LEAVES OF GRASS

Song of Death

You, dear, caressing death,

Flowing around the world, lightly you come, you come,

Day and night, to everyone, to everyone!

Sooner or later you, gentle death!

Glory to the bottomless universe

For life, for joy, for things and interesting knowledge,

For love, for sweet love! But glory! glory! glory!

To your squeezing, cold and grasping hands, O death!

You are a dark mother! You always glide close with silent steps!

Has anyone ever sung you a song of welcome and joy?

I sing this song to you, I praise you above all,

So that when my time comes, you will walk towards me with an unstumbling step!

Mighty savior, closer!

I sing to all those whom you have carried away, I joyfully sing to the dead.

Drowned in your ocean of love,

Washed in the waters of thy bliss, O death!

Dashing serenades from me to you!

Let them celebrate you with dancing, let them dress up, feast,

Wide distances and high skies suit you,

And life, and fields, and a huge, thoughtful night.

Quiet night under the abundant stars,

And the soul turned to you, O wide, veiled death,

And a body clinging gratefully to you.

Above the treetops I lift up my song to you.

Over the rising and falling waves, over the myriad prairies and wide fields,

Over crowded cities, over crowded roads and shipyards,

I send you a joyful song, rejoice, rejoice, O death

(From the poem “When the lilac blossomed at the threshold”).

You criminals brought to court

You criminals brought to court,

You prison guards are behind bars in prison,

You convicted murderers, in chains and iron handcuffs,

Who am I that I’m not behind bars?

Why aren't they judging me?

I'm just as damned and devilish

Why are my hands not in chains, my feet not in irons?

You prostitutes, colorfully dressed, walking along the sidewalks,

Or shameless in their cells,

Who am I that I would call you more shameless than me?

I am guilty! I confess it myself!

(Do not glorify me, admirers - do not sing flattering praises to me,

Praises infuriate me to the point of convulsions,

I see what you don't see - I know what you don't know).

Inside, behind these ribs, I am polluted, suffocated,

Under this feignedly impassive face, hellish waves are bubbling.

I'm lustful, vicious,

I am a companion of the villains, I am numbered among them,

I myself am in this host of prostitutes and convicts,

From now on I will not renounce them, for how can I renounce myself? *)

(From the series “Autumn Streams”).

*) These verses are the embodiment of Dostoevsky’s well-known formula: “Truly everyone is guilty before everyone for everyone and for everything.” Spencer expressed the same thought in these words: “No one can be called free until everyone is free. No one can be completely blameless, As long as there is at least one vicious person, no one can be completely happy until everyone is happy.”

The first person you meet, if you, passing by, suddenly want to start a conversation with me, why don’t you start a conversation with me?

Why don't I start a conversation with you?

(From the series “Inscriptions”).

Child's amazement

As a little boy, I used to fall silent and listen in amazement,

As in the priest’s Sunday speeches, God always comes out as an adversary,

An opponent of some creature.

(From the series “By the Road”).

To the one who will die soon

I remove those around you, for I brought you news,

You'll die soon. Let others say what they want, I don’t know how to lie,

I am precise and ruthless, but I love you; there is no salvation for you.

Gently I place my right hand on your shoulder,

I don't say anything, I silently rest my head on you,

I sit next to you, calm and devoted,

I'm not a nurse, not a father, not a neighbor, but I'm more for you than they are,

I renounce you from everything that is corruptible and false in you, leaving only the eternally spiritual,

You yourself will never die,

The corpse that will remain after you is not you, but dung.

The sun accidentally shone where it was not expected,

Strong thoughts come over you, and you smile trustingly.

You forgot that you were sick, and I forgot that you were sick,

You don't notice the drugs, you don't care about the sobs, you know that I am near you,

I'm taking strangers away from you, there's no point in them crying over you,

I'm not crying over you, I'm congratulating you.

(From the series. Whispers of Heavenly Death").

Urban Dead

At the city dead, at the entrance,

Curious, I slowed down.

