John Keats said that poetry ought to come naturally, or it ought not come at all.
In "Song of Myself," the "myself" is all the great heart lying still, the essence of song that makes the song alive.
From the beginning, "Song of Myself" sort of sets up for part 4, "Love," by describing this tragic disconnect between poetry and poetry-nature, or song and song-nature, hence the "same old Dead Boy's song" and "all that great heart lying still"---all that poetry-nature the writer failed to tap into. That is why the opus #1,2,3 are "hollow," or why "sometimes the sky is piano black." It is a shallow thing with nothing to hide and nothing to reveal, like a rusty key without a door.
Pretense to poetry, forced poetry, poetry becomes an exercise of mental masturbation that is painfully artificial---the old man kissing his model-doll in his attic. Still, don't we make poetry and songs anyway in worship of things more real, no matter how futile the attempt?---the porcelain statue in a city that worships flesh.
I don't know how accurate this is in its entirety but it was my first impression on hearing the song for the first time. Thought that I would comment on the first half of the lyrics since no one has yet. I feel like I am still missing the epiphany here, and I hope that I am not doing the song or the songwriter an injustice with an interpretation.
John Keats said that poetry ought to come naturally, or it ought not come at all.
In "Song of Myself," the "myself" is all the great heart lying still, the essence of song that makes the song alive.
From the beginning, "Song of Myself" sort of sets up for part 4, "Love," by describing this tragic disconnect between poetry and poetry-nature, or song and song-nature, hence the "same old Dead Boy's song" and "all that great heart lying still"---all that poetry-nature the writer failed to tap into. That is why the opus #1,2,3 are "hollow," or why "sometimes the sky is piano black." It is a shallow thing with nothing to hide and nothing to reveal, like a rusty key without a door.
Pretense to poetry, forced poetry, poetry becomes an exercise of mental masturbation that is painfully artificial---the old man kissing his model-doll in his attic. Still, don't we make poetry and songs anyway in worship of things more real, no matter how futile the attempt?---the porcelain statue in a city that worships flesh.
I don't know how accurate this is in its entirety but it was my first impression on hearing the song for the first time. Thought that I would comment on the first half of the lyrics since no one has yet. I feel like I am still missing the epiphany here, and I hope that I am not doing the song or the songwriter an injustice with an interpretation.
I have never read Whitman's "Song of Myself."
Nevermind, sorry, I am having different thoughts about this song. Please excuse my simplemindedness.
Nevermind, sorry, I am having different thoughts about this song. Please excuse my simplemindedness.