Thursday, 8th of April 2010 at 06:09:12 PMHere is my long-undelivered final project, a hybrid of Walt Whitman and Elvis Presley. Please watch–it finally exists! […]
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The “Bloody Angle” is the name given to a piece of ground at the Spotsylvania Courthouse Battlefield on which, in May 1864, some of the war’s most traumatizing hand-to-hand and muzzle-to-muzzle fighting took place. Whitman would c… […] Bob Dylan and the expansiveness of Whitmanian influence […] On Longaker’s one-dimensional treatment of Whitman’s death–why wouldn’t he want to “beat those doctors?” […] “I celebrate myself,” …and? The opening of “Song of Myself” as iconic text […] Song of the Bleeding Throat: Death in “When Lilacs Last in Dooryard Bloom’d” […] Army rations of the Civil War, and the problems stemming from them. […] Whitman’s “Race of Victors” […] Drum-Taps: Whitman carves out an amputated America. […] Whitman and/vs. battlefield preservation. Also, WWWDOTCOM: “What Woud Whitman Do to a COMputer?” […] This week, Richard Wright talks to Whitman and I try to listen. […] “What don’t you know about Whitman yet?” In his introduction to my copy of LoG’s “Deathbed Edition,” William Carlos Williams to alludes some kind of consensus among poetry scholars (I guess) that Whitman’s writing eventually runs out of steam, that his poetic sensibilities lose the vigor of some of his earlier poems and end up being […] […] How not to feel human while reading Whitman […] Whitman in Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. […] This is the second instalment in a series of posts meant to dig Whitman out the places people put him in, overtly or otherwise. (I count Chelsea’s Ginsberg entry as the first.) Since Whitman so lustily “bequeaths” himself to the world, hoping that every reader will exceed his work (and thereby add grandeur to it), […] […] A brief index of the more colorful place names in “Song of the Broad-Axe.” […] Concerning the limits for women down the ostensible Open Road. […] “The camera and the plate are prepared, the lady must sit for her daguerrotype, The bride unrumples her white dress, the minutehand of the clock moves slowly, The opium eater reclines with rigid head and just-opened lips, The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck, The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the […] […] |
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