(I’ll be back next weekend with the fourth of seven posts about human development across the lifespan — “Youth of the New Florence” — followed by posts the following three weekends on the three stages of adulthood. Then turning to culture and psychology in the 1970s.)
One of the final chapters of the new novel. The lead and narrating character, Dylan Steffan, delivers one final performance as Walt Whitman. (Impersonating Whitman is kind of a hobby.)
Not a quotable form of Whitman here, given that I’ve eliminated all the end-of-line punctuation.
Best,
Mike
36.
Denver
July 4, 1976
I had decided to give up my Walt Whitman performances. Too busy. But then America’s Bicentennial rolled around. So shortly after noon on this special Fourth of July, I step out in front of 300 people in the Denver Auditorium for my final public appearance as Walt Whitman.
“Howdy, Denver”:
On my way, a moment a pause
Here for you! And here for America!
Still the present I raise aloft
Still the future of the States I harbinger glad and sublime
Always Florida’s green peninsula
Always California’s golden hills and hollows
And the silver mountains of New Mexico
Always the vast slope drain’d by the Southern sea
Always the free range and diversity
Always the continent of Democracy
Colorado men are we
From the peaks gigantic
From the great sierras and the high plateaus
From the mine and from the gully
From the hunting trail we come
Pioneers, O pioneers!
I hear America singing, the varied carols 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 deckhand singing on the steamboat deck
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench
the hatter singing as he stands
The wood-cutters 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
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to no one 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
The pure contralto sings in the organ loft
The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving
dinner
The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm
The deacons are ordain’d with cross’d hands at the altar
The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and looks
at the oats and rye
The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat,
the gate-keeper marks who pass
The young fellow drives the express-wagon
The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee
The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners,
the dancers bow to each other
As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat, the plank is thrown
for the shore-going passengers
The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter’s lead
flies swiftly over the notebook, the sign-painter is lettering
with blue and gold
The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the bookkeeper counts at his desk,
the shoemaker waxes his thread
The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers follow him
The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle
As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling
of loose change
The indescribable crowd is gather’d, it is the fourth of Seventh-month
(what salutes of cannon and small arms!)
Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole
in the frozen surface
Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons
around them
And of these one and all I weave the song of myself
See, steamers steaming through my poems
See, in my poems immigrants continually coming and landing
See the wigwam, the trail, the hunter’s hut, the flat-boat, the maize-leaf,
the claim, the rude fence, and the backwoods village
See pastures and forests in my poems – see animals wild and tame –
see, beyond the Kaw, countless herds of buffalo feeding
on short curly grass
See, in my poems, cities, solid, vast, inland, with paved streets, with iron
and stone edifices, ceaseless vehicles, and commerce
See, the many-cylinder’d steam printing press – see, the electric telegraph
stretching across the continent
See, through Atlantica’s depths pulses American, Europe reaching,
pulses of Europe duly return’d
See, the strong and quick locomotive as it departs, panting, blowing the
steam-whistle
See, ploughmen plough in farms – see, miners digging mines – see, the
numberless factories
See mechanics busy at their benches with tools – see from among them
superior judges, philosophs, Presidents, emerge
Hear the loud echoes of my songs there
Land of the ocean shores! Land of sierras and peaks!
Land of boatmen and sailors! Fishermen’s land!
Far-breath’d land! Arctic braced! Mexican breez’d! The diverse!
The compact!
O all and each well-loved by me! My intrepid nations! O I at any rate
include you all with perfect love!
Walking New England, a friend, a traveler
Splashing my bare feet in the edge of the summer ripples on Paumanok’s
sands
Crossing the prairies, dwelling again in Chicago, dwelling in every town
Observing shows, births, improvements, structures, arts
Listening to orators and oratresses in public halls
Of and through the States as during life, each man and woman
my neighbor
The Louisianan, the Georgian, as near to me, and I as near to him and her
The Mississippian and Arkansian yet with me, and I yet with any of them
Yet up on the plains west of the grand river, yet in my house of adobe
Yet returning eastward, yet in Seaside State or in Maryland
Yet Kanadian cheerily braving the winter, the snow and ice welcome
to me
Yet a true son either of Maine or of the Granite State, of the Narragansett
Bay State, or the Empire State
Yet sailing to other shores to annex the same, yet welcoming every
new brother
Hereby applying these leaves to the new ones from the hour they unite
with the old ones
Coming among the new ones myself to be their companion and equal
California life, the miner, bearded, dress’d in his rude costume, the stanch
California friendship, the sweet air
Encircling all, vast-parting up and wide, the American Soul, with equal
hemispheres, one Love, one Dilation or Pride
The country boy at the close of the day driving the herds of cows and
shouting to them as they loiter to browse by the roadside
The city wharf, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston,
New Orleans, San Francisco
The departing ships when the sailors heave at the capstan
Evening, the setting sun, the setting summer sun
In the Mannahatta, streets, piers, shipping, store-houses, and
the countless workmen working in the ships
And I too of the Mannahatta, singing thereof – and in no less in myself
than the whole of the Mannahatta in itself
Singing the song of These, my lands, inevitably united and made
ONE IDENTITY
I’ve belted out these last lines, and my final performance as Whitman has ended. I look out and say my last two words as Walt Whitman. “So long, Denver.”
Yale begins his usual five-song concert. He follows “City of New Orleans” with “Take Me Home (Country Roads)” and “Rocky Mountain High” and then “New York State of Mind” and closes out with “Philadelphia Freedom”.
The crowd is enthusiastic and when I rejoin Yale on stage and we stand facing our last audience together and bask in one last round of applause.