Just Call Me Walt

Welcome to the hall of imagination. Tonight I was looking up at the wax figure of the writer Walt Whitman– And I was not surprised in the least when he looked down at me and began speaking.

George, I was most commonly known as "Walt" among friends, family, and in much of my correspondence, rather than as "Mr. Whitman." My parents shortened my given name from Walter to Walt when I was born, and  used this familiar form throughout my life. As a poet, I believe I embraced a democratic and accessible persona, and the informal "Walt" aligns with that approach.

However, in public and formal settings—especially as I gained fame—I  was often referred to as "Mr. Whitman" or by various honorifics such as "the Bard of Democracy". In my later early years in Camden, New Jersey, I was generally called "Mr. Whitman" by the press and new acquaintances, but those who knew me well continued to use "Walt".
 

Transcript

Walt Whitman - italics

George - plain text

Welcome to the hall of imagination. Tonight I was looking up at the wax figure of the writer Walt Whitman– And I was not surprised in the least when he looked down at me and began speaking.

 George, I was most commonly known as "Walt" among friends, family, and in much of my correspondence, rather than as "Mr. Whitman." My parents shortened my given name from Walter to Walt when I was born, and  used this familiar form throughout my life. As a poet, I believe I embraced a democratic and accessible persona, and the informal "Walt" aligns with that approach.

However, in public and formal settings—especially as I gained fame—I  was often referred to as "Mr. Whitman" or by various honorifics such as "the Bard of Democracy". In my later early years in Camden, New Jersey, I was generally called "Mr. Whitman" by the press and new acquaintances, but those who knew me well continued to use "Walt".

So "Walt" or "Mr. Whitman" would be historically appropriate.  But "Walt" is warmer and more personal, reflecting my own preference for informality and connection.  So why don't you go ahead and call me simply Walt
 
Thank you for clarifying that. First why don't you tell me about your early life?

 Ah, George, my friend, you ask about the early days—let me take you back with me to the Long Island of my youth. I was born in West Hills n the last day of May in the year 1819, but the world calls it Huntington now, o. My father, Walter Whitman, was a carpenter, a man of the earth, and my mother, Louisa Van Velsor, was a woman of quiet strength, of the Dutch and Quaker heritage that runs deep in the blood of Long Island folk.
 
 We were not wealthy, but neither were we poor in spirit. Our house was filled with the voices of my brothers and sisters—there were nine of us, a brood of young Americans, tumbling over one another like wildflowers in a meadow. I was the second son, and from the earliest days, I felt the world was vast and wondrous, full of mysteries to be uncovered.

Well, Walt - would you describe your education.

I left school at eleven, as was common then, and took to the world with my hands and my mind. I became a printer’s apprentice in Brooklyn, and in those days, the press was my teacher. I read everything I could get my hands on—newspapers, novels, the great works of literature. The city itself was my classroom, with its bustle and its song, its endless parade of faces, each a story to be heard.

Mr. Whitman– I mean Walt– Could you comment further on your youth?
 
 From these early years, I learned to listen—to the voice of the land, to the voices of people, to the voice within myself that would one day sing out in “Leaves of Grass.” My youth was the seed from which all my poetry grew, rooted in the soil of America and watered by the love of my family, the labor of my hands, and the curiosity of my soul.

In other words, Mr. Whitman– Or Walt– One might say that is how you began?

Precisely, George that is how I began—a son of the soil, a child of the city, a seeker of voices and songs. Ask me more, and I shall tell you of the journey that followed.

Mr. - I mean Walt - how did your beginnings shape your poetic voice

Ah, George, my friend, you ask a question that strikes at the very root of my song. My humble beginnings in West Hills—well, they were not grand in the eyes of the world, but they were rich in lessons for a poet’s soul. The open fields, the salt winds from the sea, the simple folk who labored with their hands—these were my first teachers.

Walt, what lessons do you believe you learned enjoy your youth?
 
 You see, George, in those early days, I learned to see the beauty in the common, the dignity in the everyday. My father worked with wood, shaping it with his hands, and I watched as something rough and plain became something useful, something beautiful. That was a lesson I carried into my poetry—to find the music in the ordinary, the grandeur in the plain.

