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.
Image b: Walt Whitman portrait engraved by Samuel Hollyer, frontispiece to first edition of Leaves of Grass, 1855
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.
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
Gay Wilson Allen. The Solitary Singer: A Critical Biography of Walt Whitman. New York: The Macmillan Company. 1955.
James E. Miller, Jr., editor. Complete Poetry and Selected Prose by Walt Whitman. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company. Riverside Editions. 1959. Walt Whitman. Leaves of Grass: The Deathbed Edition. New York: Simon & Schuster. 1992.
Image: Emily Dickinson – Amherst College – Daguerrotype of the poet at age 17, circa 1847 – likely the only authentic, extant likeness of the poet
Emily Dickinson’s “Low at my problem bending”
The speaker muses over a personal problem only to encounter a larger, calmer one that displaces all earthly calculation.
Introduction and Text of “Low at my problem bending”
In Emily Dickinson’s “Low at my problem bending,” the speaker bends intently over a private concern when a greater problem arrives. This new problem proves larger and serener, involving higher sums that dwarf the original figures.
The speaker then sets aside the “busy pencil” and lets the figures slip away. The “baffled fingers” question their own befuddlement in the face of this elevated demand. On the literal level the speaker appears engaged in arithmetic or accounting. Yet the intrusion of a calmer problem signals a shift from worldly sums to matters of the soul.
Low at my problem bending
Low at my problem bending, Another problem comes – Larger than mine – Serener – Involving statelier sums.
I check my busy pencil, My figures file away. Wherefore, my baffled fingers Thy perplexity?
Commentary on “Low at my problem bending”
Emily Dickinson’s “Low at my problem bending” dramatizes the speaker’s sudden elevation from a personal calculation to a higher, calmer demand that silences all earthly tools.
First Stanza: “Low at my problem bending”
Low at my problem bending, Another problem comes – Larger than mine – Serener – Involving statelier sums.
The speaker begins bending low over a private problem. At once another problem arrives, one larger than the original and marked by greater serenity. This new concern involves more important sums. The speaker senses that ordinary arithmetic cannot address the elevated scale now presented.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s habit of preferring inner information over outer, material level evidence. Here that same habit appears as the speaker recognizes the superior claim of the more placid problem.
Paramahansa Yogananda explains that the vastness is your real Self. The speaker, confronted by the larger problem, begins to sense that same vastness beyond finite sums. The contrast between the low bending posture and the calm elevation of the new problem suggests a movement from earthly worry to meditation on the eternal.
Second Stanza: “I check my busy pencil”
I check my busy pencil, My figures file away. Wherefore, my baffled fingers Thy perplexity?
The speaker immediately checks the “busy pencil.” All the carefully ordered figures are filed away as if dismissed by a higher authority. The confused fingers then address their own confusion. They wonder why their former skill proves useless before the statelier demand. The speaker’s tools of calculation prove inadequate once the larger problem appears.
Ordinary sums give way before the serene scale of the soul’s true concern. Paramahansa Yogananda explains that one must change consciousness from that of a mortal to a divine being. The speaker’s “baffled fingers” enact that very change as earthly figures vanish.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s reliance on mystical intuition to resolve riddles of existence. That same intuition now silences the pencil and leaves the fingers questioning their former busy work.
The final question hangs in the air, inviting the reader into the same contemplative musing that has lifted the speaker beyond finite problems to the calmer, cooler realm of the Infinite.
The stairs angled up the outside Of the building like those I climbed To the first apartment I lived in, After I got married the first time. He was an anthropology major, His girlfriend archaeology. She wanted him to move in there with her, But it’s easy to see why he Balked; at home he lived all the suburban Comforts: carpet, quiet plumbing, spacious, Fresh rooms his mommy kept tidy, plus his daddy’s Computer to write term papers on. A second story apartment in Old Town sucks: Noisy neighbors, roaches (I saw a big one Race down the ragged arm Of the sofa and zoom Into a crack in the baseboard), Little closet space, no garage; Convenient walking distance to campus Hoists the rent to scandalous. But while his girlfriend spent six weeks digging in Africa, We put it to use a couple of July afternoons. His fresh youth promised a good romp As he bulged a yeasty readiness—but alas! He lacked skill with his master tool, But still his succulent lips and skillful tongue Put a bounce in the balls of my feet As they mounted those stairs two at a time.