I see: a poor, rejected corpse, a prostitute,

Her body was brought here

It lies on the wet brick floor, no one came for it,

Shrine, woman, female body, I see the body, I look

on him for one thing, I don’t see anything else,

The numb silence does not bother me, nor the water that drips from the tap,

Not the stench of a corpse, -

But this house - a wonderful house, an elegant, beautiful house -

Collapsed,

This immortal house, larger than all our buildings,

Our Capitol, with a white dome, with a proud statue at the top *); and old churches with bell towers raised up -

This beautiful and terrible ruined house,

The abode of the soul, the soul itself,

The house everyone avoids

Take the breath of my trembling lips

And this lonely tear,

Like a wake from me, leaving,

You, broken, destroyed house, house of sin and madness,

You dead passion

The house of life, recently laughing, noisy,

But even then he was already dead,

A ringing and wonderfully decorated house,

But dead, but dead, dead.

(From the series “Autumn Streams”)

*) Capitol - a building in the city of Washington; Congress and the Supreme Court meet there. It is decorated with a high iron dome. On the dome is the Statue of Liberty, erected in 1863 by sculptor Thomas Crawford.

Love games of eagles

I’m walking along the road over the river (my morning walk, my rest),

Suddenly a suppressed cry from above,

The loving caress of eagles,

Merging of swift bodies in height,

Clutched clenched claws

Whirling, madness, fury, the whirlwind of a living wheel at the top,

Beating four wings, two beaks,

A lump of spinning mass,

Somersaulting, throwing, dodging, falling straight down,

Hanging over the river, two - one, in a daze of languor,

In the air, languidly motionless,

And so they part, and their claws weaken, and they rise into the sky at an angle, on slow powerful wings,

He in his own way and she in her own separate way.

(From the series “By the Road”).

Village painting

Behind the wide gates of the peaceful village barn

Illuminated clearing with cattle and horses,

And the fog, and the expanse, and the distant receding horizon.

(From the series “By the Road”).

Song about the high road

(Fragment)

On foot, with a light heart, I go out onto the high road,

Healthy, free, the whole world is before me!

The gray long path leads me where I want.

From this moment I don’t need happiness, I want my own happiness.

From now on I don’t whine about anything, I don’t want anything,

Complaints, questions and books were left at home,

Strong and joyful I walk along the road forward.

Earth, isn't that enough?

I don't need the stars to go lower

I know they are good where they are now...

This is a deep lesson - to accept everything, not to reject anyone, not to give preference to anyone,

The Negro, the criminal, the illiterate, the sick - it is open and accessible to everyone;

Childbirth, someone is running after the doctor, a beggar is hobbling, a drunk is staggering, workers are walking in a crowd and laughing, furniture is being transported to the dacha,

A dressed-up dandy, a funeral drogue, lovers who ran away from home,

Everyone passes, and I pass, and everything passes, and no one is a hindrance to anyone,

Not a single one unloved, not a single one ignored, they are all dear to me.

I think that heroic deeds were all born in the free wind,

And all free songs are in the air,

I think I could stand up now and work miracles,

I think that whoever I meet now will fall in love with me at first sight

And he will love me

I think that whoever I see now should be happy.

I swallow the vastness and distance in big gulps! West and east are mine, north and south are mine!

I'm more than I thought, I'm better than I thought, I didn't know how good I was,

I will scatter myself among everyone I meet,

I will give everyone new joy and new strength,

And whoever rejects me will not make me sad,

And whoever accepts me will be blessed and blessed.

If a thousand wonderful men stood before me now, it would not surprise me,

If a thousand beautiful women appeared before me now, it would not amaze me.

Now I understand how to create the best people:

Let them grow in the free wind, sleep and eat with the earth.

Here is a test of wisdom,

Here I will test now all religions and philosophies,

Perhaps they are good in the stuffiness of academies, but they are no good under wide clouds, in front of green distances, near running streams.

Only grain is nutritious, only the kernel of all things,

Who will peel off their husks, who will peel off their shells for you and for me?

Why do many, approaching me, light the sun in my blood?

Why, when they leave me, do the flags of my joy droop?

Why do broad and melodic thoughts always intoxicate me under other trees?

(I think both summer and winter they ripen on these trees and fall on me like fruit).

Where does the passing men and women show favor towards me?

Where does my favor towards them come from?

And llons! whoever you are, come out and let's go together,

With me you will not get tired on the road.

At first the road is unkind, at first the earth is silent and inhospitable, nature is incomprehensible and inhospitable.

But go, do not lose heart, go forward, and you will see the divine, the hidden,

No words can say what great beauty you will see.

