All about Walt Whitman

5 CONCLUSION (Part 8 )

“Our Old Feuillage,” published in 1860 (but probably written in 1856), was composed by Whitman to be the “National Poem,” as declared by himself (WHITMAN, 2002, p.145). It is a catalogue of scenes, places, people, and atmospheres of every part of the United States, a collection, a “bouquet” of the American foliage, which should be bound together to form one single national identity, as he sings at the end of the poem. The poem indeed looks like a dense forest of words, sounds, meanings, all growing thick together: it is four and a half pages long, with no subdivisions, and verses that are longer than usual, most of them with two, and many of them with three, four and even five lines.

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WHITMAN:

In the Mannahatta, streets, piers, shipping, store-houses, and the countless          workmen working in the shops,
And I too of the Mannahatta, singing thereof–and no less in myself than             the whole of the Mannahatta in itself,
Singing the song of These, my ever-united lands–my body no more         inevitably united, part to part, and made out of a thousand diverse           contributions one identity, any more than my lands are inevitably       united and made ONE IDENTITY;
Nativities, climates, the grass of the great pastoral Plains,
Cities, labors, death, animals, products, war, good and evil–these me,
These affording, in all their particulars, the old feuillage to me and to America, how can I do less than pass the clew of the union of them, to     afford the like to you?
Whoever you are! how can I but offer you divine leaves, that you also be           eligible as I am?
How can I but as here chanting, invite you for yourself to collect bouquets         of the incomparable feuillage of these States?

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OUR RECREATION (“Nossa Velha Folhagem“):

Em Mannahatta, ruas, molhes, remessa, armazéns, e os incontáveis trabalhadores trabalhando nas lojas,

E eu também de Mannahatta, cantando isso—e não menos em mim que o todo de Mannahatta em si,

Cantando a canção Destas, minhas sempre-unidas terras—meu corpo não mais inevitavelmente unido, parte a parte, e feito de mil contribuições diversas uma identidade, não mais que minhas terras estão inevitavelmente unidas e feitas UMA IDENTIDADE;

Natividades, climas, a relva das grandes Planícies pastoris,

Cidades, labutas, morte, animais, produtos, guerra, bem e mal—estes eu,

Estes conferindo, em todos seus particulares, a antiga feuillage a mim e à América, como posso fazer menos que passar a evidência da união deles, para conferir o mesmo a ti?

Quem sejas! que fazer exceto oferecer-te divinas folhas, que sejas também preferível como eu?

Que fazer exceto aqui cantando, convidar-te a recolher buquês da feuillage incomparável destes Estados?

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