ECOSYSTEM MAP: LEAVES OF GRASS

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First, view the attached Powerpoint that supplements this blog post. The ecosystem map illustrates how Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass circulated in popular literature, brand advertising, and finally a poem I wrote in response to the American nationalism that permeates the original work and its influence.

The text I chose to begin with is a poem I created in response to Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, a text my Introductory Topics in English course read together.

Obviously, one node of circulation is Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, a poetry collection that celebrates the poet’s life and philosophy, notably through the form of free verse, a lack of poetic constraint that allows the text to flow more fluidly. Whitman is often regarded as the “father of free verse,” making it impossible to ignore his influence on American poetry.

Another node of circulation is the presence of Leaves of Grass in a popular YA novel, Paper Towns by John Green. After Quentin and Margo’s adventure that left Quentin obsessing over her, he finds a copy of Leaves of Grass annotated by Margo as he searches for her. It becomes a guiding text about humanity for him, a philosophical way of being optimistic. This circulation is a coalescence of contemporary literature and classic poetry.

The third node of circulation is the Levi’s commercial ad using an original wax recording of Whitman reading his 1888 poem “America.” It is a sentiment about rugged American nationalism, urging viewers to “go forth” (wearing Levi’s denim, of course). The use of Whitman’s poem in an advertisement connects literary arts with consumerism and fashion, though it proved a bit divisive, even sparking articles like this one from Entertainment Tonight, another unexpected node of circulation.

Another node of circulation is the poem I wrote myself in response to Leaves of Grass. It responds to the conflation of Whitman and America in the original poem, hoping to combat the notion of extolling Whitman because of his influence. It is a poem that seems unrefined as I wrote it several years ago. I will provide it below:

After Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass

When you said that the contralto sings in the organ loft,

did you mean that bloody songs are

blushing in the body,

warming an open and enclosed space

for our hearts and lungs?

Did you know that our

bodies are organ lofts too,

a place for slimy, pulsing

slabs of meat to lounge

and sip coffee and chat?

You said that America is body,

that your poems would string tendons and ligaments together,

pull broken arms into sockets and heal poisoned livers.

But America is not your body,

it is ours.

We all have organs singing in our suits of skin.

Why do you cover yours with a long,

ashy beard?

Are you decrepit, ribs jutting out and skin

molding?

America’s body cannot have shaky hands and near-sightedness.

You are not the poet of the body,

the pilot is.

You are not the poet of the soul,

the child is.

You are not the poet of the body,

the lunatic is.

You are not the poet of the soul,

the machinist is.

You are not the poet of the body,

the opium-eater is.

You are not the poet of the soul,

the prostitute is.

You are not the poet of the body and soul,

you are only a poet.

You say that we share atoms,

that our corpses will descend into the ground, soil, sediment,

become rot and grass will grow from our decaying bones.

Isn’t it easier to burn,

to be broken down by flame

--become little gray and black atoms--

and placed in a box for remembrance?

True poetry is pouring from an urn

into the ocean where your monsters lurk

and becoming rain when we evaporate.

If I fell onto your bosom-bone,

absorbed into your celebrated beard,

you’d understand that your power is

far from godly.

Yet,

despite your authorship of egomania,

I can’t discount that America needs a poem.

Where lines need to be blurred,

they are being nailed into the ground,

walls erected to keep us from each other.

It is here where danger has become synonymous with

oxygen.

You were right to say that America must be united,

but it doesn’t need a poet,

it needs poetry from all over to plant seeds in the

meadows you imagined.

I will not extol you,

pretend that you have heavenly powers.

I will not pretend that you are more than

a poet raptured in fame.

Though,

I will celebrate the idea of you,

admirable in your endeavors to create an

American flag out of stanzas and metaphors instead of

blood and hate.

I will sing your courage to rip

chains from the words and let them

float free.

Poets idolize the poems you scribbled on leaves,

eager to become ubiquitous like you have.

In a day where not even a god can unite

the carpenters

the doctors

the lawyers

the presidents

the artists

the damaged

we as poets must cast a blanket of truth

from coast to coast

mouth to mouth

hand in hand

to honor a vision of seas comprised of green blades,

vast and profound and harmonious.

I am not your atoms,

not grass in your fields;

But I am a poet,

--we are poets--

a voice of verse vocalizing the love you

once wrote.