Idioms of myriad worlds spiral down the begging path. The grain feathers tangle in the sandbar on the rim, Ending in the dwelling of manifest wrath With stupor offering its clank to the whim.
No one dreamed the others into swerving. Few sacrificed fathers and mothers for priding. Several rounded the edges on the curving. Many chafed at the marble pine for hiding.
The scooped talons of white crowing Dip under the sea-broad sky. Fleet winged bandies blowing Stretch and dither on the fly.
No tongue shatters so many brains as munificence. No tooth clatters the rain so well as malfeasance.
I Your six two, one eighty eases these bleary eyes that brighten for pretty things, and the screen adores every inch and pound. You throb this old girl’s eyeballs now that David Hasselhoff’s Baywatch is rendering up reruns of reruns; your Renegade dismisses my school daze. A martial artist, kicking in heads, then beautifully escaping the corrupt cops that would corrupt your loveliness in a gray cell, and leave your fresh flesh rotting on death row, victim of their frame-up.
I tingle like a school girl watching your long legs and bulbed muscles. Your divine face proves God. Angels sigh when you speak. From hair to boots you remind me that there is so much more to pleasure than is dreamed of by nervous network executives. I’ll write you into the script of my poems, because your form is blazing across the marquee of my mind.
II In my temple of dreams you carry candles & light up Indiana & the church swells with voices of answered prayers. Although I’ve never motorcycled, I’ve a mind to hog now that I’ve caught your long hair stroking your shoulders & that shadow of Latin manhood stressing your sleek jaw. I fancy I’ll ride with you awhile. My body tight against yours as you whisk us off to—oh, maybe San Diego or Mexico.
III Your divine face proves God, and angels sigh when you speak. The cleverest magician could not conjure up the magic your image impresses on my soul. I’ve known beauty in the human form before, or at least I thought I had: the gods of Greece flicker in the light of your Latin flame.
But you were not born with the silver spoon of beauty in your mouth: you’ve pumped iron and jogged, and grown lean on dinner salads. your appearance in Grease affirms your youthful form clothed itself in baby fat; that mute, blond, Nordic jock you portrayed did not hint at the solid rock of muscle you stock, and long, slim lines you draw now.
Image: Emily Dickinson – Amherst College – Daguerrotype of the poet at age 17, circa 1847 – likely the only authentic, extant likeness of the poet
Emily Dickinson’s “Ambition cannot find him”
The speaker contemplates the profound transition from worldly obscurity to eternal stature following the quiet arrival of death.
Introduction and Text of “Ambition cannot find him”
In Emily Dickinson’s “Ambition cannot find him,” the speaker contemplates the dramatic transformation that takes place when a soul departs from its physical encasement. Death elevates the individual far beyond mundane human striving, creating an insurmountable distance between earthly concerns and spiritual liberation.
The speaker observes that earthly desires, emotional attachments, and social strivings lose all traction once a person steps across the mortal threshold. Transitioning into the unseen realm places the departed soul beyond the reach of both personal fame and human affection.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s habit of elevating inner awareness over outer circumstance. Here, the speaker asserts that the true elevation of the soul occurs far from mortal sight.
Ambition cannot find him
Ambition cannot find him. Affection doesn’t know How many leagues of nowhere Lie between them now.
Yesterday, undistinguished! Eminent Today For our mutual hone, Immortality!
Commentary on “Ambition cannot find him”
The speaker explores death’s shifting of a person’s status from complete earthly obscurity into infinite spiritual significance.
First Stanza: “Ambition cannot find him”
Ambition cannot find him. Affection doesn’t know How many leagues of nowhere Lie between them now.
The speaker begins by personifying “Ambition,” declaring that this driving human force can no longer reach or influence the deceased. Earthly drives lose all relevance once the soul departs the physical realm.
Human “Affection” also suffers a complete loss of contact, remaining entirely unaware of the vast expanse that now separates the living from the dead; mortal love cannot bridge this gap.
The speaker describes this spatial separation as “leagues of nowhere.” This phrase emphasizes the vast, unmeasurable vacuum that divides physical life from the metaphysical state. This vast void creates an absolute boundary. The departed soul exists entirely beyond the reach of human emotional calls or worldly seeking.
