I have just started reading Robert Frost poems again. Anyone have a favorite that they enjoy that we can chat about? I just read "Mending Walls" and really enjoyed the way the poem is a conversation between two speakers.
I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. The dew was gone that made his blade so keen Before I came to view the leveled scene. I looked for him behind an isle of trees; I listened for his whetstone on the breeze. But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been -- alone, 'As all must be,' I said within my heart, 'Whether they work together or apart.' But as I said it, swift there passed me by On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly, Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night Some resting flower of yesterday's delight. And once I marked his flight go round and round, As where some flower lay withering on the ground. And then he flew as far as eye could see, And then on tremulous wing came back to me. I thought of questions that have no reply, And would have turned to toss the grass to dry; But he turned first, and led my eye to look At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook, A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared. The mower in the dew had loved them thus, By leaving them to flourish, not for us, Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him. But from sheer morning gladness at the brim. The butterfly and I had lit upon, Nevertheless, a message from the dawn, That made me hear the wakening birds around, And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground, And feel a spirit kindred to my own; So that henceforth I worked no more alone; But glad with him, I worked as with his aid, And weary, sought at noon with him the shade; And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach. 'Men work together,' I told him from the heart, 'Whether they work together or apart.'
This poem brought to mind my first day outside after we moved into the house on Juniata Street. It was the first sunny day of spring. Mom, Dad and I went down to where the garden would be some day but was then the outbuildings of the little house. My attention was turned to the wild flowers that covered the ground shoulder deep from where I stood to the top of the hill behind the gas well.
Living on Main Street I had never seen wildflowers before. The sun made them all very fragrant and every one seemed to be a different kind of flower. For the rest of the week and often as I could through the summer I went back there and tried to get an example of every kind which I would make into a bouquet for mother. I never ran out of new varieties.
Mark and Meg, Remember the clumps of daffodils by the foundation of what was once a house--in the fields past the old spring, walking through the woods towards Gary's old office on Rt. 219?
If you walked over there you would have found a foundation for a small house the size of a scottish croft. In the ruins were pieces of china including an intact chinese teacup. Nearby is a stone well just like the wells in the fairy tales. I suppose they left when the mines shutdown.
Every time I see a daffodil I think of the magical woods behind Gram and Gramp's house. Gram would walk me down that little path to the daffodil field and tell me stories about elves and fairies. I so believed every word she said. She also taught me how to find tea berries and water cress at the spring. Uncle Mark, thanks for sharing your memories, funny how we all have some surrounding this little magical place. Mom, you must go there and tell us if the daffodils are still there!
Nestled so tightly that nose winds to tail, Dreaming so gently of chasing bumble bees and chewing on a long forgotten sun-baked snail.
These are the contemplative moments that dogs possess, Not bothering with email or economic distress.
Time has no boundaries, no understanding of days upon days, Just a friendly face and a bit of pent up energy turning into a dizzying haze.
Fur flying every which way, yelping and scurrying, As this creature with no worries realizes the value of hurrying.
Hurrying for a tiny morsel of crumb, a stray tortilla chip or little bit of a little bit of a little bit…
Hurrying for a chance to persuade you to yield to his pleading,
And hurrying you into his impatient needing …knowing all the while you’ll soon be conceding.
Sitting nearly upon you, walking right under your feet, leaning in on your leg as soon as you find a seat, Trying as best to sit in your lap, not noticing his near 70 pounds squishing you flat.
His energy is boundless, determination nothing short of a small commanding general, Standing by the door eyes imploring, his sniffing of tennis shoes a not-so-subtle signal.
His butt gives an enamored wiggle and he wonders when you will figure it out, He’s waiting, he’s by the door, get the leash, get the hat, get on with it at last!
Victory! Victory! Victory!
He sniffs like he’s never smelled a tree And marks every shrub gingerly, with a reserve measured just-so, covering all the bases (from our house to the park) in all the usual places.
An adventure out beyond…does he know that the world goes on and on? Does he know that there are millions of parks and thousands upon thousands of other barks?
