Leaves of Grass: First and “Death-Bed” Editions contains best known work of American poet Walt Whitman as well as additional poems that he published before his breakthrough work and that he didn’t include in his final publication. Containing hundreds of poems from the “father of free verse”, the reader gets a essentially a full view of Whitman’s career from beginning to end. In additional each new section of the book has an introduction by Dr. Karen Karbiener who also wrote the Notes at the end of the book giving the reader a better understanding of the essence surrounding Whitman’s work. Though many Whitman loves will enjoy this book, for some like myself this turned out to be too much of something that it turns out I didn’t like after all. ( )

I had to read this text when I was in undergrad for English lit. While I absolutely hated my American lit class, I did enjoy Whitman (for the most part, although Leaves of Gras is SO long). There are so many beautiful lines in this text though! ( )

So, here's the deal. I took a long time with this, long for me. There were parts that I skimmed over, parts that made me uncomfortable, parts that made me reevaluate personal perceptions, parts that I couldn't identify with, and parts that I reread several times. All of these parts culminated in a five star rating, a five star read.

That's not to say that editing couldn't or shouldn't be had. In fact, Whitman apparently held the same view and did the deed quite often. But that's just it... when you read Whitman you get a sense of a breathing creation that grew out of experience and became simply more of itself. If we had Whitman's consciousness plugged into the sentient machine from Transcendence he'd still be putting out the new and extended more frequently than your average modern artist. Hence the potential for skimming to be had, having been had, etc.

What I simply loved was Whitman's wordsmithing. Given his reported love of rhythm one can easily see him as a beat poet, cherishing Ginsberg's Sunflower Sutra and marveling in the midst of a group of spoken word enthusiasts. It's this wordsmithing that communicates Whitman's passion to me so transparently. I can't help but be moved by such.

“Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat;
Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best;
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice. ”

To me, Whitman's Leaves feels like a stop loosened. A freely flowing form that doused, drenched, quenched my own inspiration at several points. Because nothing is as freeing as that already freed. Even if only perceived in its freedom, it stirs the desire and need and I believe that's oft the majority of the battle.





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