Poem Summarisation and Analysis : Section 42, Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

This week, I have been auditing a course on edX conducted by Harvard University called 'Poetry in America : Whitman', which is mainly coordinated by Professor Elisa New and enlightens some of the wonderful aspects of Whitman's poetry in an easy, fluid manner that encompasses across vivid interests that one might possess regarding the methods of perceiving literature. 

There were at least three to four poems that caught my attention in what has been taught in the first week. However, Section 42 from 'Song of Myself' almost made me shiver the moment I took a first reading. And honestly, it hasn't been out of my mind for a microsecond ever since then. Googling the traces of the same, I figured that this piece indeed is a point of concern for students who want to avail an in-depth understanding of poetry in a not so barbaric manner that most literature classes in most high schools the world over would offer (no offence meant). 

Also, keeping in mind the number of days I haven't answered student's queries, and the number of times the ones I'd written are searched on the Internet everyday convinces me that this post is the need of the hour. 

(Photograph Source)

Section 42, Song of Myself

Source : whitmanarchive.org

A call in the midst of the crowd,

My own voice, orotund sweeping and final.

Come my children,

Come my boys and girls, my women, household and intimates,

Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass'd his prelude 

on the reeds within.

Easily written loose-finger'd chords—I feel the thrum of your 

climax and close.

My head slues round on my neck,

Music rolls, but not from the organ,

Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.

Ever the hard unsunk ground,

Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward sun,

ever the air and the ceaseless tides,

Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real,

Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb, that 

breath of itches and thirsts,

Ever the vexer's hoot! hoot! till we find where the sly one hides 

and bring him forth,

Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life,

Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death.

Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking,

To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning,

Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going.

Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for pay-

ment receiving,

A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.

This is the city and I am one of the citizens,

Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets,

newspapers, schools,

The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, stocks,

stores, real estate and personal estate.

The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail'd 

coats,

I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or fleas,)

I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and shallowest 

is deathless with me,

What I do and say the same waits for them,

Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them.

I know perfectly well my own egotism,

Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less,

And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.

Not words of routine this song of mine,

But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring;

This printed and bound book—but the printer and the printing-

office boy?

The well-taken photographs—but your wife or friend close and 

solid in your arms?

The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets—

but the pluck of the captain and engineers?

In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture—but the host and 

hostess, and the look out of their eyes?

The sky up there—yet here or next door, or across the way?

The saints and sages in history—but you yourself?

Sermons, creeds, theology—but the fathomless human brain,

And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?

Summarisation and Analysis

The most intriguing characteristic feature of Whitman's poetry is its inherent descriptive nature and methodology that emphasises on the grammar of emphasis in a very natural, in a very fluid, easy, resonatingly easy manner. Now, this is a very desirable quality in any poet, or lyricist - because this necessarily deals with the innate structure of lyrical elaboration.

Lyrical elaboration relates to a very picturesque aspect of literature, especially poetry. So, the choice of words that Whitman makes creates a flow that drives oblivion in a certain tenacious chain of eventuality. That is probably what makes his poetry so engaging, so vividly illusive and attractive. 

There are two grammatical poetic tools that Professor New talks about in the course that has been mentioned above. The first one is called 'anaphora', in which the same word is repeated at the beginning of sentences to give birth to an aura of resonance, somewhat like an echoing sound, a monolithic entity or an incandescent hallow of light. The number of times Whitman has used 'Ever' in the second part of the poem perhaps turns into the reason why the poem, in the end is so impactful on the human mind. 

The other important tool used is parallelism. In some aspects, it even coincides the niches where anaphora has been used. For e.g, "Ever the upward and downward Sun" or "Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death". 

Coming back to the generic nature of Whitman's poetry, the elemental portrayal of life is very important. The ordinary, the everyday incidents, the environment that surrounds us, veils us suddenly takes up a subjective form from being a vague backdrop in the first instance. This evolution, this transcendence sets up a framework for gradual penetration of the poem's identity. It indeed adheres an identity to the poetry itself, the aura of which surpasses the identity of the poet. This essentially emphasises on the poetry being more important than the poet and establishes the unresolved rhetoric of 'the creator' and 'the man' - of theology and the unfathomable nature of the human brain in this poem. This juxtaposition, and the fluidity of the structure establishes a more democratic form of writing. 

The poem ends with three questions instead of ending on a conclusive, assertive tone - "what is reason? what is love? what is life?" And even though the culturally ordinary, the habitual surroundings of one's own draws a lot of attention of both the poet and the reader, the metaphysical questioning of one's own identity in the end, surpassing hierarchy, overcoming structure is perhaps why 'Song of Myself' questions regarding existence, regarding identity, regarding the molecular forms of human interaction that sustain the greater human family in the end,regarding the greatest questions about questions that exist, to begin with. 

Do any of you find attempts to justify 'individualism' and 'collectivism' to be intertwined and responsible for each other's existence in this poem? Are there other intriguing elements this poem stirs in your mind? Let us know in the comments section below!