Allons! Forward! Don't hesitate!

May this harbor protect you from storms,

Let these people be hospitable, and this home cozy,

We will rush across the crazy, roadless sea!

The earth and the elements are with us,

With us is health, enthusiasm, curiosity, pride, delight!

But don't come to me who has already squandered your best,

I don’t need syphilitics and drunkards!

Listen! I'll tell you the truth

I don't offer you any old pleasant gifts,

I offer you new heavy ones,

Let's go, but I warn you that I will demand a lot,

You should not collect and pile up what is called wealth,

Scatter everything you earn and accumulate wherever you go;

Having entered any city, do not stay in it longer than necessary, and, faithful to the calling voice, quickly leave,

Those whom you leave there will mock you, taunt you with evil ridicule,

Loving hands will try to hold you, but let your kisses be farewell,

And let these hands not become shackles.

Allons! To the infinite and beginningless!..

We'll take all the buildings and streets with us wherever we go,

What is the universe if not a road - many roads for wandering souls -

They march on and on

Loving, sick and rejected,

Majestic, powerful, crazy, weak, proud, desperate.

I don’t know where they are going, but I know that it is for the great, for the better.

Come out, men and women!

There is no point in poring over in your houses, even if you built them yourself,

Get out of captivity and darkness! Leave the hiding place;

No amount of begging will help, I know every nook and cranny

You will not shield me from me either with clothes, or dancing, or dinner, or laughter.

I see through all your veils your hidden sorrows and horrors.

You won't tell your wife, girlfriend, or husband

About this terrible double of himself who wanders wordless through the streets

And in the living rooms he hides behind a mask of politeness,

And everywhere, in carriages, in cabins, in public meetings, elegantly dressed, he laughs,

And in his chest there is death, and in his skull there is hell -

There, under the white shirt-front, under the ribbons and boutonnieres,

How talkative he is, he talks about everything, but doesn’t say a word about himself.

Allons! Hurry up! Let the paper remain on your desk unwritten

And on the shelf there is an unread book,

Let your tool remain at the factory, and you will not earn money,

Let the school remain empty! Don't listen to the teacher's calls!

Camerado, I give you my hand, I give you my love, I give you my whole soul, without preaching, without demanding,

Will you go with me on the road, my inseparable companion until the grave?

Whoever you are, I'm afraid you're walking the path of dreams,

I'm afraid that what you are so firmly confident in will disappear from under your feet and melt under your hands,

Even now your appearance, and your house, and words, and deeds, and anxieties, and your joy and madness,

Everything falls from you, both your real body and your real soul - only they are in front of me,

You stand before me aloof from your work and care, from buying and selling,

From your farm and from your shop, from what you eat, what you drink, how you mourn, you die.

Whoever you are, I lay my hand on your shoulder, you will be my poem!

I whisper close to your ear:

I have loved many men and women, but I have never loved anyone like you.

Oh, for a long time I lingered away from you, for a long time I was dumb,

I should have come running to you a long time ago,

I would talk about you endlessly, I would sing your praises alone.

Oh I'll leave everyone behind, I'll go and make a hymn about you

Nobody understood you, I’m the only one who understands you,

Nobody was fair to you, you weren’t fair to yourself,

Everyone has found “yans” in you, I’m the only one who doesn’t see any “yans” in you,

I alone do not place over you either a ruler, or a lord, or a God:

Above you is only the one who is hidden within you.

Icon painters painted swarming crowds of people, and between them one in the middle,

And the head of one in the middle was in a golden halo, -

I am painting an icon on which there are myriads of heads, and every single one of them is in golden halos,

From my hand radiance flows, from men's and women's heads it eternally emanates.

Oh, I could sing such majestic hymns about you, I could glorify you!

How great you are, you yourself don’t know, you overslept yourself,

It’s as if your eyelids have been drooping all your life,

And everything you did turned back on you, as if someone was laughing at you.

(Your riches and prayers and knowledge, if they did not turn into someone’s mockery, then what did they turn into?)

But you are not the laughing stock.

There, hidden, below, you are hidden, the real one,

And I see you where no one can see you.

Neither your silence, nor the desk, nor the night, nor your insolent appearance, nor the routine of your life will hide you from me;

Your face is shaved and yellow, your restless pupils may confuse others, but they will not confuse me.

