Allison for Nov. 17

Aside from their alliterative “W” names, Walt Whitman and William Carlos Williams have a lot in common. I’m surprised and slightly disappointed in myself for not seeing the heavy Whitmanic influence over Williams’ work before. Both WWs have held consistent spots in my “top 5” since high school, and now I feel an entirely new level of intimacy with these two poets as we enter into some kind of weird poetic-connection-triangle. After reading Higgins article, I read through some of Williams’ poems that I had read before and saw them differently than I did years ago (way back when Whitman was just a poet I liked and not a sea of multitudes in which I am completely and constantly submerged). It’s official, I am now equipped with Whitman-Tinted Glasses.

Poetically, both (1855-1860) Whitman and (1940s-1950s) Williams’ focus on the elemental self, the particulars, the details, the Romantic, and the beautiful. The reader looks through the poem as a microscope, narrowing in on individual blades of grass rather than an entire field or lawn:

“And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves” (Whitman 31).

“The file sharp grass… and a grasshopper of red basalt, boot-long” (Williams 277).

These lines, like many others, could be inserted interchangeably into Whitman’s or Williams’ poems without any break in poetic style, form, or content. Williams even riffs on Whitman’s parenthetical asides, inserting his own voice and creating the same intimacy that Whitman achieves in his poetry. Take for instance this side comment in Williams’ “The Delineaments of the Giants”:

“The river comes pouring in above the city

And crashes from the edge of the gorge

In a recoil of spray and rainbow mists—

(What common language to unravel?

.  . combed into straight lines

from that rafter of a rock’s lip.)

A man like a city and a woman like a flower…” (262).

This follows typical Whitmanic formula. First, the depiction of beautiful and powerful nature—I don’t think I need to remind you of all the instances of the sea, ocean, and rivers in Whitman’s poetry. The parenthetical aside that follows questions the metaphysical underpinning and muses on the deeper meaning of the previous image (not to mention the classic 1855 Whitmanic ellipsis thrown in there as well).  Lastly, Williams’ makes the move from natural world to humanity, equalizing the beauty of Man to that of the previous “rainbow mists.” If I didn’t already know this passage was from a Williams’ poem, I would have confidently identified Whitman as the author. If the similar structure and subject matter isn’t enough to confuse you, Whitman and Williams even make similar word choices in their poetry. Each combines fluid, aesthetic, and relatively simple words with a more sophisticated, Latinate vocabulary. Despite all these similarities in Williams’ work to Whitman’s, Williams’ is far from a copy cat.

The most significant parallelism between Whitman and Williams is how their rare and innovative existence within their own times. Both poets seem to come from nowhere, creating poetry the likes of which their contemporaries had never seen before. The 1855 Leaves of Grass was a non sequitur amongst mid-19th century poetry and planted the seed for poetic trends to follow, most importantly the use of free verse as the official “American” poetic style. Like Whitman, William Carlos Williams served as a poetic catalyst for the imagist movement in the early 20th century (see: “The Red Wheelbarrow”). He even invented what became known as the variable foot, which is based off the condensed and simplified linguistic trends Williams’ observed in American society, i.e. newspaper headlines and radio announcements. Like Whitman’s innovations, Williams’ stylistic influence can be seen decades later (See: Jane Hirshfield’s “Red Scarf”). Even though Whitman preceded Williams, both poets contribute their own unique layer to the ancient and ever-changing poetic palimpsest (shout out to Dr. Scanlon!).

With all that in mind, what I find more impressive about Whitman’s legacy as opposed to Williams’ is the sheer number of writers who mimicked Whitman in one way or another. In Higgins article, it’s almost like Whitman is more than one man. Whitman’s work contains such multitudes that he has produced several legacies. William Carlos Williams may mirror the individualistic Whitman, but Pablo Neruda channels Whitman’s idea of “en-masse,” and  T.S. Eliot evokes Whitman by being the Anti-Whitman. This is perhaps the most impressive aspect of Whitman, that even post-mortem he contains multitudes.

  1. Avatar of Mara Scanlon

    #1 by Mara Scanlon on November 17, 2009 - 1:27 pm

    “way back when Whitman was just a poet I liked and not a sea of multitudes in which I am completely and constantly submerged”– very nicely said, Allison. This is an attentive and interesting post because you have expertise in both poets’ work and make great juxtapositions. WCW wrote the intro to Ginsberg’s Howl, a poem that follows right along in this family.

    (and thanks for the shout out!)

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