In the Absence of Whitman

Back during the First Gulf War, I submitted an article to my local self-styled "lefty" newsweekly that was basically an exposition of Robinson Jeffers' Stoic musings in "Shine, Perishing Republic." For whatever reason, the editors chose not to publish the peice. Hard to blame them, I guess. After all, we appeared to be kicking some good Arab butt back then. So why be glum? I have often said, "Scratch a Liberal, find a Reactionary." It is as true today as it was back then. Sadly.

I no longer recall with what commentary I embroidered Jeffers' poem, but it's not important. Or certainly not as important as the poem itself. Here it is:

While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity, heavily thickening
to empire
And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the
mass hardens,
I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots
to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and decadence;
and home to the mother.
You making haste haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stubbornly
long or suddenly
A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains:
shine, perishing republic.
But for my children, I would have them keep their distance from the thickening
center; corruption
Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the monster's feet there
are left the mountains.
And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant,
insufferable master.
There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught –-
they say -–
God, when he walked on earth.