May 31st, Friday

The date is May 31st, Friday, and today I’m coming to you from Buenos Aires, Argentina. 

Today is the birthday of American writer and poet Walt Whitman. Born in 1819 on Long Island, Walt considered his childhood relatively unhappy with an impecunious father leading the family. When Whitman was just four, the family moved to Brooklyn, his father seeking better employment.

Brooklyn is where Walt would grow up, the city and country still reveling in its young glory of being an independent nation. Whitman recalled that on July 4th, 1825, an aged Lafayette was in New York for American Independence Celebrations. Whitman, a small six-year-old, claims he was picked up and given a kiss on the cheek by none other than Lafayette, an important general in the fight for freedom. A joyful moment in an otherwise gray childhood. 

Whitman ended his school days at age 11 and promptly set out to find work to bring the family some much-needed, extra money. His first job was an errand boy for two lawyers and a similar role at the local newspaper. Walt jumped around to different newspapers for work during his teens, enjoying newfound independence from his family who had moved back to Long Island. 

Whitman bounced back and forth between newspaper positions and teaching positions from his 20s until his 40s. He did end up writing poetry and fluff pieces for some of the papers he worked at, but nothing caught the attention of publishers or critics. 

Walt took matters into his own hands in 1855 and self-published 795 copies of the first edition of his masterpiece, Leaves of Grass. It was unconventional in the free-verse form that Whitman favored and was noted as a unique perspective on American life. The fan base for the collection of long poems stemmed largely from a glowing review by Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was happy to promote the book nearly to anyone who would listen. 

Despite approval from Emerson and other writers, Leaves of Grass got Walt into trouble on more than one occasion. He was fired from several jobs because of the collection’s sometimes overt references to the sensual and sexual.  It is commonly accepted that Walt was gay or possibly bisexual. 

Walt was not a part of the military, but his brother George Washington Whitman was, and the two kept in touch by writing letters. Upon seeing, a death notice for GW Whitmore in the newspaper, Walt was terribly worried it might be his own brother George. Walt quickly headed south and eventually found his brother perfectly intact excepting a scratch on his cheek. Whitman however, was profoundly moved by the carnage left by the war. He produced several poems evoking the military that became quite popular. 

Today’s poem, is of course, by birthday, poet Walt Whitman and was written upon hearing the news of the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln.

O Captain! My Captain!

Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                         But O heart! heart! heart!

                            O the bleeding drops of red,

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                         Here Captain! dear father!

                            This arm beneath your head!

                               It is some dream that on the deck,

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                            But I with mournful tread,

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

Thank you for listening. I’m your host Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely evening.