Your vulgar attire, ugly pose and drunkenness, and lust, and early death - I throw everything away.

No one has such talents that you do not have,

Neither such beauty, nor such kindness as you have now,

Neither such audacity, nor such patience as you have,

And whatever pleasures await others, the same await you.

I won't give anything to anyone if I don't give the same to you,

I will not glorify anyone, not even God, with my song, if I do not glorify you.

Whoever you are! go ahead and demand!

This pomp of East and West is a trifle next to you,

These plains are boundless and these rivers are boundless - measureless, boundless and you, like them,

These storms, volcanoes, elements, movements of Nature, illusions of death - you are the one who rules over them,

You are rightfully the ruler over sorrow, over passion, over the elements, over death!

The fetters fall off your feet, and you see: everything is excellent!;

(From the series. Migratory Birds").

in '72 and '73 of these States *)

*) “These States” Wat Whitman called the United States of America.

From his rotten and stuffy lair, the lair of slaves,

She flashed like lightning and is surprised at herself,

With her feet she tramples ashes and rags,

And with his hands he squeezes the throats of kings.

Oh hope and faith!

Oh, the suffering end of the exiled patriots, giving up the ghost in a foreign land!

Oh, how many sick hearts there are!

Return to your homeland today, may you have a new life.

And you, who received gold for blackening the People,

Find out, liars, what all your tortures, all your convulsions,

For varied court robbery, for extorting money from the poor,

Because the royal lips lied, promising, and, breaking vows, laughed,

The people take revenge with forgiveness, they don’t need your heads,

The ferocious cruelty of kings is disgusting to him!

But tender mercy bred cruel doom, and the frightened kings came back,

They walk majestically and proudly, each with a retinue: priest, extortionist, executioner,

Jailer, lawman, lord, soldier and spy.

And behind everyone - look! - some ghost crawls and sneaks, hazy as the night,

All wrapped in purple, his forehead, head and body are wrapped in blood-red folds,

Neither eyes nor face are visible,

But from under these scarlet robes, lifted by an invisible hand,

One single crooked finger pointing up to the heavens

Appears like the head of a snake.

And in fresh graves lie the corpses of bloody young men,

And the ropes at the gallows are stretched, and the bullets of the rulers are rushing,

And the despots laugh loudly, -

But all this will bear fruit, and these fruits will be good.

These corpses of young men

These martyrs hanging in a noose, these hearts pierced with gray steel,

They are motionless and cold, but yet they live forever and cannot be killed.

They live, O kings, in others just as young,

They live among the remaining brothers, ready to rebel against you again,

They were purified by death, made wise and exalted by it.

Over each person killed for freedom, from each grave, a seed of freedom arises, and from this seed - a new one,

The winds will carry it far for new and new crops,

It will be nurtured by rain and snow.

And every soul that left the body killed by the tyrant executioner,

The invisible one hovers over the earth, whispers, calls, guards.

Freedom! let others despair - I will never despair of you.

What? Is this house boarded up? Has the owner disappeared somewhere?

It’s okay, he’ll be back soon, wait for him.

Get ready for the meeting - his messengers are already coming.

(From the series “By the Road”).

Beat, beat, drum

Burst into the windows, into the doors, like a riotous army!

To the solemn church! - away with those praying!

To school! - Down with schoolchildren!

Away from the bride, groom, this is not the time for you to be blissful with her,

This is not the time for the peaceful plowman to plow and mow peacefully!

You thunder so furiously, drum, you blow so furiously, trumpet!

Hit! hit! drum! - blow the trumpet! pipe! blow it!

Rumble above the roar of the city, above the rumble of wheels!

What? Are the beds ready for the sleepers? Who will fall asleep this night?

Don't trade, traders! Hucksters, don't do any huckstering today!

Do talkers dare to speak? Does the singer dare to sing?

What? Does the lawyer still mumble his speech in court?

Louder, drum roll! Shout, scream, trumpet!

Hit! hit! drum! - blow the trumpet! pipe! blow it!

What do they care about begging and crying, about frightened old people!

Silence the baby's cry and mother's cries!

Let even the dead tremble, unburied, awaiting the coffin!

Shout, shout, trumpets! Thunder, fatal drum!

(From the series “Drumbeat”).

