Whitman and American Excess

What strikes any reader of Whitman first is the sheer volume of each poetic line, on the order of a sprawling architecture: call it Empire State or Sears Tower, or even the Mall of America.  It is the form of an obese, hyperactive, endlessly (and perhaps vainly) seeking culture. 

This, perhaps, is why we prefer Whitman. 

The Dinner Guest

Why does Whitman always get new breath,

not Holmes or Whittier, never  mind

William Cullen Bryant?  How jealous he must be,

the poet who says he stands somewhere waiting

but at the wrong moment or in the wrong meter.  How many

tables has Walt graced, invisible perfect guest

who doesn’t trouble you for a napkin

but wipes the spittle of words and wine off

on his own sleeve, his mess of crumbs

its own thank you note sent

and gratefully read?

A Poem for the Day

Poetica Terrae

Strip the line and you are left with

What?  A trace of the pen, a print on the key

Might do for some, but what slips down to the eye?

In May, the month of new life, so far and dreamed from now,

A germ or seed spits out through the soil, just so much as to pinch

From the land that made it, but so much too that it can be enough.