My tutee, Solveiga, sent me her latest assignment and wanted my advice. Well, I couldn’t help her with this one. She was supposed to say why a poem by Walt Whitman, excerpts of which she e mailed me, was “easier” to read than a poem by Wordsworth, which she did not send me.

The Whitman excerpts which I read for the first time, struck me as self-indulgent drivel. I didn’t realize that his renown is built on the same house of cards as the accolades garnered by Andy Warhol. The audiences, wanting to seem as if they were incredibly intelligent pretended to see art that was not there – “I see it and you don’t – I must be more artistic – more intelligent”, more whatever. (Ditto “Ulysses” by James Joyce, which is just stream of consciousness and can be followed and understood once you know that. But it’s like juggling thoughts – you have to memorize it as you go so you can connect the dots later. Not worth the effort.)

I have the same view of atonal music. I went with Sophie Feuermann, my friend and piano teacher (1908-2008) to a recital of songs composed by Ned Rorem. After the performance by the soprano, name mercifully forgotten, Rorem came on stage and took her hand and Sophie nudged me in the ribs and whispered that now she understood, her point being that he was screwing the soprano and that’s why she had agreed to sing this stuff.

I am including a Whitman verse chosen at random from the e mail. Tell me I think it is pretentious crap because I’m not artistic.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never
Forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

I looked up a poem by Wordsworth. Here is a verse from “Early Childhood”:

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 5
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.




I don’t know why the teacher is implying that Whitman is easier to read than Wordsworth. This poem, “Early Childhood” is far more accessible than the Whitman and its poignant message speaks to me.

It’s like people getting all excited over Jackson Pollock paintings that any three-year-old could do. And I’m not saying I am offended by Pollock’s paintings. They are okay to look at – it’s just that I don’t think it took a genius to paint them.

Sol apologized and said she’d slog through the assignment on her own. I told her to read Shelley.

xx, Teal