You prairie boy

You, tanned boy from the prairies,

And before you, many things that were desired and awaited came to our camp,

Praises and gifts came, and ample food, until finally with the recruits

You haven’t arrived either, speechless, you have nothing in your hands,

but we looked at each other.

And you have given me more than all the gifts of the universe.

(From the series “Drumbeat”).

Modern years

Years of modernity! years of undone!

Your horizon is rising, I see it parting for more regal dramas,

I see that not only America, not only the people of Freedom, but also other nations are preparing to participate in this performance,

New faces enter the stage with a roar, old ones leave the stage,

There are new alliances of peoples, universal solidarity of tribes,

I see how uncontrollably and powerfully this new horde is entering the world stage,

(Did the old armies, the old wars play their roles?

Have they played all the acts of the play they were supposed to play?).

I see Freedom, fully armed, victorious, proud,

And with her, shoulder to shoulder, on the right and on the left, Peace and Law walk,

A magnificent trio who went into battle against the idea of ​​caste;

What historical endings are we approaching so quickly?

I see millions of people marching back and forth

The boundaries between the kingdoms drawn in Europe by the kings have been erased,

Now the people themselves will erect their borders on earth (all others down),

Never was a simple man more like God,

ABOUT! how he hurries, pushes, moves the masses forward and forward!

His daring foot on land and sea, everywhere,

In the Pacific Ocean he creates settlements, he colonizes archipelagos -

He soldered, he connected together all the countries, the entire geography of the world with a steamship, a telegraph, a newspaper, many military weapons, factories scattered everywhere;

What is this whisper, O countries, running between you, sweeping through the depths of the sea?

Are all nations having a conversation? Isn't the globe creating a single heart?

Humanity has become a single body, rallied into a single people, the tyrants are trembling, their crowns are melting like ghosts,

Who can predict what will happen tomorrow, days and nights are filled with signs,

Oh, prophetic years!

Deeds not yet done, things not yet created, came upon me, I feel them in an ecstatic fever dream,

They rush over me, they crush me, they penetrate me right through,

And now I have neither America nor Europe before my eyes,

All the past, completed, retreats somewhere into the darkness,

A huge future is approaching, coming and coming at me.

(From “Songs of Parting”).

When I'm reading a book

When I read a book where a famous life is described,

I say: was this the whole of human life?

So, if I die, will you describe my life?

(As if anyone knows what my life has been like?

No, I myself don’t know anything about my real life:

A few dark traces, scattered signs, hints,

Which I am trying to outline for myself here).

(From the series “Inscriptions”).

To one singer

Accept this gift

I saved it for a hero, for a leader, for a tribune,

For those who will serve a great cause,

To the old cause of freedom and prosperity of peoples,

Who will defiantly look into the eyes of the oppressors,

Who will start a rebellion?

But I see now that my long-lasting gift,

Like them, it belongs to you too.

(From the series “Inscriptions”).

From "Song about the Exhibition"

(Fragment)

Muse, flee from Hellas, leave Ionia,

Tales of Troy, forget about Achilles' wrath,

About the wanderings of Odysseus and Aeneas.

Nail a sign to Parnassus:

"For rent".

And the same phenomenon

In all Italian museums, in Spanish, French, German castles,

In Zion, at the Jaffa gate, and on Mount Moriah,

For the new kingdom is wider, freer! - waiting for you like a queen!

Our calls have been heard! Look: she's coming!

I hear the rustle of her clothes, I inhale the aroma of her breath.

O queen of queens! Oh, dare I believe

That the statues of gods and ancient temples have no power to hold you,

And Virgil, and Dante, and myriads of legends, poems, -

Did you really drop everything and come running here?

Yes, she has nothing to sing about - there above the dried-up Kastalsky springs,

For the Egyptian Sphinx is mute, his lip is broken,

Calliope is silent forever, and Melpomene and Thalia are dead,

Jerusalem is a handful of ashes scattered by all the winds,

The crusaders, midnight ghosts, melted away with the dawn,

Where is the ogre Palmerin? Where are the towers and castles reflected by the waters of Usk?

Where are the Knights of the Round Table, where are Arthur, Merlin, Lancelot?

Gone! wilted! gone! disappeared as evaporation *).

Died! This world, once mighty, has died for us forever,

Now empty - the soul has flown away! - a ghostly, deserted world.

