday person. Whitman wrapped his mind and heart around the entire spectrum of human experience—from the ordinary to the extraordinary, from the mundane to the transcendent. Within his poetry, Whitman strove to include all of America and all of what Americans had to offer the world.
Civil War and Humanitarian Work
The American Civil War (1861—1865) had a profound impact on the poet [8]. He diverted his intensity from writing to humanitarian efforts. He went to Washington, D.C., in 1862 after his brother George was wounded in battle. This experience showed the poet first hand the immense suffering caused by the war.
Whitman then became devoted to giving care to wounded soldiers in the military hospitals of Washington. He spent many hours calming and comforting the ill and dying.
Whitman helped the recovering soldiers write letters, and he even dressed their wounds, which was greatly appreciated by the overworked doctors and nurses. These selfless compassionate duties became the cardinal core of Whitman’s identity as a human being, as well as an expansive poet.
Whitman’s war-years experiences greatly affected his later poetry, particularly in works such as Drum-Taps and Memories of President Lincoln. He bore witness to the grim realities of conflict but also to the resilience of the human spirit. The war profoundly contributed to his understanding of the American identity.
Later Life
Following the war, Whitman continued working in government offices, even as his health began to suffer. In 1873, he was afflicted by a paralytic stroke, severely limiting his ability to walk. Despite his physical health issues, he continued his writing and revising Leaves of Grass.
Whitman relocated to Camden, New Jersey and spent his final years in that city [9]. In Camden, he received visitors from around the world [10] who sought out the beloved poet. His home became a pilgrimage site for admirers of his innovative and influential works that focused on democratic ideals.
Walt Whitman died on March 26, 1892 [11], leaving an exceptional literary legacy. His Leaves of Grass remains a monumental achievement, influencing the course of American poetry for generations. The poet remains a towering, renowned personality in world of literature and literary studies, celebrated for his creativity, individualism, and originality.
Legacy
Whitman’s influence [12] has extended far beyond the field of poetry; it has continued to attract successive generations of poets, essayist, journalists, and thinkers. Whitman’s celebration of democratic principles, individualism, as well as the interconnectedness of all things continues to find positive responses from new readers.
The Whitman legacy, similar to that of Ella Wheeler Wilcox, can serve as a mollifying corrective to the obstructive impact that postmodernism has inflicted upon the poetry world. Decade upon decade, Walt Whitman’s poetry and prose, as well as his fascinating life story, continue to offer testimony to the power and influence of a truly unique voice.
Sources
[1] Editors. “Walt Whitman.” Family Search. Accessed September 19, 2026.
[2] Curators. “Walt Whitman: Bard of Democracy.” The Morgan Library an Museum. Accessed June 2, 2025.
[3] Ed Folsom and Kenneth M. Price. “Self-Education.” Walt Whitman Archive. Accessed June 2, 2025.
[4] Editors. “Walt Whitman.” Biography. Updated: September 14, 2022.
[5] Editors. “Schoolteaching Years.” Walt Whitman Archive. Accessed September 19, 2026.
[6] Philip Eil. “On Walt Whitman, Unsung Newspaperman.” Literary Hub. May 29, 2019.
[7] Editors. “Leaves of Grass, 1855-1861.” Library of Congress. Accessed September 19, 2026.
[8] Editors. “Walt Whitman and the Civil War.” PBS. Accessed September 19, 2026.
[9] Curators. “Walt Whitman.” The Historical Marker Database. Accessed September 19, 2026.
[10] Curators. “Welcome.” The Walt Whitman House. Accessed September 19, 2026.
[11] Rhys Griffiths. “Death of Walt Whitman.” History Today. March 3, 2017.
[12] Curators. “The Powerful Influence of Walt Whitman.” Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art. April 27, 2017.
Recommended Print Sources for Walt Whitman
Commentaries on Walt Whitman Poems
Will’s Mistress
“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun” —Shakespeare Sonnet #130
If he thinks my eyes are not like the sun,
He must think someone else’s are,
And her lips are red as coral, I suspect.
And on her head grows flaxen silk
Not like the dark wires that stick out of mine.
He probably hears tunes in her voice,
Though he says he loves to hear me talk.
She, no doubt, exhales expensive perfumes,
When he gets his nose next to her mouth.
He must think she glides along the earth like Athena,
But I just plod the ground in my flat shoes.
If his love for me is so goddam rare,
Why do I come out sounding like
Just another one of his shittin’ sonnets?
