On March 29th, 1855, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow recorded the beginnings of a poem in his diary:

“A day of pain; cowering over the fire. At night, as I lie in bed, a poem comes into my mind, - a memory of Portland, - my native town, the city by the sea.”

The following day bore the fruits of his meditation:

“Wrote the poem; and am rather pleased with it, and with the bringing in of the two lines of the old Lapland song,
A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Thus was born the famous poem “My Lost Youth,” a moving tribute to his boyhood years wandering the “black wharves” and “Deering’s Wood” of Portland, Maine. The opening lines of the first stanza reflect beautifully the sentiment noted in his diary:

“Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.”

From here the reader is taken on a rich exploration of Portland, with Longfellow’s youthful recollections as a trusted guide. He speaks of “the magic of the sea,” “the sea-fight far away,” “the fort upon the hill” and “the friendships old and the early loves.” It is a captivating poem, infused with nostalgia, an adventurous impulse, and even episodes of deep pain; it contains enough particular detail to radiate a sense of specific place, and yet in its description encapsulates all places that have served as havens for the carefree spirit of childhood.

Once one has wandered long enough through Portland with Longfellow—and subsequently back down “each well-known street” of their own younger years—a compelling question about the poetic process begins to take shape. Simply stated, what role does lived experience serve for the poet? To what degree are those experiences—the memory of them, their emotional imprint, their expansion of perspective and wisdom—integral to crafting poetry that is alive and dynamic? As it relates to the poem we have been examining so far, one can only wonder how utterly different “My Lost Youth” would have been if Longfellow had only visited there once as a boy; or better yet, had only read about in a book or overheard a description of in a conversation. Would it ever have taken shape at all?

I suspect that most people, when pressed with these questions, would tend to ascribe a high level of importance to lived experience. And yet, a curious dissonance seems to persist on this front. When prompted with the word “poet,” they most likely conjure imagery of a scholarly figure, naturally situated in a jungle of books and chained to a desk somewhere. If the imagined poet happens not to be holed away in a library, perhaps they are allowed to roam the lecture hall and pontificate to students about syntax and rhyming schemes. To be fair, this is indeed partially representative of a poet’s life. They do—and should—eagerly engage in a rigorous and wide program of reading and writing, searching far and wide for literary wisdom in all its forms. Longfellow, a Professor of Modern Languages at Harvard for much of his career, certainly fits this description to some degree.

While the typographic element is undoubtedly a core part of the story, when attempting to stand on its own some glaring deficiencies come to the fore. Along these lines, it is notable that even Longfellow, when pursuing his scholarly studies in the various languages he would eventually master, traveled to Europe for cultural as well as linguistic immersion. This fact alone should give some indication as to where he stood on the matter.

As before, we will turn to his diary to further unpack these questions. An entry from nearly ten years prior to writing the work in question paints a wonderful picture of his poetic posture, and the interplay he adopted between study and exploration in the wider world. Here we find him in Portland in 1846 after a stroll around Munjoy’s hill and Fort Lawrence, seemingly laying the groundwork for the poem that was still a few years off:

“I lay down in one of the embrasures and listened to the lashing, lulling sound of the sea just at my feet. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the harbor was full of white sails, coming and departing. Meditated a poem on the Old Fort.”

The default conception of a poet's life described previously is now beginning to slip away. The desk has disappeared; gone are the mountains of dusty books. The lecture hall is transformed into the classroom of Nature, and instead we find our poet sprawled upon the ground near the “Old Fort,” conversing with the sea and the sails in the harbor. He has ventured out into the broader world, in search of experiences that will deepen his wisdom and anchor him to a truer understanding of reality. In the absence of nearby writing utensils, Longfellow’s usage of the word “meditated” is fitting as well. It evokes imagery of a poem impressing itself upon him as he simply lays by the fort of his youth. There is a joint creative endeavor underway here; the poem has something to contribute to its own making.

A more concrete articulation of this philosophy of poetry can be found in another poem, this one penned by William Cullen Bryant, a contemporary of Longfellow. Aptly titled “The Poet,” Bryant addresses it to those “who wouldst wear the name / of poet midst thy brethren of mankind.” It is intended to serve as a road map for the aspiring poet, and to elaborate the conditions necessary for crafting truly timeless verse. While Bryant certainly counsels the reader to create space for long spells of reflection, he also shows his hand fairly early on. The poem is brimming with admonitions to seek out and engage with the very thing which the poet wishes to set in ink; according to Bryant, only after having done so can they hope to produce verse that will resonate beyond the page in a lasting manner. Put another way, only lines which were forged in tears, passion or love can truly effect something approaching the same results in those that will eventually read them.

After this sentiment takes various shapes throughout the poem, it finds its most potent form in the final two stanzas. Because of their sheer forcefulness and relevance to this discussion, they are worth including in their entirety:

“Of tempests wouldst thou sing,
Or tell of battles—make thyself a part
Of the great tumult; cling
To the tossed wreck with terror in thy heart;
Scale, with the assaulting host, the rampart’s height,
And strike and struggle in the thickest fight.

So shalt thou frame a lay
That haply may endure from age to age,
And they who read shall say:
‘What witchery hangs upon this poet’s page!
What art is his the written spells to find
That sway from mood to mood the willing mind!’”

The imagery employed by Bryant in these lines is arresting. To imagine our poet lashed to a battered vessel, overwhelmed with sheer terror and at the mercy of a ruthless storm at sea is a far cry from the stock imagery often used to describe the life of a poet. While this scenery of battle and shipwreck is admittedly extreme, Bryant accomplishes something effective by stating his case in the strongest possible language. In doing so, he is dismantling for his reader the notion of borders: lines of demarcation which serve to inhibit poetic endeavors in certain arenas.  He is reminding them that such notions are fictional, and only hinder them from stumbling upon something truly magnificent. Indeed, the best poetry is often written—or at least conceived of—in the places where it feels the least natural. Once this is allowed for, the possibilities become truly endless. Perhaps the next timeless addition to the annals of poetry is suspended 13,000 feet above the earth, waiting to be snatched up by a poet in free fall; or instead is perched on the back of a garbage truck, mired in the filth of everyday life. Even the grim realities of war hold something worthwhile in store. Tolkien's masterful contribution to the literary canon, which certainly owes much to the horrors of the First World War, stands as a fine example of this principle at work in another context.  

A brief point of clarification is necessary here. As stated previously, in no way should this be read as an argument which diminishes a robust habit of reading in pursuit of attaining cheap experiences instead. Rather, as Neil Postman has argued in his book “Amusing Ourselves to Death,” the audience to which Bryant addressed himself was wickedly well read. There was an ingrained reverence for the written word which pervaded anyone who may have happened upon his poetry—one which we would do well to adopt. This is the assumption underlying Bryant’s argument, and any interaction with his ideas regarding poetry—and subsequently those which I am advancing as well—must be assessed against this backdrop.

Finally, a distillation of the position which Bryant expresses and the ideal which Longfellow has modeled for us may be helpful. In its final form it is quite simple: a poet should seek out the richest and most vibrant life available within their grasp. From this engagement will arise verse that is pulsing with life, and which reflects the dynamic brilliance of the world in which it is situated. To those who find this a novel concept, it is my hope that this truth will provide a jolt in a new direction; and to all that have already adopted such a stance, an invigorating reminder for their poetic endeavors still to come.

It is only fitting that we should allow Longfellow the final word here. As he declares at the conclusion of “A Psalm of Life”:

“Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.”

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