Embroidered with silks, dazzlingly bright, but alien, royal, priestly!

Buried in the family crypt,

His crown and armor with him are nailed into the coffin,

And his coat of arms is Shakespeare's scarlet page,

And the funeral service over him is Tennyson’s sweetly yearning verse.

A fugitive is hurrying towards us,

I see her, even if you don't.

He hurries towards us at rendez-vous, makes his way with his elbows, walks right through the crowd,

The hum of our machines and the sound of locomotive whistles do not frighten her,

She is not confused by either the drainage drains or the gasometer dial,

Laughs warmly and is glad to stay with us! She is here! in the kitchen among the dishes!

*) We reproduced this poem in its first edition, since the subsequent ones seem weaker to us. The young man Oscar Wilde vigorously protested against these verses. In his lecture “The Renaissance of English Art” we read: “In vain the muse of poetry is called upon - even with the trumpet voice of Wat Whitman - to emigrate from Ionia and Greece and nail to Parnassus a sign: “for departure for rent.” The call of Calliope has not yet ceased , the Asian epic did not die out; the Sphinx did not lose its language, and the Castalian spring did not dry up. For art is the essence of life, and death is unknown to it. Art is an absolute reality, and it does not care about facts" (Collected works of Oscar Wilde, ed. "Niva", vol. IV, 134).

But it seems that I have forgotten decency!

Let me introduce the stranger! (That’s the only reason I live, that’s the only reason I sing).

Colombia *)! In the name of freedom, hail the immortal!

Give each other your hands, and from now on be like sisters.

You, oh Muse, don’t be afraid! new days have dawned on you,

Around you are some new, some strange people, an unprecedented breed of people

But the hearts are still the same, and the passions are the same,

The people inside and outside are the same

No better, no worse - all the same faces of people,

And the same love, and the same beauty and the same customs.

*) That's what Whitman called America.

Away with these boring fables!

Away with these fictions, these romances, the dramas of foreign courts,

These love stanzas, drenched in molasses rhymes, these intrigues and passions of idlers, Fit only for balls where dancers twirl all night -

Empty fun, unhealthy leisure for a few,

With perfume, wine and warmth, under shining candelabra.

Muse! I will bring you ours here and ours today,

Steam, kerosene and gas, great railways!

Trophies of the present day: the delicate Atlantic cable,

And the Suez Canal, and the Gotthard Tunnel, and the Brooklyn Bridge *).
I’ll bring you all the land, like a ball wrapped in rails,
I'll bring our spinning ball **).

*) A 1 1/2 verst long bridge connecting New York with the city of Brooklyn. It took eleven years to build: from 1872 to 1883.

**) It is remarkable that in the same 1855, when Whitman’s book was published, similar ideas were developed in France by the poet Maxime Ducamp (Mach ime du Camp) in his “Modern Songs.” In Nekrasov’s old “Contemporary” (1855, t . III) we found the following lines about him: “The poet assures us that Diana has long ceased to wait in the grove for Endymion, that Apollo has already died of decrepitude on his Parnassus, that Pegasus has become obsolete... What is he himself singing? Railways, locomotives, steam, gas, electricity, chloroform, etc. All this is wonderful, perhaps even very smart and witty, and Dukan’s poems, at least - the subjects of his chants, are indeed modern, but we We doubt that there is much poetry in all this." Those interested in Dukan can read about him in J. Tugendhold's book "The City in French Poetry." There, by the way, there is the following excerpt from Dukan’s famous manifesto: “They open steam, and we sing the praises of Venus!” Electricity is discovered, and we sing the praises of Bacchus! This is absurd! How many times have they described the mouth of a volcano, why don’t we sing about the furnace of the plant in Créuzot!” - Maxime Ducamp (1822-1894), one of Flaubert’s closest friends, was a historian, poet, critic, traveler and journalist. Turgenev portrayed him in essay “The Execution of Troppmann.”

Poet-philosopher, publicist, innovator and reformer of poetry, the founder of free verse in world literature and a medium who conveyed to us the thoughts of all mankind and the essence of the Universe - all this is Walt Whitman, an American poet of the 19th century, who went down in literary history as the author of the book “Leaves of Grass.” ", a book that has become a poetic achievement of world culture.

