Calamus: Summary
“Calamus” contains fifty-one poems, with a cluster of eleven longer poems towards the end, beginning with “Salut au Monde!” and ending on “A Song of the Rolling Earth.” This section is by far the longest in Leaves of Grass; in “Calamus” the poet discourses at length on the theme of physical love, particularly homosexual love between men and the eroticism of the male form. The section’s title refers to Calamus grass, “the token of comrades.” With its pink roots and phallic shape, the grass acts as a symbol for the male form of which Whitman speaks.
In Paths Untrodden
This opening poem introduces Whitman’s intention for the section, explaining that he has “Resolv’d to sing no songs to day but those of manly attachment.” In doing so, Whitman feels as if he is leaving the beaten track and instead traveling by the margins of pond-waters.” Removed from the ostentatious and conventional standards by which he has lived for much of his life, Whitman writes of “standards hitherto unpublish’d” and contemporarily invisible perspectives. Although he feels “away from the clank of the world,” he is not alone because he is kept company by his many comrades, who also sing songs of “manly attachment” for young men and those who were young once.
For You O Democracy
In the name of democracy, the poet seeks to create “the most splendid race the sun ever shone on” in a land held together by “the manly love of comrades.” This comradeship appears to Whitman as natural as the world before him, and he compares this masculine intimacy to the natural world, intending to “plant comradeship as thick as trees.” He claims that these songs are in the name of democracy, which can only stem from the love between all men; indeed, although democracy is his mistress, and he sings these songs for her, he is buoyed by the beauty of this inseparable companionship between men.
The Base of All Metaphysics
An old professor addresses his students at the end of a philosophy course, promising to share with them the necessary base for metaphysics—the philosophy that underscores the basic principles of life and humanity. He mentions the philosophers he has studied: Kant, Fichte, Schelling, Hegel, Plato, Socrates, and Jesus Christ. Uniting these thinkers is a singular philosophy, which he claims to be “the dear love of man for his comrade.” This love, he explains, appears in many ways, including friendship, attraction, marriage, the love of parents and children, and even love between cities and lands. Regardless of its form, this love is the core of all existence, and it is responsible for uniting and preserving all things.
I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing
Whitman recalls an oak tree he once saw in Louisiana; its robust, unbending health made him think of himself. However, he recalls wondering how it can continue to “utter joyous leaves” when it is alone and has no friends or comrades nearby to call upon. Feeling sorry for the solitary tree, he breaks off a twig and keeps it in his room as a token that reminds him of the importance of “manly love” so that he will feel grateful that he, like the tree, is not deprived of its pleasures. He knows very well that he could never be as joyful as the tree without a friend or lover to keep him company.
To a Stranger
The poet addresses a passing stranger, who knows nothing of the longing the poet feels for him. To himself, the poet explains that he had sought this stranger for many years; once, they...
(This entire section contains 1353 words.)
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lived a life of simple joy, sharing their lives and bodies. However, that life has long since slipped into the past, and he waits to meet this stranger again and, this time, ensure that he will not lose him.
No Labor-Saving Machine
Preoccupied with his material creations, Whitman bemoans the fact that he has neither invented a machine nor made a momentous discovery. In his wake, he will not leave behind the wealth with which he might endow a hospital or library; indeed, he dramatizes, he will not leave enough for even a “book for the bookshelf.” All he leaves behind him are a few songs for “comrades and lovers,” and by the poem’s end, he has made his peace with these simple, elegant contributions to man, happy to leave his songs for those who might follow.
Salut au Monde!
Whitman speaks to himself, beginning with the words: “O take my hand Walt Whitman!” He offers a journey through wonders, “sights and sounds… fruits and forests.” The world and all its wonders lie within him. He hears a multitude of sounds from all over the world: the shouts of Australians pursuing wild horses, the songs of liberty from France, the cry of the muezzin from the top of the mosque, the myths of Greece, the legends of Rome, and many more.
The poet sees the wonders of the world and the sites of ancient empires in Assyria and Persia. He sees the battlefields, the animals feeding and being hunted, and the “regions of snow and ice.” He gives lists of the cities he sees in Africa and Asia: “Algiers, Tripoli, Derne, Mogadore, Timbuktu, Monrovia… Pekin, Canton, Benares, Delhi, Calcutta, Tokio…” To all of these places—some long lost to time and others not yet fallen to the sand—he wishes goodwill and good health from America. To all the people of the earth, and all those not yet born he wishes joy and happiness, seeing all people in all countries as “equals and lovers.”
Crossing Brooklyn Ferry
In this poem, Whitman writes about taking the ferry home from Manhattan to Brooklyn at the end of the day. The crowds of men and women around him are in their usual clothes; despite their ordinary appearance, he finds them unbelievably fascinating and laughs at the fact that they cannot know how much he meditates on them. This is not only true of the people on the ferry with him but also of everyone in the world. In spite of time and place, he is with all the men and women of his generation and of future generations, sharing their experiences. This is true even of “the dark patches” in life as well as the light, and he revels in this shared knowledge of life’s duality.
Manhattan appears stately and admirable in the sunset, and the speaker praises both the “tall masts of Manhattan” and the “beautiful hills of Brooklyn.” He speaks to the river, telling it to ebb and flow, then transfers his imperatives to the crowds, asking the young men to sound out their voices loudly and musically. As the poem ends, Whitman joins the crowd, the reader, and those waiting for the ferry to arrive in Brooklyn, announcing: “We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward.”
Song of the Broad-Axe
The song begins by describing the ax, a shapely weapon of “wooded flesh and metal bone.” It continues by welcoming all the lands of the earth and then describing the beauty of places and people across the world, together with the “beauty of independence” and the American “impatience of restraint.” Whitman sings of laboring men performing many different tasks using many different tools and of soldiers with their gruesome weapons. Even the greatest cities do not endure, but the greatness of men and women makes a city great, even if it consists only of “a few ragged huts.”
The poet continually repeats the words: “The shapes arise!” He lists many different shapes, including those of factories, arsenals, foundries, and other such industrial structures. These man-made shapes are created by workmen and enhanced by human life. There are other less wholesome shapes as well, such as that of “the prisoner’s place in the court-room,” the bar where drunkards congregate, and the step ladder the murderer climbs to be hanged. Finally, there arise the shapes of democracy, “turbulent manly cities… friends and home-givers of the whole earth.”
