Compare/Contrast: The Voices That Echo Through History

Today I want to complete a bridge we started in 1855. I started off wanting to explain how we got to contemporary poetry from Shakespeare. I think people have been trekking with me so far. We are going to have a quick thematic review and some poems we have seen before but stick with me. I have a point.

The first place to go is back to Walt. Always go back to Walt. 

 I Hear America Singing
by Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
     singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or
     at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of
     the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows,
     robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.


Now remember he is painting the American Dream. He is speaking of hard work, middle class, blue collar, and diversity. He is speaking of many people making one voice, one cry, one hope.

But 70 years into the future Langston Hughes says he is part of this song. Slaves, women, people of color, were all excluded from Whitman's melody, so Langston will add in his rhythm.

I, Too, Sing America
  by Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.


Langston is giving this carol that Walt hears a rhythm. Here is the cadence, here is the beauty, the subjectivity, the pain, the loss, the other side of America. Here is the darker brother of the soul. Here is shame and yet beauty in the shadow. The song is changing. People are tapping their feet.

But 30 years into the future, 100 years after Walt originally published, Alan Ginsberg adds his voice to the conversation. Alan is a Beatnik poets, the one who wore all black and played the bongos while they recited poetry in coffee shops. He has taken this black rhythm and wrapped it around his soul. He has looked in the American Dream coming out of World War II and seen materialism and shallow living. He has been disillusioned and instead of questioning who is singing the song, Alan wants to question the song itself. Remember Feel First here. Let yourself fall into the words and the rhythm.

A Supermarket in California
  by Allen Ginsberg


  What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked
down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking
at the full moon.
  In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon
fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
  What peaches and what penumbras!  Whole families shopping at
night!  Aisles full of husbands!  Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!
--and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

  I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking
among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
  I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops?  
What price bananas?  Are you my Angel?
  I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you,
and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
  We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy
tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the
cashier.

  Where are we going, Walt Whitman?  The doors close in a hour.
Which way does your beard point tonight?
  (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and
feel absurd.)
  Will we walk all night through solitary streets?  The trees add shade
to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
  Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automo-
biles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
  Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America
did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a
smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of
Lethe?

Listen to it again. Read it again. He is trying to call us back to Walt. He is trying to call Walt back to us. He is trying to remember the heart when people only focus on the wallet. He is trying to stir the mind in a time when people wanted to think less and do more. He is a strong foundation for understanding modern poetry.

I feel at this point we can now begin to look at some more contemporaries. We will dwell in the 60s and the 70s a bit before going completely contemporary. But here is the progression.

Beauty/Hope
Shame/Loss
Transformation

Sounds a bit like the gospel to me, but you make that call.