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Walt Whitman was an American poet, essayist, and journalist born on May 31, 1819 in
West Hills, Town of Huntington, Long Island. Whitman stated that his childhood was generally
miserable due to familys economic hardships. When Whitman was only eleven years old, he
was done with formal schooling and became an apprentice at Long Islands newspaper, the
Patriot in order to help his family with income.
About a year later, Whitman took a job for another weekly newspaper, the Long-Island
Star. During this time, Whitman attributed his time towards the local library, a town debating
society, and theatre performances. Along with these, it was during this period which Whitman
anonymously published his early poetry in the New York Mirror. When he was 16, he left the
Star and moved to New York City. Although he became a compositor, finding further work was
strenuous at the time. He became a teacher at various schools, but eventually moved away to
begin his own newspaper, the Long Islander. After 10 months, he sold the publication. When he
shortly returned to teaching, he published editorials called, Sun-Down Papers From the Desk
of a Schoolmaster.
Months later, he moved to New York City again and worked for various newspapers.
Later on the road, he sparked a determination to write poetry. In 1850, he began writing Leaves
of Grass, a collection of poetry he continued to revise and edit throughout his lifetime. When he
first self-published it in 1855, the work received a lot of interest & controversy. It was usually
criticized for Whitmans obscene themes and poetry style.
During the Civil War, Whitman wrote many pieces. Whitmans family went through
many troubles during these years, and Whitman once again had difficulties finding work.
Whitman later published a pamphlet called, The Good Gray Poet, which defended his name and
increased his popularity. During this time period, the poet published, O Captain! My Captain!,
which also contributed to his popularity.
After suffering a paralytic stroke in 1873, he eventually moved in with his brother &
became bed ridden. In 1891, Whitman finished his final edition of Leaves of Grass. He died on
March 26, 1892.
Whitman was a daring writer, who incorporated both transcendentalism & realism in his
works. He often wrote about topics many other writers at the time wouldnt dare to associate
their names with. He is among the most influential poets in American literature and is renowned
as the father of free verse.
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Give me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling;
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard;
Give me a field where the unmowd grass grows;
Give me an arbor, give me the trellisd grape;
Give me fresh corn and wheatgive me serene-moving animals, teaching content;
Give me nights perfectly quiet, as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I looking up
at the stars;
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers, where I can walk undisturbd;
Give me for marriage a sweet-breathd woman, of whom I should never tire;
Give me a perfect childgive me, away, aside from the noise of the world, a rural, domestic
life;
Give me to warble spontaneous songs, relievd, recluse by myself, for my own ears only;
Give me solitudegive me Naturegive me again, O Nature, your primal sanities!
These, demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and rackd by the warstrife;)
These to procure, incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart,
While yet incessantly asking, still I adhere to my city;
Day upon day, and year upon year, O city, walking your streets,
Where you hold me enchaind a certain time, refusing to give me up;
Yet giving to make me glutted, enrichd of soulyou give me forever faces;
(O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries;
I see my own soul trampling down what it askd for.)
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The dense brigade, bound for the war, with high piled military wagons following;
People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants;
Manhattan streets, with their powerful throbs, with the beating drums, as now;
The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, (even the sight of the
wounded;)
Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical choruswith varied chorus, and light of the
sparkling eyes;
Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.
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City of Orgies
City of orgies, walks and joys!
City whom that I have lived and sung in your midst will one day make you illustrious,
Not the pageants of younot your shifting tableaux, your spectacles, repay me;
Not the interminable rows of your housesnor the ships at the wharves,
Nor the processions in the streets, nor the bright windows, with goods in them;
Nor to converse with learnd persons, or bear my share in the soiree or feast;
Not thosebut, as I pass, O Manhattan! your frequent and swift flash of eyes offering me
love,
Offering response to my ownthese repay me;
Lovers, continual lovers, only repay me.
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The overall theme of the poem is, the love that the
inhabitants give and take in a city is what makes it
illustrious.
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Mannahatta
I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city,
Whereupon, lo! upsprang the aboriginal name!
Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient;
I see that the word of my city is that word up there,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, with tall and wonderful spires,
Rich, hemmd thick all around with sailships and steamshipsan island sixteen miles long,
solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streetshigh growths of iron, slender, strong, light, splendidly
uprising toward clear skies;
Tide swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the black seasteamers well-modeld;
The down-town streets, the jobbers houses of businessthe houses of business of the shipmerchants, and money-brokersthe river-streets;
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week;
The carts hauling goodsthe manly race of drivers of horsesthe brown-faced sailors;
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft;
The winter snows, the sleigh-bellsthe broken ice in the river, passing along, up or down,
with the flood tide or ebb-tide;
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-formd, beautiful-faced, looking you straight in
the eyes;
Trottoirs throngdvehiclesBroadwaythe womenthe shops and shows,
The parades, processions, bugles playing, flags flying, drums beating;
A million peoplemanners free and superbopen voiceshospitalitythe most
courageous and friendly young men;
The free city! no slaves! no owners of slaves!
The beautiful city, the city of hurried and sparkling waters! the city of spires and masts!
The city nested in bays! my city!
The city of such women, I am mad to be with them! I will return after death to be with them!
The city of such young men, I swear I cannot live happy, without I often go talk, walk, eat,
drink, sleep, with them!
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TPCASTT: Mannahatta
Title: What predictions can you make from the
title? What are your initial thoughts about the
poem? What might be the theme of the poem?
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Autobiography
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Poetry:
I Wish Poem
I wish to be in Manhattan.
I wish that I could admire the buildings that tower above.
I wish I could walk upon the bustling streets, touching shoulders with strangers.
I wish to view the skyline at nighttime, the lights burning my eyes.
I wish to be lost, discovering something new at every turn.
I wish to ride the subways: bumpy, loud, yet wonderful.
I wish that I could meet the millions surrounding me, each with their own stories to tell.
I wish to stroll in Central Park, the single mass of green within the concrete jungle.
I wish I could grasp the cultures that encompass the city.
I wish to wake up to hearing life flowing from below.
I wish to take the city for all it is and nothing less.
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Preposition Poem
During nightfall
Within the city
Amid the buildings
Among the crowd of people
Over the urban landscapes
Beneath the radiating lights
Before I lose this moment, I close my eyes.
Mood Poem
Im ecstatic
Not melancholy
Not jump-out of my seat ecstatic
Not ecstatic like a child on Christmas Day
But ecstatic to be where Ive dreamt
Happy that I have adventure waiting
Happy to be blessed with the people I love
Happy to merely exist
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