It is interesting that Walt Whitman wrote only one book in his entire life. He wrote “Leaves of Grass” all his life, and during the author’s lifetime it was published six times. Each new edition was supplemented by a poet; new poems and cycles of poems were included. The sixth, last lifetime edition of the book included 400 poems, divided into 15 cycles.

Philosophy of space

“Leaves of Grass” is not just a collection of free verse, it is an integral poetic work in which Whitman was able to portray a multifaceted and complex image of America in the 19th century. The poet described with reporter's precision the nature and inhabitants of the country, its cities and farms, trees and houses, young men and old people. Whitman not only admires

Trees, rocks, technical achievements of the country, but also talks about the negative sides of the world - suicide, drunkenness, prostitution, crime. The poet is close to both “wild America” with its “primitive inhabitants” the Indians, who are close to nature, and whom Whitman compares to centuries-old trees and rocks, and modern, industrial, urban America. The city in Whitman's view is the embodiment of “universal connections in the universe.”

In “Leaves of Grass,” the poet picks up and develops R. Emirson’s ideas about the connections between the physical and spiritual world. Whitman, from free verse to free verse, conveys the idea that we are all just a small, imperceptible, but very important link in an endless chain of generations, a connecting link between our ancestors and descendants. According to Whitman, man is a part of nature, and in general equal to nature itself; he is part of a single universe in which everything is connected: life and death, past and future. Thus, Emerson's philosophical ideas acquire a cosmic character in Whitman.

Prophet of Democracy

One of the main ideas proclaimed by Walt Whitman in the book “Leaves of Grass” is the divine principle that every person possesses, regardless of his nationality, gender, social status, religious beliefs or age. It should be noted that such democratic ideas were innovative for his time. The poet also believed that humanity will sooner or later come to universal brotherhood, because this is inherent in its nature. Life on earth should then turn into a complex and changeable, but unified process, and humanity should become a “single organism” from which any dissimilarities and contradictions will disappear. For the poet, the symbol of such a cycle of eternal life is grass. Eternal, green, invisible, so weak, but indestructible and capable of breaking through any stones and rocks. Whitman compares the grass to the “handkerchief of God,” the “eternal hieroglyph,” the “mother’s womb,” and the “green hair of the graves.” For the poet, merging with nature, which the grass represents for him, is the path to joy, brotherhood, a way to merge with the world and all humanity. Whitman is in love with every person on earth, for him there are no strangers or bad people, he admires every person like a leaf of grass, perceiving humanity as a whole as a single “electric body.”

Son of Manhattan

Walt Whitman appears in Leaves of Grass as an “average American”, democratic, optimistic, able to enjoy life and ready to make friends with anyone he meets along the way. The author, introducing himself to the reader, calls himself “Walt Whitman, space, son of Manhattan,” but by giving his name, age and describing his appearance, the poet includes in his self-portrait the features of a typical resident of the United States of the 19th century, as well as a mythical, fictional hero. Whitman's lyrical hero has many faces, he feels a sense of kinship towards all the people of the earth, and as the narrative progresses, he turns into people of different nationalities, professions, ages - and speaks on behalf of the farmer, dock worker, worker and others. It combines good and evil, loneliness and collectivism, melancholy and joy. Thus, the central image of the book becomes not one hero, and not a “collective portrait,” but a human personality, an American, and even a world soul. The poet himself claimed that in “Leaves of Grass” he acts as a medium expressing the thoughts of humanity and revealing to the reader the essence of the universe.

Founder of free verse

The book “Leaves of Grass” was innovative for its time not only in its content. Walt Whitman, starting to work on the main book of his life, decided to abandon the classical forms of versification, which, according to the poet, “had the stamp of dead literature.” All 400 poems in the book are written in a poetic form called free verse. The poet himself argued that poetry cannot be artificial, it must be natural. Only with the help of free verse can one convey living speech to the reader, convey the roar of a locomotive, the clatter of soldiers, the beeps of factories. It is believed that it was thanks to Walt Whitman that free verse not only gained popularity in European, and especially in English-language poetry, but also became the dominant poetic form. Thus, this great American poet can rightfully be called the founder of free verse.

Collection “Leaves of Grass” (1855-1891)

The writer typed the first edition of the collection with his own hand in 1855. It was made at the expense of the author, without indicating his name. The book contained 12 poems and untitled poems. The color green dominated the cover. Throughout his life, with each new edition, he expanded the collection, leaving the symbolic name “Leaves of Grass”. The third edition of 1860 contained about a hundred poems. The latest and most complete edition of 1891 is considered the “deathbed edition.”

