Sri Aurobindo
on Whitman
[A] considerable change was intellectually anticipated
and to some extent prepared in the last century [19th] itself by a strain, a
little thin in body, but high and continuous, of strenuous intellectuality
which strove to rise beyond the level of the ordinary thought of the time to
the full height and power of what the intellect of the race could then think
out or create in the light of the inheritance of our ages. A small number of
writers,—in the English language Emerson, Carlyle, Ruskin are the best known
among these names,—build for us a bridge of transition from the intellectual
transcendentalism of the earlier nineteenth century across a subsequent
low-lying scientific, utilitarian, externalised intellectualism, as if from
bank to bank across morass or flood, over to the age now beginning to come in
towards us. But in the region of poetic thought and creation Whitman was the
one prophetic mind which consciously and largely foresaw and prepared the paths
and had some sense of that to which they are leading. He belongs to the largest
mind of the nineteenth century by the stress and energy of his intellectual
seeking, by his emphasis on man and life and Nature, by his idea of the cosmic
and universal, his broad spaces and surfaces, by his democratic enthusiasm, by
his eye fixed on the future, by his intellectual reconciling vision at once of
the greatness of the individual and the community of mankind, by his
nationalism and internationalism, by his gospel of comradeship and fraternity
in our common average manhood, by almost all in fact of the immense mass of
ideas which form the connecting tissue of his work. But he brings into them an
element which gives them another potency and meaning and restores something
which in most of the literature of the time tended to be overcast and sicklied
over by an excessive intellectual tendency more leaned to observe life than
strong and swift to live it and which in the practicality of the time was
caught up from its healthful soul of Nature and converted into a huge grinding
mechanism. He has the intimate pulse and power of life vibrating in all he
utters, an almost primitive force of vitality delivered from the enormous
mechanical beat of the time by a robust closeness to the very spirit of life,—that
closeness he has more than any other poet since Shakespeare,—and ennobled by a
lifting up of its earthly vigour into a broad and full intellectual freedom.
Thought leads and all is made subject and object and substance of a free and a
powerful thinking, but this insistence of thought is made one with the pulse of
life and the grave reflective pallor and want of blood of an overburdened
intellectualism is healed by that vigorous union. Whitman writes with a
conscious sense of his high function as a poet, a clear self-conception and
consistent idea of what he has to cast into speech,—
One's-Self I sing, a simple separate person,
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En Masse…
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Cheerful, for freest action formed under the laws
divine,
The Modern Man I sing.
No other writer of the time has had this large and
definite consciousness of the work of a modern poet as a representative voice
of his age, this inspiring vital sentiment of the nation conceived as a
myriad-souled pioneer of human progress, of mankind, of universal Nature, of
the vast web of a universal thought and action. His creation, triumphing over
all defect and shortcoming, draws from it a unique broadness of view, vitality
of force and sky-wide atmosphere of greatness.
But beyond this representation of the largest thought
and life and broadest turn to the future possible to his age, there is
something else which arises from it all and carries us forward towards what is
now opening to man around or above, towards a vision of new reaches and a
profounder interpretation of existence. Whitman by the intensity of his
intellectual and vital dwelling on the things he saw and expressed, arrives at
some first profound sense of the greater self of the individual, of the greater
self in the community of the race and in all its immense past action opening
down through the broadening eager present to an immenser future, of the greater
self of Nature and of the eternal, the divine Self and Spirit of existence who
broods over lings, who awaits them and in whom they come to the sense their
oneness. That which the old Indian seers called the mahān ātmā Great Self, the
Great Spirit, which is seen through the vast strain of the cosmic thought and
the cosmic life,—the French poets, influenced in their form and substance by
Whitman have seized on this element with the clear discernment and intellectual
precision and lucidity of the Latin mind and given it the name of unanimism,—is
the subject of some of his highest strains. He gets to it repeatedly through
his vision of the past opening to the ideal future, the organic universal
movement of bygone nations and ages and the labour and creation of the present
and some nobler coming turn to a freedom of unified completion,—
The journey done, the journeyman come home,
And man and art with Nature fused again...
The Almighty leader now for once has signalled with his
wand.
And some part of his work, as in the Passage to
Sail forth—steer for the deep waters only...
For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared to go,
And we will risk the ship, ourselves and all...
O daring joy,—but safe! are they not all the seas of
God?
And with a singularly clear first seeing of the ideal
goal and the ideal way of the conversion of the intellectual and vital into the
spiritual self, he calls the spirit of man to the adventure,
The circumnavigation of the world begin,
Of man, the voyage of his mind's return,
To reason's early paradise,
Back, back to wisdom's birth, to innocent intuitions,
Again with fair creation.
