If poetry is a matter of hints and

If poetry is a matter of hints and guesses—of translating hints from the imagination or memory and guesses about what lies before and beyond us—then the sixth section of this poem is a primer on the art. A child’s question generates speculation, some of Whitman’s most gorgeous phrases (“the flag of my disposition,” “the handkerchief of the Lord,” “the beautiful uncut hair of the graves”), and an invitation to journey to the heart of existence—which, as it turns out, is hidden in the grass beneath our feet. Whitman claims to wish that he could “translate the hints about the dead young men and women”—and then he performs that very act of alchemy, discovering in the “smallest sprout” the philosopher’s stone, concluding that the base materials of life are immortal. He summons from the grass evidence that no one and nothing will ever die, since every atom (belonging to you as well as to me) circulates forever. Scientists may yet prove him to be right.

“Hints followed by guesses,” T. S. Eliot wrote in his version of scripture, Four Quartets; “and the rest is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.” Whitman took another view, believing that eternity lay all around him— in the lull; in the smoke of his breath; in a handful of grass; in the question that begs an answer, and then another and another; in the stars that travel “onward and outward,” presumably forever. What a thrilling prospect. And terrifying.

CM
Question

In this section, Whitman invites us to play along with him as he guesses at possible answers to the child’s seemingly simple question, “What is the grass?” What other answers would you offer to supplement or challenge the ones Whitman gives?
- See more at: http://iwp.uiowa.edu/whitmanweb/en/writings/song-of-myself/section-6#sthash.HmCYYnqG.dpuf

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If poetry is a matter of hints and guesses — of translating hints from the imagination or memory and guesses about what lies before and beyond us — then the sixth section of this poem is a primer on the art. A child's question generates speculation, some of Whitman's most gorgeous phrases ("the flag of my disposition," "the handkerchief of the Lord," "the beautiful uncut hair of graves"), and an invitation to journey to the heart of existence — which, as it turns out, is hidden in the grass beneath our feet. Whitman claims to wish that he could "translate the hints about the dead young men and women" — and then he performs that very act of alchemy, discovering in the "smallest sprout" the philosopher's stone, concluding that the base materials of life are immortal. He summons from the grass evidence that no one and nothing will ever die, since every atom (belonging to you as well as to me) circulates forever. Scientists may yet prove him to be right."Hints followed by guesses," t. s. Eliot wrote in his version of scripture, the Four Quartets; "and the rest is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action." Whitman took another view, believing that eternity lay all around him — in the lull; in the smoke of his breath; in a handful of grass; in the question that begs an answer, and then another and another; in the stars that travel "onward and outward," presumably forever. What a thrilling prospect. And terrifying.CMQuestionIn this section, Whitman invites us to play along with him as he guesses at possible answers to the child's seemingly simple question, "What is the grass?" What other answers would you offer to supplement or challenge the ones Whitman gives?-See more at: http://iwp.uiowa.edu/whitmanweb/en/writings/song-of-myself/section-6 # sthash. HmCYYnqG. dpuf