walt whitman was born today, and if american poetry has a father and a mother, then walt and emily are them.
as for me, i follow the cruelty and concise beauty of emily, the slant rhymes and breath breaks of her almost sonnets- and this is to my chargin and shame.

whitman, that mad man, that prophet, that marvelous barbarian who ripped apart all that was proper and good, the old lecherous goat who worked forever on his poems, who wasnt sure what he was saying but said it was power. its like trying to harness 1000 horses, trying to get eagles to fly in formation, trying to find gold in the muck of a primordial swamp.

pound wrote this, b/c pound was whitmans son with an education and some time in europe but unable to escape the messy political democratic narratives that make some american poemsy (see ezras reluctance, and look at ginsbergs balls on yr chin capitulation to the whitmanic form-a lesson there)

I make a pact with you, Walt Whitman--
I have detested you long enough.
I come to you as a grown child
Who has had a pig-headed father;
I am old enough now to make friends.
It was you that broke the new wood,
Now is a time for carving.
We have one sap and one root--
Let there be commerce between us.