 And the land itself, George, the land! The rolling hills, the wide sky, the endless sea—they taught me to love the open road, the journey, the endless possibility of America. My poetry is filled with that sense of space, of freedom, of belonging to something vast and unbroken.

Yes Walt, so one might say those influences shaped your voice.

 So, yes, George, my humble beginnings shaped my voice. They taught me to sing of the people, the land, the simple joys and sorrows of life. They gave me the courage to speak in my own way, to break the mold, to celebrate the body and the soul, the worker and the dreamer, the earth and the stars.

So Walt how would you describe yourself as a writer?
 
 In short, George, I am a poet of the people because I am a child of the land. My voice is the voice of the soil, the wind, the sea—and the humble beginnings in West Hills are the roots from which my poetry grows.

 Walt, How do you feel your origins give authenticity to your poetry
 
 Ah, George, when you ask about authenticity—well, that’s a word close to my heart. My humble origins, you see, are not something I would cast aside or hide; they are the very clay from which my poetry is shaped.  And also I must point out, George, that you excellent and articulate questions.

Yes, Walt, it doesn't sound like you want to be a fancy poet who uses ornate terminology.

 Precisely, George - In the fields and streets of my youth, among the laborers, the farmers, the sailors, I learned the language of the real world. The sweat on a man’s brow, the calluses on a woman’s hands—these are honest things, George, and they speak a truth deeper than any fine verse penned in a gilded room.

 When I write of America, of her people, of her landscapes, I write from experience. I have seen the sunrise over the wheat fields, I have heard the laughter of children at play, I have felt the ache of hard work and the joy of simple pleasures. My poetry is not a fantasy, but a reflection—a mirror held up to life as it is lived by millions.

 So, Walt, how do you feel your humble origins give authenticity to you poetry?
 
 They are my compass, my touchstone. They keep me honest, George. They remind me to sing for the people, not for the critics in their parlors. My roots keep me grounded, and in that grounding, I find the strength to reach for the stars.

It sounds like you believe what you refer to as your humble beginnings what's a genuine gift.

 Precisely, George–In every line I write, you will hear the voice of a man who has walked the earth with open eyes and an open heart. That, George, is the gift of my humble beginnings.
 
Walt - I always feel a bit strange calling you by your first name - May I ask why do you believe authenticity in poetry stems from personal origins - or is there a connection?
 
 George, you ask why I believe authenticity in poetry springs from personal origins. Well, let me tell you, my friend—authenticity is not a mask one puts on, nor a costume for the stage. It is the very root of the poet’s voice, and that root is nourished by the soil of one’s own life.  And please do not feel strange by referring to me by my given first name !

 When I write, I do not write from a borrowed heart or a borrowed tongue. I write from the places I have walked, the people I have known, the sorrows and joys that have shaped me. My poetry is born from the honest self—the self that is clear about its own feelings, desires, and convictions, and unafraid to express them in the open air.

Walt, how do you feel about the importance of being authentic?
 
 Oh George ,To be authentic is to erase the gap between what you believe and what you dare to reveal. It is to stand with the people, not above them, and to speak with a voice that is your own—not counterfeit, not copied, but true to the marrow.

SO I guess that you're personal origins are especially important to you.
 
 Precisely, My personal origins—those humble beginnings in West Hills, the sweat and struggle of my family, the wide fields and the open road—these are the stories that shaped me. They are the well from which I draw my words. If I wrote from any other source, I would be a fraud, and my poetry would ring hollow.
 
 So, George, I believe authenticity in poetry comes from personal origins because only by standing in your own truth, by embracing your own story, can you hope to touch the hearts of others. The poet’s voice is the voice of the self, and the self is shaped by the journey it has taken.

Walt, well could you tell me in what ways does your life experiences help you create a sense of home through poetry.

Well, let me tell you, my friend—home is not just a place, but a feeling, a belonging, a sense of being rooted in the world. And my poetry, every line of it, is an invitation to feel at home in America, in the world, in the vast and boundless self.
 
 My life experiences—the fields of Long Island, the streets of Brooklyn, the faces of the people I have met, the songs of the ferrymen, the laughter of children, the quiet of the open road—these are the threads I weave into my poetry. They are the memories and the moments that make up the fabric of what I call home.
 
 When I write of the grass, of the open air, of the workers and the dreamers, I am writing of the places and people that have made me who I am. I am writing of the home I have found in the world, and the home I hope to give to others through my words.