His work here is done, another successful battle for the small general has been won. He assumes the position, back to his place.
Returns to the dream state and awaits the chance to do it again... All for the love of his best-est of friend.
What if he knew? What if they all knew? Would they all unionize and make demands? Or is this just all part of his Master Plan?
Here is a poem for the 4th anniversary of my sister, Ellyn Parrott Anto's death. I wrote this poem the week before she died.
Easter Sunday
Angels we have heard on high Proclaiming peace on earth, Goodwill toward all men. Whey they come to take my sister to Heaven Will they carry her away in a golden chariot? Will they swaddle her like a newborn? Will they carry her on their shoulders like a conquering hero / warrior Queen? After they took Jesus' body, bloody and battered down from the cross, did the angels, carry him away on fragile gossamer wings? If Jesus is God, who welcomed him into Heaven like the Prodigal Son and wrapped him in rich robes, Put a ring on his finger? Jesus, get ready. Here comes my sister sliding into Home Plate. Count her safe.
I love the last line of your poem, "Here comes my sister sliding into Home Plate. Count her safe." It really embodies the spirit of Aunt Ellyn...full of life and spirit. Thanks for sharing that poem. I think of Aunt El sitting by the pool laughing and then how she and I would sing to the Supremes and dance around the deck. She sure lit up a room and she is greatly missed!!
Here is another poem that Meg sent me and is one of my favorite poems now, also.
Link to video presentation (on Def Poetry Jams):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SCNIBV87wV4
Totally like whatever, you know?
In case you hadn't noticed, it has somehow become uncool to sound like you know what you're talking about? Or believe strongly in what you're saying? Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)'s have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences? Even when those sentences aren't, like, questions? You know?
Declarative sentences -- so-called because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true as opposed to other things which were, like, not - have been infected by a totally hip and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know? Like, don't think I'm uncool just because I've noticed this; this is just like the word on the street, you know? It's like what I've heard? I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay? I'm just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?
What has happened to our conviction? Where are the limbs out on which we once walked? Have they been, like, chopped down with the rest of the rain forest? Or do we have, like, nothing to say? Has society become so, like, totally... I mean absolutely... You know? That we've just gotten to the point where it's just, like... whatever!
And so actually our disarticulation... ness is just a clever sort of... thing to disguise the fact that we've become the most aggressively inarticulate generation to come along since... you know, a long, long time ago!
I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you, I challenge you: To speak with conviction. To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks the determination with which you believe it. Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker, it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY. You have to speak with it, too.
11 comments:
Here is my favorite Frost poem:
THE TUFT OF FLOWERS
I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the leveled scene.
I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been -- alone,
'As all must be,' I said within my heart,
'Whether they work together or apart.'
But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly,
Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.
And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;
But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;
And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.
'Men work together,' I told him from the heart,
'Whether they work together or apart.'
Great poem! I love the spirit of oneness that this poem embodies. Thanks for sharing it!
This poem brought to mind my first day outside after we moved into the house on Juniata Street. It was the first sunny day of spring. Mom, Dad and I went down to where the garden would be some day but was then the outbuildings of the little house. My attention was turned to the wild flowers that covered the ground shoulder deep from where I stood to the top of the hill behind the gas well.
Living on Main Street I had never seen wildflowers before. The sun made them all very fragrant and every one seemed to be a different kind of flower.
For the rest of the week and often as I could through the summer I went back there and tried to get an example of every kind which I would make into a bouquet for mother. I never ran out of new varieties.
Mark and Meg,
Remember the clumps of daffodils by the foundation of what was once a house--in the fields past the old spring, walking through the woods towards Gary's old office on Rt. 219?
If you walked over there you would have found a foundation for a small house the size of a scottish croft. In the ruins were pieces of china including an intact chinese teacup. Nearby is a stone well just like the wells in the fairy tales. I suppose they left when the mines shutdown.
The story behind this area and the house David lives in would make a great historical novel, wouldn't it?
