Tutorial: deconstructing "Patrolling Barnegat" for GCSE and college enthusiasts

Whitman’s economical opening

With his opening four lines, Whitman offers us a rich overture. First, he iterates and reiterates the uncontrolled nature of the event: “Wild, wild” and gives us its all-embracing substantive (the abstract noun “storm”), particularised from any other storm simply by the definite article “the.”

Next, he tells us the characteristics of the most significant material, the “sea.” With two words, he paints the tide as in, the waves as large and the current, or the speed of the water, as fast: “high running.”


the senses and the imagination

The second line is devoted to two types of sound.

While “running” and “roar”, because of their familiarity, merely hint at personification, Whitman introduces the notion of animism quite clearly with the word “muttering.” (Strictly speaking, this is not “anthropomorphism,” as Whitman does not suggest that the gale has taken the form, or “morph” of a living creature.)

The line which follows throws us immediately into the unarguable realisation that Whitman regards the storm as being driven by conscious spirits. It is the “fitful,” or irregular, nature of the devilish outbursts which makes them unnerving on a non-material level. It seems as though the minds which Whitman imagines as driving the storm are revelling in the power they are unleashing.


form and meaning

Whitman’s reading of the Christian Bible had a great impact on his writing style, but his layman’s studies of the latest nineteenth century thinking on scientific and theological matters led him towards a kind of deism in which all parts of the universe are seen as infused with cosmic energy.

Consequently, we can read his “trinity” of “waves” (the sea), “air” (the wind) and “midnight” (the darkness) not as the Christian god's three-in-oneness of father, son and holy spirit but of a corresponding wicked trio combined into one supremely cruel unit.

The absence of a comma after “trinity” does not help us to understand that the trinity is doing the lashing rather than itself being lashed.


the patrol is watching the trinity

The question of who is doing what is relevant to our understanding of the final line. Here it is not the “savage trinity” which is “watching,” but the “dim, weird forms” (i.e. the people of the patrol) who are watching the savage trinity. Because of the poem’s dense structure, compounded by Whitman’s determination to end each line with a participle, it is not always immediately evident which substantive (or “noun”) is the subject or object of which participle.

Consequently, many commentators on this poem seem to miss the point, reading “Patrolling Barnegat” as an inchoate accumulation of imagery. In fact, Whitman’s logical thread is almost entirely unbroken if we have the wit to unravel it.

In the fifth line, Whitman draws our attention to the margin between sea and sand, introducing the imagery of fast-breaking foamy waves and of blown wet sand and giving his first indication of the temperature: driving snow. It is here, in line 7, that we are given the start of the description of the actions of the patrol, whom Whitman does not name until the penultimate line (“group of dim, weird forms”).

Thus the subject indicated by the poem's title is preceded by five clauses and phrases before we are allowed to reach it.

However, if we had been attentive, the relative pronoun “where” should have alerted us to the existence of the new phenomenon which will eventually be revealed as the patrol.


sailing ships in danger

The patrol is “breasting”, or walking against, the wind.

Whitman describes the gale as a “death”-wind as because it is a wrecking wind. Barnegat lies on the east coast of the USA, so a gale blowing from the east will drive the wind-powered ships standing out at sea towards the land. The history of coastal wrecks and drownings throughout the nineteenth century is testimony to the validity of Whitman’s concern. (Westerly winds would blow sailing ships more safely out to sea.)

The town of Barnegat itself stands within a bay protected by the long parallel barrier of Long Beach Island and Island Beach Peninsula. The beach below the town appears to have a fetch (the distance over which the wind blows without intervening land) of only three miles, leading us to the (unverified) conclusion that Whitman must be experiencing the storm from the narrow barrier itself. Here he would have had water on both sides of the low-rise sandy barrier which was being battered on the eastern side by huge waves breaking after crossing several thousand miles of the North Atlantic.

For more information about Barnegat, follow these links:
General:
http://en.wikipedia.org/Barnegat_Bay
Map:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Barnegat_cdp_nj_029.png
Book Review:
http://www.nj.com/weblogs


the poet admires the patrol

In the eighth line, Whitman reveals his admiration for the folk on the beach. Whereas the storm is chaotic, the people of the patrol are “watchful” and “firm.” The word “advancing” itself suggests the determined forward movement of a formation of soldiers, although we know from our histories that these early lifesaving patrols were made up mainly of volunteers.

With his ninth-line evocation of the team's trying to seeing clearly through the tumult, the poet reminds us why the patrol is there. Their very feebleness under the assault of the elements tells us how difficult any attempts they make at rescue might be.

By suspending us in time by the device of his dangling present participles, Whitman demonstrates that his intent is not to portray the dramatic events of an attempted rescue. Rather, his target is the effort put into a struggle which may have no definitive resolution at all; these folk will keep a look-out along the beach all night “tirelessly.”


old words, contemporary meanings

“Wending” is a fascinating, almost lost, lexeme. We see its relic in what we label as the simple past tense of “to go”: I went etc.

In fact, “to wend” is a verb in its own right, partly robbed from to plug a gap in the "to go" verb. (Children who say “I goed,” know better than most of us realise.)

Whitman’s people are more than merely “going”: they are making their way forward, changing direction with some purpose as their mission requires.


more than sex

There is an underlying sensual, or sexual, drive to Whitman’s early poetry, a drive of which he later became aware. Having made this observation and having recognised the poet’s susceptibility to masculine strength and courage, we should attempt to understand the particularity of each of his subjects separately. Briefly, summarising his verse as “it’s all about sex” is not an adequate way of coming to an understanding of it.

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