The Critic From 1855

I listen to the Critic from 1855.
He says "Walt Whitman" is both British and American.
Funnily enough, when he describes poetry
I sing with passion, and I understand.
Then he begins to sound like a critic;
And all credibility is lost on me.

How could the man who so brilliantly 
Describe poetry two paragraphs earlier
Begin to snark at Walt Whitman?
Should a poet sing like Walt Whitman sings
In our modern age, I would rejoice.
I would purchase his work greedily,
And add it to my bookshelf.

I understand the controversy, though.
Walt Whitman---but I would say Byron had done the same---
Brought a crude and selfish vein to poetry.
Poetry is not singing about the self.
Though, some poets sing about themselves
The great poets---the more subtle poets---
Sing about the Earth. They sing about the trees
Or the birds, or battles,---or, they invent mythologies.

I like Walt Whitman because he has a complete education.
He teaches me nouns, and many of them.
He informs me on the way life was in 1855.
He teaches me a lot.
However, the critic said he's either a failure or glorious.
Neither of these were true.
Walt Whitman was a poet
Who must have written else he despair.
A wise man, who had many thoughts---
And there in lies the problem with modern poetry.
There is little thought behind it.
It's not the narcissism I dislike about modern poetry
But I dislike the disregard it has toward things outside the self.
Good poetry ought to have a healthy interest in other things
Beside the self.
I suppose that is why the critic didn't like Whitman
Was that he sung odes about himself.
He, being among the first to have the audacity to do it
Invented the ego. Not that Hubris was never a part of poetry,
For I certainly have hubris---
Which is healthy for an artist who recognizes their talents
When very few other people do---
Though, I am creating a revival of poetry all by myself.
I'm inspiring one or two of you
And by my inspiration, you write a poem like mine.
And then it trickles down, so that poetry revitalizes.
I am the catalyst back to a day when men were wise;
For though few do read me,
I give a glimpse into the hidden art and purpose.
The mystery of solving other men's riddles.
And one day all will have read me
At least some little thought I had.
And that day I suppose poetry will be enjoyed
Again; not merely an indulgence in self love.