He casts forward too the ideal heart of this wider
movement of man into the sense of the divine unity which is its completion,
brings out the divinity of the soul in man and its kinship to the divinity of
the Eternal,—
0 Thou transcendent,
Nameless, the fibre and the breath,
Light of the light, shedding forth universes, thou
centre of them,
Thou mightier centre of the true, the good, the
loving,...
How should I think, how breathe a single breath, how speak,
if out of myself
I could not launch to those superior universes?
Swiftly I shrivel at the thought of God,
At nature and its wonders. Time and Space and Death,
But that I, turning, call to thee, 0 soul, 0 actual Me,
And, lo, thou gently masterest the orbs,
Thou matest Time, smilest content at Death,
And fillest, swellest full the vastnesses of space,—
and he foresees the coming of that kinship of God and
man to conscious fruition in oneness,—
Greater than stars or suns,
Bounding, 0 soul, thou journeyest forth:
What love than thine and ours could wider amplify?
What aspirations, wishes outvie thine and ours, 0 soul?
What dreams of the ideal? what plans of purity? perfection,
strength?
What cheerful willingness for others’ sake to give up
all?
For others’ sake to suffer all?
Reckoning ahead, 0 soul, when thou, the time achieved, ...
Surrounded, copest, frontest God, yieldest, the aim attained,
As filled with friendship, love complete, the Elder
Brother found,
The Younger melts in fondness in his arms.
These passages,—one of the seers of old time reborn in
ours might so have expressed himself in a modern and intellectualised
language,—send forward an arclight of prophetic expression on what is at the very
heart of the new movement of humanity. It is in some degree an indication of
that which the twentieth century is slowly turning to lay hold of, to develop
and to make its own in a closer actuality of insight and experience.
Whitman’s verse, if it can be so called, is not simply
a cadenced prose, though quite a multitude of his lines only just rise above
the prose rhythm. The difference is that there is a constant will to intensify
the fall of the movement so that instead of the unobtrusive ictus of prose, we
have a fall of the tread, almost a beat, and sometimes a real beat, a meeting
and parting, sometimes a deliberate clash or even crowding together of
stresses which recall the spirit of the poetical movement, though they obey no
recognised structural law of repetitions and variations. In this kind of rhythm
we find actually three different levels,—the distinction may be a little rough,
but it will serve,—a gradation which is very instructive. First we have a
movement which just manages to be other than prose movement, but yet is full of
the memory of a certain kind of prose rhythm. Here the first defect is that the
ear is sometimes irritated, sometimes disappointed and baulked by a divided
demand, memory or expectation, hears always the prose suggestion behind
pursuing and dragging down the feet of the poetic enthusiasm. It is as if one
were watching the "aerial walk" of a Hatha-yogin who had just
conquered the force of gravitation, but only to the extent of a few inches, so
that one is always expecting the moment which will bring him down with a bump
to mother earth. It is something like a skimming just above the ground of
prose, sometimes a dragging. of
the feet with a frequent touch and upkicking of the dust, for inevitably the
poetic diction and imaginative power of style fall to the same level. Much of
Whitman’s work is in this manner; he carries it off by the largeness and
sea-like roll of the total impression, but others have not the same
success,—even the French craftsmen are weighed down,—and in them the whole has
a draggled and painful effect of an amphibious waddling incertitude. But there
is a nobler level at which he often keeps which does not get out of sight of
the prose plain or lift up above all its gravitation, but still has a certain
poetic power, greatness and nobility of movement. But it is still below what an
equal force would have given in the master measures of poetry.
[The Future
Poetry, pp. 179-83; 150-51]
To a
Historian
You who celebrate bygones,
Who have explored the outward, the surfaces of the
races, the life that has exhibited itself,
Who have treated of man as the creature of politics,
aggregates, rulers and priests,
I, habitan of the Alleghanies, treating of him as he is
in himself in his own rights,
Pressing the pulse of the life that has seldom
exhibited itself, (the great pride of man in himself,)
Chanter of Personality, outlining what is yet to be, I
project the history of the future.
I Hear
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
deck-hand singing on the teamboat 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.
Poets to Come
Poets to come! orators, singers, musicians to come!
Not to-day is to justify me and answer what I am for,
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental,
greater than before known,
Arouse! for you must justify me.
I myself but write one or two indicative words for the
future,
I but advance a moment only to wheel and hurry back in
the darkness.
I am a man who, sauntering along without fully
stopping, turns a casual look upon you and then averts his face,
Leaving it to you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you.