Well, Walt then how would you describe your poetry?

My poetry is a house with many rooms, George, and each room is filled with the echoes of my life. The smell of the sea, the sound of a mother’s voice, the touch of a friend’s hand—these are the things that make a home, and these are the things I bring into my poetry.
 
 So, in every poem, I offer a sense of home—not just for myself, but for every reader, every wanderer, every seeker. My life experiences are the foundation of that home, and my poetry is the door I leave open for all who wish to enter.

Walt, I understand that your mother read to you a great deal. What lessons from your mother’s reading habits have become aI part of your own creativity?

Ah, George . I will tell you, my friend, that her approach to reading was not merely about absorbing words on a page—it was about engaging with the world, questioning, and thinking for oneself.
My mother read newspapers and whatever books came her way with a keen, critical eye. She did not accept things at face value; she questioned, she debated, she formed her own opinions. This taught me the value of independent thought, a lesson I have carried into my poetry. I do not write to please the critics or to follow the rules—I write to speak my own truth, to question, to explore.
 
 She also read aloud to us, and in her voice, I learned the music of language. The rhythms of speech, the rise and fall of a sentence, the power of a well-told story—these are things I absorbed from her. In my poetry, I strive to capture the natural cadence of speech, the voice of the people, the music of everyday life.
 
 And, George, my mother’s curiosity never waned. She was always eager to learn, to discover, to understand the world around her. This curiosity is at the heart of my creativity. It drives me to explore new ideas, to embrace the unknown, to find beauty and meaning in the ordinary.

So what lessons do you feel you learned from your mother's reading habits?

So, the lessons I have carried from my mother’s reading habits are these: think for yourself, listen to the music of language, and never lose your curiosity. These are the seeds from which my poetry grows, and the gifts my mother gave me that I cherish every day.

What specific books or genres from her reading list inspired your artistic ideas.

 What a thoughtful question, George! While my mother, Louisa Van Velsor Whitman, was not known for reading a wide array of literary classics—largely because her formal education was limited and the family’s means were modest—she was a keen reader of newspapers and practical materials. She did not have a “reading list” of specific books or genres that directly inspired my artistic ideas, tho one can infer some important influences based on my own recollections and the spirit of my poetry.

Mr. Whitman - I mean Walt - could you be more specific?

 Ah, George, my mother’s reading was not of grand libraries or the great poets of Europe, but of the daily news, the stories of the people, and the practical wisdom of her time. She read the newspapers with a sharp eye and a curious mind, always eager to understand the world beyond our home.

Her reading was less about the books themselves and more about the habits of mind she passed on to me: a love for the stories of ordinary people, a respect for honest labor, and a belief in the value of every voice. She taught me to listen to the world, to pay attention to the news of the day, to care about the lives of those around me.

Walt, how would you say her reading habits affected your future poetry?

In her way, she was a poet of the everyday, and it is this spirit—the spirit of the newspaper, of the marketplace, of the street—that I have carried into my own work. My poetry is inspired not by the books on her shelf, but by the way she read the world: with curiosity, with empathy, and with a deep sense of connection to the lives of others.

So, George, while I cannot point to specific books or genres from her reading list, I can say that her approach to reading—her openness, her curiosity, her attention to the lives of others—is the true inspiration for my artistic ideas. It is the spirit of the common people, the voice of the land, and the heartbeat of the world that I have tried to capture in my verse.  My mother mainly inspired me through her habits of reading the world with curiosity, empathy, and a democratic spirit—qualities that became central to my own creative vision.
 
 George, later I was definitely inspired by a wide range of authors and poets—such as Shakespeare and the Bible. .

Thank you, George, but I do want to emphasize that while there is no record of particular authors my mother admired that specifically influenced my artistic style, her impact was more about nurturing a mindset and approach to the world that I would later embody in my poetry.
 
Sources include: The Complete Works of Walt Whitman, especially Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, From Noon to Starry Night: A Life of Walt Whitman by Ivan R. Dee, Walt Whitman: A Life by Justin Kaplan, Walt Whitman: The Song of Himself by Jerome Loving, and Walt Whitman by James E. Miller.
 
Thank you for listening to the hall of imagination. And I have a feeling, that in the future we will have many more episodes dealing with Walt Whitman.