I'm taking a make-you-think-about-life-and-difficult-questions poetry class this semester. We began by reading several epic poems from European authors. I found them rather boring. Now, we've begun early American poetry, a stark contrast from the epic era. I found the most interesting part to be the attitude towards the United States, and the ideas the authors have about what it means to be American. Walt Witman particular has a well shaped idea. He perceives the American as creative, innovative, not a follower but still common man (I'll forgive him for not including women because of the culture at that time). I was floored by this as it is not the way I perceive Americans today at all.
What does it mean to be American?
The plot thickens as the foreign students in the class room were either in complete accord or complete laughter when hearing Witman's preceptions. When I suggested that our culture no longer has those qualities, the Indian student next to me started an extensive debate. It was a moment that encouraged me to take a step back and re-evaluate my opinions. So now I face the challenge of defining what it means to be American, a word I rarely associate with myself despite the fact that I've lived here my whole life.
Thinking...
Waha
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14 years ago
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Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
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