No labor-saving machine
Whitman spins another variation on the theme of love surpassing glory. In this case, the question is not what he takes pen in hand to record, but what he bequeaths when he dies. He lists seven things that he will not leave: labor-saving machine, discovery, bequest, courageous deed, literary success, intellect, and book for the book-shelf. Instead, he will leave carols for comrades and lovers.
Whitman loved the title Leaves of Grass so much that he subsumed all his poetry under it – a very unusual decision. One among many reasons for the title is the ever-present pun on leaving. For Whitman, leaving is a critical part of writing (and loving, living, and believing). He wrote countless poems of leave-taking, and the 1881 edition closes with a 17-poem cluster called “Songs of Parting.” Every Whitman poem, and every edition of Leaves of Grass, is a “testament” in two senses: a religious text, but also a disposition of his affairs anticipating death. Every leaf is concerned with what he is taking leave of (the material, bodily reality he loves) and what he is leaving for posterity.
Surprisingly, Whitman contrasts his carols with literary success, intellect, and books for the bookshelf. What is Leaves of Grass if not a literary success, a book on bookshelves, produced by his uncanny intellect? And what are his poems if not carols? Whitman may be saying that his leaves are the carols he leaves, but what matters is not their literary success, intellect, and bookish qualities, but rather their reception by comrades and the impact that they have, gladdening men’s hearts with religious joy. The poems may be bound in a book, but it is not a book for the bookshelf; rather, it is a book to be carried under your clothes onto the beach and then recited – as Whitman liked to recite Homer and Shakespeare – at the top of your lungs.
Another possibility is that Whitman is distinguishing his Calamus poems – carols for comrades – from his other poems, aimed at a more general audience. In poems such as “Whoever you are holding me now in hand,” he suggests that only a chosen few will understand him. In addition to the visible poems on the page, absorbed through the eyes by reading, the Calamus poems have an esoteric quality absorbed through the ear as they “vibrate through the air.” Whitman may be echoing the mystical strain in many religions which suggests that there are superior, oral traditions hidden inside the official, written records.
Lastly, Whitman may be saying something even more radical. We have seen how, in other poems, he discounts even his own poetry in favor of the lived experience of love. Possibly, “these carols” are not poems, but rather songs that Whitman sings aloud. The sound waves vibrate through the air (like electric currents charged with love), are heard by a few comrades and lovers, and then dissipate. That “flitting” transmission of love is more important than any poem, book, or glorious success.
Understanding “No labor-saving machine” does not require us to choose among these three readings (or the infinite number of other plausible readings), but rather to attempt to hold as many as possible in our minds in an unstable, dynamic field of energy. No machine can save us from the labor of wrestling with Whitman’s carols for their blessings, or, differently expressed, from the labor of giving birth to meaning as co-creators. His poems are not machines, discoveries, memories, or bequests to operate, appropriate, or passively receive; they are strange vibrations with which to accord our souls.