Singing and a Crisis

Whitman’s poetry is not the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read, but he definitely paints some of the most beautiful imagery with words. “Singing” was a big theme throughout the poems we read and I found it quite moving. This is especially true in the poem, “I Hear America Singing.” I’ve known the first line to this poem for a very long time, but had no idea that it was from Whitman’s poem. Stephen Schwartz’s musical, working, (based on the book of the same title) is a musical compilation of different interviews with different jobs, many of which appear in the poem. When the musical characters sing “I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear” it is not filled with joy are such power as the feeling I get from Whitman’s poem. In the musical, the “singing” is actually heavy with the stress of labor and the emotional stress that comes with. On the other hand, I interpret Whitman’s poems as very optimistic and hopeful about almost everything. That is why I believe singing is consistently brining brought up. Singing, usually, is accompanied with great emotional releases, be it happiness or sadness. I would argue that today when we think of singing, that an image of happiness usually accompanies it. As I read Whitman’s play now, labor is celebrated and not something that is dreaded. What makes these people happy is the dedication in their work. Their duty to their work makes them have freedom and own the day. This poem reminds me very much of the importance of work and duty Alcott emphasizes. However, I wouldn’t say I ever imagined the March sisters singing while doing their work.

Another poem of Whitman’s that struck me was, “When I Read the Book.” After reading a plethora of narrative recently, it’s hard not to relate them to Whitman’s insecurities about capturing all of life. I’m not saying that the narratives were false, just that I’m curious to what is missing from them. What is real life? This poem has brought me back to a mini dilemma I was having during the nature walks. Whitman writes:

(As if any man really knew aught of my life,
Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of my real life,
Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections
I seek for my own use to trace out here.)

We write and read. We are constantly trying to capture life, but how do we known when we capture it? I shared Whitman’s doubts about truly knowing one’s own life. Is there something else I could be doing to capture a fuller experience of this world? I’m young, I can still write so much of my life and make it what I want it to be. There is so much that we miss from biographies. Emotions are a huge part of what make us human, but they are so rarely perfectly interpreted. This is somewhat bleak, and I’m not thinking about it too seriously, but the poem made me wonder how my life’s actions would be interpreted or if they would ever be accurately captured. Do I even know?