Happy Birthday Robert Frost!
Late Harvest
The harvest moon once seemed so near, I dreamt that some night I would ride a sapling down to earth and bounce into that bright inviting sphere. When later life revealed what’s real, and yearly harvest moons arose, beams would dance through dying leaves, phantoms of my pure ideal. Now I brood, old like my tree, and fading twilight dimmed my vision, but I recall youth’s harvest moon and sing of what’s too far to see. |
Death of a Hired Man
"Silas is home," Mary said. "Warren, be nice! He's in bed." "I''ll go and I'll check 'nd be back in a second," said Warren. But Silas was dead. The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in the wood. Confused, for a moment I stood and muttered an oath. I could not take both, but damn how I wished that I could! Birches I bend the tree down, gaining purchase, then ride the tree up when it lurches, then back in reverse. A boy could do worse than being a swinger of birches. Reluctance To man it has always been treason, confronting the end of a season, to feel no regret. But that's what we get for not being slaves to our reason. Stopping by the Woods Whose woods? Well, I think that I know. I'd like to lie down in the snow and perish right here, but my horse thinks it queer. And he's right. I've got miles to go. Out! Out! The saw cut the boy and he bled. "Please save my hand!" the boy said. The boy, alas, died, and everyone cried, but briefly, since they were not dead. |
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Roger/Bob and Matt, terrific gifts of poetic candles! And funny.
Frost’s Auto-Epitaph Until I reached the age of eighty-eight, Any roads I took, both long and steep, Were headed for fulfillment of my fate To sound these final breaths before I sleep. |
Robert Frost Tackles the Blockage
I have been one acquainted with the shite That gathers in the gloom of septic tanks And shoulders-up the lid with foetid might. I was the one selected from the ranks To face the faeces, armed with only hope And rubber gloves, a pair of scaffold planks, A good stout stick, a bucket on a rope And a technique passed down the family. Human shadoof, I bent to dip and grope; A thrusting-under and a hauling-free Dropping the dollops from a dizzy height Until I won my Pyrrhic victory. No-one will stand downwind of me tonight. I have been one acquainted with the shite. |
Good one, Ann. And you taught me a new word: shadoof. I watched several YouTube videos about the shadoof, but my favorite (though perhaps least informative) was this one.
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I've taught you several words over the years, Rogerbob (e.g. "treen"). I hope you like this one as much as I liked that video. It's utterly charming - and also a very good demonstration of the technique.
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I must peek in on "Drills and Amusements" more often. All of these were fun.
Ann, I had to recover from your first line before I could enjoy the rest. :D And shadoof: now a verb in my mental idiolect. I gotta shadoof this somehow. . . . Thanks. My tardy offering: Frost in Heaven We're grateful You forgave his jokes, O Lord; since Bob got here, Your hosts are much less bored. |
We usually rise to a challenge here on D&A, Daniel. If you investigate, you'll find the "Flyting" topics I mentioned on your "Slam" thread.
Here's the first one... https://www.ablemuse.com/erato/showt...hlight=flyting And here's the second... https://www.ablemuse.com/erato/showt...hlight=flyting Posts nos. 18 and 21 in the latter thread are relevant to our recent discussion, I think. You should join us more often. . |
These aren't as good as Ann's, but in any case ...
The Quietude of Night Our master loves the quietude of night. He loves it whether overcast or clear. When clear our master gazes at the light of stars that flicker through Earth’s atmosphere or planets he can spy with naked eye. (Without his glasses, though, they’d look unclear.) But when he starts to walk we nearly fly! We mutts, our master’s dogs, do try our best to slow him down. We think that crazy guy is nuts to walk so fast. Is it a test? We try to pee on every tree for spite. With speed our master truly is obsessed. To slow him down we use our brawn and might, but he keeps pulling us. It’s impolite! Reacquainted with the Night I have been one acquainted with the night. All of my closest friends say I’m insane. They tell me I don’t see enough daylight. What my friends think of me is very plain. They’re gossipy, they’re rash, they’re indiscreet. They say I’ve lost my marbles—gone insane. They make it known to everyone they meet. It seems they even tell the birds that fly— their tale, it seems, has wings as well as feet! So maybe it is time to say good-bye to all those rumormongers, impolite. My feelings are too strong—they do not lie! I’ll write a note to them by candlelight. I’ll then be reacquainted with the night. |
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