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🗓️ 6 July 2023
⏱️ 17 minutes
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Today’s poem is by Walter Whitman Jr. (/ˈhwɪtmən/; May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892), an American poet, essayist, and journalist. He is considered one of the most influential poets in American history. Whitman incorporated both transcendentalism and realism in his writings and is often called the father of free verse.[1]
Whitman's major poetry collection, Leaves of Grass, first published in 1855, was financed with his own money and became well known. The work was an attempt to reach out to the common person with an American epic. Whitman continued expanding and revising Leaves of Grass until his death in 1892.
His poetry often focused on both loss and healing. On the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, who Whitman greatly admired, he authored two poems "O Captain! My Captain!" and "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd", and gave a series of lectures on Lincoln.
—Bio via Wikipedia
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0:00.0 | Welcome back to the Daily Poem, a podcast from Goldberry Studios. I'm Sean Johnson, and today is Wednesday, July 5th, 2023. Today's poem is by Walt Whitman, and it's called Election Day, November 1884. |
0:24.6 | It has been said that there is American poetry and there is poetry by Americans, |
0:31.6 | and that those are two different things. |
0:34.6 | And if that's true, it's thanks in part to Walt Whitman. For better or for ill, |
0:42.7 | Whitman was one of the poetic figures that really helped to develop a distinctive style and |
0:52.3 | voice in American poetry, |
0:56.0 | thus creating a poetry of America and not just poetry |
1:02.0 | written in the same style and form as European poetry, |
1:07.0 | but by American authors. |
1:10.0 | And when he wasn't writing about himself, one of Whitman's |
1:16.4 | favorite topics was America. I'll read today's poem one time, offer a few comments, and then read it again. |
1:31.3 | This one goes out to all of you whose patriotic spirit hasn't been worn down or extinguished by |
1:39.3 | late night fireworks or too many hot dogs yesterday. |
1:47.9 | Election Day, November, 1884. |
1:56.6 | If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and show, |
2:05.1 | it would not be you, Niagara, nor you, ye limitless prairies, nor your huge rifts of canyons, |
2:13.0 | Colorado, nor you, Yosemite, nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyser loops ascending to the skies, |
2:21.7 | appearing and disappearing, nor Oregon's white cones, nor Huron's belt of mighty lakes, nor Mississippi's stream. |
2:31.8 | This seething hemisphere's humanity, as now I'd name, the still small voice vibrating, America's choosing day. |
2:38.0 | The heart of it not in the chosen, the act itself the main, the quadrenial choosing. |
2:49.0 | The stretch of north and south aroused, seaboard and inland, Texas to Maine, the prairie states, Vermont, Virginia, California, |
2:55.7 | the final ballot shower from east to west, the paradox and conflict, the countless snowflakes falling, a swordless conflict, yet more than all Rome's wars of old |
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