The collection is perceived as a single integral work, which has an original structure and consists of separate cycles. It is believed that the theme of the book is “This is Walt Whitman himself,” the plot is “Man and the Universe,” the idea is “the eternal and inevitable triumph of man.”

Whitman wrote about world democracy, the brotherhood of all nations, working people, the achievements of science and technological progress, as well as about body and soul, life and death, about nature and man, man and space, about men and women, America and Americans, about poets and poetry, war and peace, etc.

The title of the collection “Leaves of Grass” reflects the natural unity of man with the world, the powerful interconnection of everything that exists. In the book, Whitman sought to create a national epic that would provide a comprehensive picture of reality. His “I” is “projected” onto other people, countries and space.

The generalized image of America occupies a special place in the collection. The poet tried to embody faith in the “American Dream”, in the exclusivity of the historical mission of the United States. At times, the poems sound notes of irritation with the president’s indecisive policy regarding the slave owners of the south.

The poems dedicated to the memory of Likoln, who was a symbol of democracy for the poet, became textbook. The poems “When the lilac last bloomed” (1865 - 1866) and “Oh, captain, my captain!..” (1865) are filled with motifs of sadness and sadness.

In addition to the analysis of the collection “Leaves of Grass”, also see

My Whitman Chukovsky Korney Ivanovich

2. Walt Whitman in the year Leaves of Grass appeared

As soon as Whitman published his book, he, on the advice of Emerson, was visited by a young journalist - former Methodist minister Montcure Daniel Conway. It was September 17, 1855. Whitman then lived with his mother on his native Long Island. “The heat was terrible,” Conway later recalled. - The thermometer showed 35 degrees. There's at least a tree in the pasture. You have to be a fire worshiper and very pious, I thought, to endure such a hot sun. Everywhere you look is empty, not a soul. I was ready to return, when suddenly I saw the man I was looking for. He lay on his back and looked at the painfully burning sun. Gray shirt, bluish-gray trousers, bare neck, tanned, sunburned face; on the brown grass it is itself part of the earth: so as not to step on it by mistake. I went up to him, told him my name, explained why I had come, and asked if he found the sun hotter than it should be. “Not at all!” he objected. Here, according to him, he most willingly creates his “poems.” This is his favorite place. Then he took me to his place. The tiny room looks out from its only window onto the dead desert of the island; a narrow bed, a washstand, a mirror, a pine desk, on one wall an engraving of Bacchus, on the other, opposite, Silenus. There is not a single book in the room... He, he said, has two offices: one on that small deserted pile of sand called Coney Island. He spends many days on this island completely alone, like Robinson Crusoe. He has no literary acquaintances, except for the reporter bohemia he sometimes encountered in Pfaff’s beer hall.

We went swimming, and looking at him, I involuntarily remembered Bacchus in his engraving. The burning sun cast a brown mask over his neck and face, but his body remained dazzling white, soft pink, with such noble outlines of forms, remarkable for their beauty, with such grace of gestures. His face is a perfect oval; his gray hair is cut low and, together with his gray beard, so beautifully breaks the impression of the touching childishness of his face. I noticed the first joyful smile on his face when he entered the water. If he talks about something exciting, his voice becomes gentle and soft and his eyelids tend to close. It is impossible not to feel every minute the truth of his every word, his every movement, as well as the amazing delicacy of someone who was so free in his creativity.”

Moncure Daniel Conway (1832-907) was himself an extraordinary man. Under the influence of Emerson, he renounced his religious beliefs and became an ardent fighter for the liberation of blacks, for which he was persecuted. He was one of the best American journalists of that time. Lived in London for a long time. He wrote many books, including about Emerson, Carlyle, Thomas Paine, and others. Conway was on friendly terms with Whitman and subsequently (in 1867) contributed to the publication of Leaves of Grass in London, edited by William Rossetti.

His article on Walt Whitman was published in an English magazine eleven years after the meeting with the poet described here (Fortnightly Review, 1866, October). The Yankee journalist overdid it and, according to reporter custom, made Walt Whitman an overly spectacular figure - an inspired savage untouched by civilization.