First of all, Frost could compose well in any received form, including the masque. Secondly, he established (for American poets) dramatic narratives, both monologues and dialogues, as great vehicles for tragic and weird tales. In them, he opened up views of rural life as both lovely and harrowing. We can use his gift as vehicles for exploring our own terrain. He also wrote with wit, and his versification was near perfect, as was his ear.
What more can we ask of a poet? Six great poems? A dozen damn good ones? Try these for six of his greats:
Home Burial
A Servant to Servants
‘Out, Out--’
Design
The Witch of Coos
Provide, Provide
And these for a dozen damn good ones:
A Considerable Speck
Departmental
The Tuft of Flowers
West-Running Brook
A Passing Glimpse
The Road Not Taken
The Oven Bird
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Two Tramps in Mud Time
Moon Compasses
Neither Out Far Nor In Deep
To Earthward
I believe that Sound is, in the Trinity of diction and meaning, the Holy Ghost, our spirit. Almost all of Frost’s poems are peculiar songs sung with an unmistakeable voice. What more do we need? What more do we want?
He’ll always be a target. Mac’s not the first to call him a phoney. But I think we have to give him this: he has extraordinary appeal to poets, critics, AND “the middle class.” That high school kids and 60-year-old poets can love his art is just fine with me.
Sometimes I think that readers link Frost with Norman Rockwell, a depictor of Americana. Kind of a sweetie pie. But Frost has such a broad range. I love his Masque of Reason, wherein Job gets to sit down and have it out with God, and God takes to Job's wife. The joke's so deep, so sad, so funny.
I'm a hopeless fan and will re-read his work 'til I go blind.
Bob
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