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Mon, Jun. 30th, 2014, 06:39 pm
Hating Frost

Today I discovered that I hate Robert Frost. He's a good poet, I'll grant you that, because only an excellent writer can give you the means by which to hate him long after he's dead. I'm reading a book in which each chapter is headed by a quote from one of his poems, and I've been looking up the poems as I go along. Some I like, some love, some I'm merely indifferent to, but I've come to the overall conclusion that if he were alive today and I met him in person, I would have the overwhelming urge to punch him in the face. He strikes me like an immensely pompous ass.

Then again, he was an English professor and a Nobel Laureate. It's probably not that far off the mark.

Carpe Diem by Robert Frost (1923)


example of poem I adore

Age saw two quiet children
Go loving by at twilight,
He knew not whether homeward,
Or outward from the village,
Or (chimes were ringing) churchward,
He waited (they were strangers)
Till they were out of hearing
To bid them both be happy.
"Be happy, happy, happy,
And seize the day of pleasure."
The age-long theme is Age's.
'Twas Age imposed on poems
Their gather-roses burden
To warn against the danger
That overtaken lovers
From being overflooded
With happiness should have it.
And yet not know they have it.
But bid life seize the present?
It lives less in the present
Than in the future always,
And less in both together
Than in the past. The present
Is too much for the senses,
Too crowding, too confusing--
Too present to imagine.

A Serious Step Taken Lightly by Robert Frost


poem that makes me want to strangle him even though he's already dead

Between two burrs on the map
Was a hollow-headed snake.
The burrs were hills, the snake was a stream,
And the hollow head was a lake.
And the dot in front of a name
Was what should be a town.
And there might be a house we could buy
For only a dollar down.
With two wheels low in the ditch
We left our boiling car,
And knocked at the door of a house we found,
And there to-day we are.

It is turning three hundred years
On our cisatlantic shore
For family after family name.
We'll make it three hundred more

For our name farming here,
Aloof yet not aloof,
Enriching soil and increasing stock,
Repairing fence and roof;

A hundred thousand days
Of front-page paper events,
A half a dozen major wars,
And forty-five presidents.



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