Every time I see a daffodil I think of the magical woods behind Gram and Gramp's house. Gram would walk me down that little path to the daffodil field and tell me stories about elves and fairies. I so believed every word she said. She also taught me how to find tea berries and water cress at the spring. Uncle Mark, thanks for sharing your memories, funny how we all have some surrounding this little magical place. Mom, you must go there and tell us if the daffodils are still there!
New poem:
Master Plan
Nestled so tightly that nose winds to tail,
Dreaming so gently of chasing bumble bees and chewing on a long forgotten sun-baked snail.
These are the contemplative moments that dogs possess,
Not bothering with email or economic distress.
Time has no boundaries, no understanding of days upon days,
Just a friendly face and a bit of pent up energy turning into a dizzying haze.
Fur flying every which way, yelping and scurrying,
As this creature with no worries realizes the value of hurrying.
Hurrying for a tiny morsel of crumb, a stray tortilla chip or little bit of a little bit of a little bit…
Hurrying for a chance to persuade you to yield to his pleading,
And hurrying you into his impatient needing
…knowing all the while you’ll soon be conceding.
Sitting nearly upon you, walking right under your feet, leaning in on your leg as soon as you find a seat,
Trying as best to sit in your lap, not noticing his near 70 pounds squishing you flat.
His energy is boundless, determination nothing short of a small commanding general,
Standing by the door eyes imploring, his sniffing of tennis shoes a
not-so-subtle signal.
His butt gives an enamored wiggle and he wonders when you will figure it out,
He’s waiting, he’s by the door, get the leash, get the hat, get on with it at last!
Victory! Victory! Victory!
He sniffs like he’s never smelled a tree
And marks every shrub gingerly,
with a reserve measured just-so,
covering all the bases (from our house to the park)
in all the usual places.
An adventure out beyond…does he know that the world goes on and on? Does he know that there are millions of parks and thousands upon thousands of other barks?
His work here is done, another successful battle for the small general has been won.
He assumes the position, back to his place.
Returns to the dream state and awaits the chance to do it again...
All for the love of his best-est of friend.
What if he knew? What if they all knew? Would they all unionize and make demands? Or is this just all part of his Master Plan?
Here is a poem for the 4th anniversary of my sister, Ellyn Parrott Anto's death. I wrote this poem the week before she died.
Easter Sunday
Angels we have heard
on high
Proclaiming peace
on earth, Goodwill
toward all men.
Whey they come to take
my sister to Heaven
Will they carry her away
in a golden chariot?
Will they swaddle
her like a newborn?
Will they carry her
on their shoulders
like a conquering
hero / warrior Queen?
After they took
Jesus' body,
bloody and battered
down from the cross,
did the angels,
carry him away
on fragile gossamer wings?
If Jesus is God,
who welcomed him
into Heaven
like the Prodigal Son
and wrapped him in rich robes,
Put a ring
on his finger?
Jesus, get ready.
Here comes my sister
sliding into Home Plate.
Count her safe.
3/27/05
I love the last line of your poem, "Here comes my sister sliding into Home Plate. Count her safe." It really embodies the spirit of Aunt Ellyn...full of life and spirit. Thanks for sharing that poem. I think of Aunt El sitting by the pool laughing and then how she and I would sing to the Supremes and dance around the deck. She sure lit up a room and she is greatly missed!!
Here is another poem that Meg sent me and is one of my favorite poems now, also.
Link to video presentation (on Def Poetry Jams):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SCNIBV87wV4
Totally like whatever, you know?
In case you hadn't noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you're talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you're saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)'s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren't, like, questions? You know?
Declarative sentences -- so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not -
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don't think I'm uncool just because I've noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It's like what I've heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I'm just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?
What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally...
I mean absolutely... You know?
That we've just gotten to the point where it's just, like...
whatever!
And so actually our disarticulation... ness
is just a clever sort of... thing
to disguise the fact that we've become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since...
you know, a long, long time ago!
I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.
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