Facing West
From
Facing west from
Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound,
I, a child, very old, over waves, towards the house of
maternity, the land of migrations, look afar,
Look off the shores of my Western sea, the circle
almost circled;
For starting westward from
From
From the south, from the flowery peninsulas and the
spice islands,
Long having wander'd since, round the earth having
wander'd,
Now I face home again, very pleas'd and joyous,
(But where is what I started for so long ago?
And why is it yet unfound?)
Song at
Sunset
Splendor of ended day, floating and filling me!
Hour prophetic—hour resuming the past!
Inflating my throat—you, divine average!
You, Earth and Life, till the last ray gleams, I sing.
Open mouth of my Soul, uttering gladness,
Eyes of my Soul, seeing perfection,
Natural life of me, faithfully praising things;
Corroborating forever the triumph of things.
Illustrious every one!
Illustrious what we name space—sphere of unnumber’d
spirits;
Illustrious the mystery of motion, in all beings, even
the tiniest insect;
Illustrious the attribute of speech—the senses—the
body;
Illustrious the passing light! Illustrious the pale
reflection on the new moon in the western sky!
Illustrious whatever I see, or hear, or touch, to the
last.
Good in all,
In the satisfaction and aplomb of animals,
In the annual return of the seasons,
In the hilarity of youth,
In the strength and flush of manhood,
In the grandeur and exquisiteness of old age,
In the superb vistas of Death.
Wonderful to depart;
Wonderful to be here!
The heart, to jet the all-alike and innocent blood!
To breathe the air, how delicious!
To speak! to walk! to seize something by the hand!
To prepare for sleep, for bed—to look on my
rose-color’d flesh;
To be conscious of my body, so satisfied, so large;
To be this incredible God I am;
To have gone forth among other Gods—these men and women
I love.
Wonderful how I celebrate you and myself!
How my thoughts play subtly at the spectacles around!
How the clouds pass silently overhead!
How the earth darts on and on! and how the sun, moon,
stars, dart on and on!
How the water sports and sings! (Surely it is alive!)
How the trees rise and stand up—with strong trunks—with
branches and leaves!
(Surely there is something more in each of the
tree—some living Soul.)
O amazement of things! even the least particle!
O spirituality of things!
O strain musical, flowing through ages and
continents—now reaching me and
I take your strong chords—I intersperse them, and
cheerfully pass them forward.
I too carol the sun, usher’d, or at noon, or, as now,
setting,
I too throb to the brain and beauty of the earth, and
of all the growths of the earth,
I too have felt the resistless call of myself.
As I sail’d down the
As I wander’d over the prairies,
As I have lived—As I have look’d through my windows, my
eyes,
As I went forth in the morning—As I beheld the light
breaking in the east;
As I bathed on the beach of the
As I roam’d the streets of inland
Or cities, or silent woods, or peace, or even amid the
sights of war;
Wherever I have been, I have charged myself with
contentment and triumph.
I sing the Equalities, modern or old,
I sing the endless finales of things;
I say Nature continues—Glory continues;
I praise with electric voice;
For I do not see one imperfection in the universe;
And I do not see one cause or result lamentable at last
in the universe.
O setting sun! though the time has come,
I still warble under you, if none else does,
unmitigated adoration.
Tears
Tears! tears! tears!
In the night, in solitude, tears;
On the white shore dripping, dripping, suck’d in by the
sand;
Tears—not a star shining—all dark and desolate;
Moist tears from the eyes of a muffled head:
—O who is that ghost?—that form in the dark, with
tears?
What shapeless lump is that, bent, crouch’d there on
the sand?
Streaming tears—sobbing tears—throes, choked with wild
cries;
O storm, embodied, rising, careering, with swift steps
along the beach;
O wild and dismal night storm, with wind! O belching
and desperate!
O shade, so sedate and decorous by day, with calm
countenance and regulated pace;
But away, at night, as you fly, none looking—O then the
unloosen’d ocean,
Of tears! tears! tears!
To Foreign
Lands
I heard that you ask’d for something to prove this
puzzle, the
And to define
Therefore I send you my poems, that you behold in them
what you wanted.
Miracles
Why! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the
sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the
edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love—or sleep in the bed
at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer
forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds—or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down—or of stars
shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon
in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like
me best—mechanics, boatmen, farmers,
Or among the savants—or to the soiree—or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of
machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the
perfect old woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to
burial,
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring—yet each distinct, and in its
place.
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread
with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs, of men
and women, and all that
Concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
To me the sea is a continual miracle;
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the
waves—the ships, with men
In them,
What stranger miracles are there?
"O
Captain! My Captain!"............
O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought
is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all
exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and
daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle
trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the
shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces
turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and
still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor
will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed
and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with
object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Here’s the recitation of O Captain my Captain! by Jim
Clark
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJ1MWYAJbWs