Theme in Whitman and Dickinson's poetry

I am going to apologize in advance for the subject matter of this blog. Not all of it, only the cliché form my discussion of theme will take. Cliché. What a nasty word. The cliché phrases we use every day are often despised by intellectuals, and why? Because they are the whores of the English language. They’re just so easy--you know exactly what you’re going to get, and only a few are wise enough to know that it’s completely meaningless. Cliché themes, concepts, and arguments are the skanks of the idea world. You can take on one of these ideas, but in doing so, you are touching on the same subjects that many, many others have broached. You are not the first, and unfortunately, you will not be the last. Just hope that you are not naïve enough to think that you can get something out of it that no one else has.

That being said, I’m sorry, guys. I just have to get me some of that.

In a sample blog about Whitman’s Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, Professor Weaver mentioned that Whitman was making a great effort to include all human beings in the line, “I am with you, men and women of a generation.” I find it interesting that he feels this way. The phrase “great effort” is really what got me. Why couldn’t Whitman just say ‘people’? It seems as though he had to add the word woman to the word man in order to properly address the universe. This clearly displays the gender inequality of the late nineteenth century.

The other poet we read for this week was Emily Dickinson. It might be argued that there wasn’t much inequality left, being that a female poet is just as famous as a male poet of the same era. In order to dissect that argument, I will have to look at both of these writers in terms of their genders.
Whitman--a man. His poems—long, open-ended, flowing free verse that just goes on and on. Dickinson’s poems, on the other hand, are very terse and tidy and constructed. Very short, and often very poignant. Whitman, as a man, knew that he could rant on and on and people would listen. Dickinson, as a female, must have known that if anyone was going to hear her, she’d have to keep it short. And honestly, I think Dickinson’s poems are better. They say the same amount, and sometimes more, than Whitman’s, with so much less. These days, that ability is considered real talent. But in those times, Dickinson wasn’t even published until after her death.

Whitman’s poetry contains a wealth of insight into the mind of a man. Both "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" and "Song of Myself" seem to be preoccupied with finding some connection to everyone and everything around him. I call this narcissism, which is a trait that afflicts many of the men I know. Everything you are, I am. Everything you know, I know, cries Whitman. But of course, he brings it back around. You, too, are everything I am, you know all that I do. Narcissism gone humble. Way to go, Whitman. You truly are the best.

And of course, when writing a rather long passage about the joys of his penis, he ends every single line with an exclamation. Only a man could get away with that. Even the way he obsessively observes, incessantly records, and prophetically organizes speaks to the freedom he feels as the better sex. His verse bounces all over the place, as if free-balling it all the way to town.

However, Dickinson’s poetry is wrapped neatly into the tight little corsets that every proper woman should wear. How inappropriate for a lady to be caught without undergarments! But her poems do try to break the barrier. Meter is always recognizable in her forms. She always sets it, but at times, she doesn’t quite follow it, she pushes a little past it. She wants to break free of it. And who wouldn’t?
This is why Dickinson, as a woman, was so successful. Because she loathed her gender expectations, and in her writing, she often took on the position of a man. I doubt her work would be so revered if she hadn’t. Look at her love, or more appropriately, heartbreak poems. In 340, she describes the experience of a broken heart as that of a funeral. Oh, the pain—oh, the pain! A woman would end there, but Dickinson doesn’t. “And finished knowing – then.” She ends with getting over it. Way to grow some balls. She does the same in 372, where there is pain, then questions, then process and heaviness, and then, “First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go.” A man would say get over it, a woman would say but it hurts so bad. Dickinson says it hurt, and then I moved the heck on. In 656 she even professes her strength (a lot like Whitman does in "Song of Myself"—“Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from.”) by saying, why, I would never let a man swallow me up whole, especially since I know that his departure is inevitable? And in 269, it looks like she moved past the metaphorical wielding of testacles and got herself a strap-on. Go, Emily! She wanted to get published, and she knew just what to do.

Has much changed? Are women still the weaker sex? I don't believe they are, but I know that they are still viewed as such. And, though we live in a more PC world, it is likely that a man will warrant immediate respect, while a woman will have to earn it. Things have gotten better since the days of Whitman and Dickinson, but they still have a ways to go.

On the Spot

I have to write
a four line poem,
but (truthfully?)

I'd rather be home.