Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman

Walter "Walt" Whitman (May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892) was an American poet, essayist and journalist. A humanist, he was a part of the transition between transcendentalism and realism, incorporating both views in his works. Whitman is among the most influential poets in the American canon, often called the father of free verse. His work was very controversial in its time, particularly his poetry collection Leaves of Grass, which was described as obscene for its overt sexuality.

Born on Long Island, Whitman worked as a journalist, a teacher, a government clerk, and—in addition to publishing his poetry—was a volunteer nurse during the American Civil War. Early in his career, he also produced a temperance novel, Franklin Evans (1842). Whitman's major work, Leaves of Grass, was first published in 1855 with his own money. The work was an attempt at reaching out to the common person with an American epic. He continued expanding and revising it until his death in 1892. After a stroke towards the end of his life, he moved to Camden, New Jersey, where his health further declined. He died at age 72 and his funeral became a public spectacle.

Whitman's sexuality is often discussed alongside his poetry. Though biographers continue to debate his sexuality, he is usually described as either homosexual or bisexual in his feelings and attractions. However, there is disagreement among biographers as to whether Whitman had actual sexual experiences with men. Whitman was concerned with politics throughout his life. He supported the Wilmot Proviso and opposed the extension of slavery generally. His poetry presented an egalitarian view of the races, and at one point he called for the abolition of slavery, but later he saw the abolitionist movement as a threat to democracy.

Read more about Walt Whitman:  Writing, Legacy and Influence, Works

Famous quotes by walt whitman:

    What is it then between us?
    What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?

    Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and
    place avails not,
    Walt Whitman (1819–1892)

    Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,
    Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,
    Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
    Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child
    leaving his bed wandered alone, bareheaded, barefoot
    Walt Whitman (1819–1892)

    Was seiz’d by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot,
    The rim, the sediment that stands for all the water and all the land
    of the globe.

    Fascinated, my eyes reverting from the south, dropt, to follow those slender windrows,
    Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten,
    Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the tide,
    Walt Whitman (1819–1892)

    Two feathered guests from Alabama, two together,
    And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown,
    And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand,
    And every day the she-bird crouched on her nest, silent, with bright
    eyes,
    And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing
    them,
    Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.
    Walt Whitman (1819–1892)

    It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
    Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

    And you O my soul where you stand,
    Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
    Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
    Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
    Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O, my soul.
    Walt Whitman (1819–1892)