The speaker emphasizes that earthly perceptions fail to comprehend the realm of the departed. Human relationships are bound by space, whereas the soul transcends all material dimensions.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s preference for solitary spiritual journeys over communal ties. The departed soul embarks on a path where worldly bonds naturally dissolve.
The great Guru Paramahansa Yogananda explains that death is similar to a change of clothing. The speaker reflects this truth as the soul transitions into a completely different sphere of existence.
Through contemplative musing, the speaker recognizes that the vast distance between realms protects the departed soul. Unseen boundaries keep it safe from all earthly turbulence.
Second Stanza: “Yesterday, undistinguished!”
Yesterday, undistinguished! Eminent Today For our mutual hone, Immortality!
The speaker highlights a startling contrast, noting that the departed individual was “undistinguished” during earthly life. Yesterday, the person possessed no special fame or worldly acclaim; ”Today,” however, that same individual becomes “Eminent.”
The act of dying immediately elevates the soul above all mortal titles and achievements.
This elevation occurs because the soul has entered “Immortality.” Eternal life bestows a true dignity that no earthly praise could ever match.
The speaker refers to immortality as “our mutual hone,” implying that the material, earthly plane is not the soul’s native home: the old blue grass song “This World Is Not My Home” addresses and celebrate that theme. This shared destiny sharpens and refines human consciousness, preparing every soul for ultimate spiritual elevation.
Bill Monroe & His Blue Grass Boys perform “This World Is Not My Home”
Through contemplative musing, the speaker shows that true distinction comes from entering the eternal realm, not from acquiring fleeting worldly honors. Greatness is re-defined through the lens of eternity. What seemed ordinary in the physical world becomes glorious upon crossing into spirit.
Paramahansa Yogananda explains that the soul’s true nature is divine and eternal, far transcending any temporary physical identity. Dickinson’s speaker captures this profound realization through the quiet triumph of death.
The poem concludes with a celebration of the soul’s sudden transition. Entering immortality grants every individual an enduring grandeur that earthly life and a physical encasement can never offer.
Dear Head, I am writing this letter to apologize for all the agony I have put you through because of my cravings. Thank you for supplying the long slender objects that have thrust themselves into me from time to time— the fingers, the tongues, the carrots that have made my pleasure spot throb. I know those acts must have embarrassed you, having to expose your breasts and belly and buttocks to get the flesh tools to work. Most of the owners of the flesh tools were gross; I always liked the tongues and fingers better than the pricks, but I understand now where you were coming from, I’m sorry if I had anything to do with making you think I needed all that goo sprayed into me, it was always just the throb I wanted, not the job, especially not the clean up afterward. Again, I apologize, and promise to remain as humbly quiet as I can from now on. (Oh, yeah, FYI—despite male ego and female confusion on the subject, all of us girls are really lesbians.)
Yours in peace, DU
Dear Heart, I am writing this to apologize for all the aching I have caused you. I know you felt left out every time one of those prong-owners went straight for me. I apologize for hiding here under this bush, ambushing the meat, I know I have been a hungry bitch, and I have stolen from you more than I could ever return. You have the last laugh, your blood is still running and mine is dry. I promise I will not prompt you again, I hope you have a serene life,
I am finally learning to live in tranquility. No more vaginitis and no more yeast infections, a disease-free environment encourages peace within and without.
Yours for love, DU
A slightly different version of this original poem appears in my collection titled “Turtle Woman & Other Poems” under the title “Letters from V”
Interviewer: What has become of your face? Mirror: It is like the moon; it has 28 phases.
Interviewer: When did those eyes become blanks? Mirror: Oh, when is not important. The question is, are they blank enough.
Interviewer: Where does that sallow skin come from? Mirror: From deep inside where sallow is mixed with saffron and clumps of leaves are torn from shadow boxes with fennel pollen.
Interviewer: Why fennel pollen? Mirror: Why fennel pollen, indeed! Better than mace and thyme, more elaborate than a whistle, sweet, spice, electric . . .
Interviewer: Why does your mouth obey those loose-hinged jaws? Mirror: It was never one to disobey. In the radical morning, scruffs of necks seek to burn, and limber goths slink back to the swamp.
Interviewer: How will your heart explain to your brain that it has shattered itself again over the sharp rocks of indulgence? Mirror: Now, I am a small pool of crystal water that rushed down from the Himalayas to gather fools who have no right to breathe the temperate air of Maya, yet . . . they travel on.
Linda's Literary Home 