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The Poetry of Robert Frost
This is a feast for lovers of American literature. No poet is more emblematically American than Robert Frost. Hailed as "the most eminent, the most distinguished Anglo-American poet" by T.S. Eliot, he is the only writer in history to have been awarded four Pulitzer Prizes. In iconic poems like "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening", simple images summon the rural landscape of New England, and Frost unfailingly moves the reader with his profound grasp of the human condition. This is the most comprehensive and authoritative volume of Frost's verse available, comprising all eleven volumes of his poems, meticulously edited by Edward Connery Lathem.
607 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1969
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About the author
Robert Frost
904听books4,887听followersFlinty, moody, plainspoken and deep, Robert Frost was one of America's most popular 20th-century poets. Frost was farming in Derry, New Hampshire when, at the age of 38, he sold the farm, uprooted his family and moved to England, where he devoted himself to his poetry. His first two books of verse, A Boy's Will (1913) and North of Boston (1914), were immediate successes. In 1915 he returned to the United States and continued to write while living in New Hampshire and then Vermont. His pastoral images of apple trees and stone fences -- along with his solitary, man-of-few-words poetic voice -- helped define the modern image of rural New England. Frost's poems include "Mending Wall" ("Good fences make good neighbors"), "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" ("Whose woods these are I think I know"), and perhaps his most famous work, "The Road Not Taken" ("Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- / I took the one less traveled by"). Frost was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for poetry four times: in 1924, 1931, 1937 and 1943. He also served as "Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress" from 1958-59; that position was renamed as Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry (or simply Poet Laureate) in 1986.
Frost recited his poem "The Gift Outright" at the 1961 inauguration of John F. Kennedy... Frost attended both Dartmouth College and Harvard, but did not graduate from either school... Frost preferred traditional rhyme and meter in poetry; his famous dismissal of free verse was, "I'd just as soon play tennis with the net down."
Frost recited his poem "The Gift Outright" at the 1961 inauguration of John F. Kennedy... Frost attended both Dartmouth College and Harvard, but did not graduate from either school... Frost preferred traditional rhyme and meter in poetry; his famous dismissal of free verse was, "I'd just as soon play tennis with the net down."
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March 22, 2021
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Reading Robert Frost is like dancing in the woods on a saturday morning, drinking peppermint hot chocolate and listening to your favorite music all rolled into one.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Poetry is so magical. It feeds the mind, heart and soul. It's like an old friend. A good song. Love. Nature.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I鈥�
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Pure feel-good escapism.
Some are darker than others, but equally beautiful.
My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Robert Frost's work continues to inspire and endure.
November 10, 2023
The first category of Frost's narratives is ballads, representing his weakest work in the mode. His first five books contain only four narrative ballads鈥攖wo in A Boy's Will and two in Mountain Interval. They differ from his other narrative verses in their use of rhyme and stanza and their conventional diction and syntax, which seem traditional to the point of being derivative. Their lack of stylistic individuality is particularly conspicuous in Mountain Interval, where neighboring poems, such as "The Road Not Taken" and "Birches," speak in suppler, subtler, and unmistakably Frostian cadences. Meanwhile, "Brown's Descent" language sounds stiff and generic.
The second category of Frost's narrative poetry is equally traditional鈥攍inear narratives composed of blank verse, usually told in the third person. The form seems borrowed from earlier narrative poetry and the contemporary short story, though more concisely described than in either tradition. However traditional in structure, these poems escape the anachronistic manner of ballads. Their language is modern and conversational, their tone understated and austere. Perhaps most significantly, they seem hard-edged and realistic rather than soft or idealized. However, like the ballads, they represent a tiny portion of Frost's narrative work. There are only four such linear narratives in the first five books鈥�"鈥�'Out, Out鈥�,'鈥�" in Mountain Interval, "A Place for a Third," and "Two Look at Two" in New Hampshire. And finally, in Mountain Interval, "The Vanishing Red," a brutal and callous tale that is probably Frost's most controversial poem. (To this quartet, one should probably add "Paul's Wife," a tall, rambling story that seems sui generis among the narratives, one not so much linear as a spiral in design.) These four poems are all strikingly concise and controlled.
The dramatic monologues are especially revelatory. Critics often characterize Frost's narratives as "monologues," but the term is usually a misnomer. In the first five books, there are only three dramatic monologues鈥�"A Servant to Servants" in North of Boston, "The Pauper Witch of Grafton," and "Wild Grapes" in New Hampshire. The dramatic monologue emerged as the leading narrative form in Frost's formative years. Brilliantly developed by Browning and Tennyson, it provided a narrative strategy that offered lyric compression and psychological depth of character. It became the central narrative form for early twentieth-century American poets. Robinson, Pound, Eliot, Edgar Lee Masters, and Conrad Aiken all did significant work in the state. Frost's avoidance of dramatic monologue cannot be accidental. Unlike the ballad, the monologue was congenial to his talents. "A Servant to Servants," a dark portrayal of a depressed and exhausted woman on the edge of madness, as Jarrell and Parini have observed, is a poem of memorable intensity. Frost's hesitation with the form came not from what he could put into it, which was compelling, but from what he couldn't include.
The fourth category of Frost's narrative work is the largest and most original. These poems were so innovative in style and structure that there is no conventional name for Frost's verse form even a hundred years later, which I shall call the dramatic narrative. Written in conversational blank verse (except for "Blueberries," which is in rhymed anapestic couplets), the dramatic narratives combine direct dialogue with minimalist narration, usually in the omniscient third person. The conversation predominates, and the narration is strictly descriptive, never offering any overt 鈥媋uthorial interpretation of the characters or situations. Instead, the narration sets the scene and describes the characters' actions when not speaking, just as stage directions would in a realist play.
Source:
The second category of Frost's narrative poetry is equally traditional鈥攍inear narratives composed of blank verse, usually told in the third person. The form seems borrowed from earlier narrative poetry and the contemporary short story, though more concisely described than in either tradition. However traditional in structure, these poems escape the anachronistic manner of ballads. Their language is modern and conversational, their tone understated and austere. Perhaps most significantly, they seem hard-edged and realistic rather than soft or idealized. However, like the ballads, they represent a tiny portion of Frost's narrative work. There are only four such linear narratives in the first five books鈥�"鈥�'Out, Out鈥�,'鈥�" in Mountain Interval, "A Place for a Third," and "Two Look at Two" in New Hampshire. And finally, in Mountain Interval, "The Vanishing Red," a brutal and callous tale that is probably Frost's most controversial poem. (To this quartet, one should probably add "Paul's Wife," a tall, rambling story that seems sui generis among the narratives, one not so much linear as a spiral in design.) These four poems are all strikingly concise and controlled.
The dramatic monologues are especially revelatory. Critics often characterize Frost's narratives as "monologues," but the term is usually a misnomer. In the first five books, there are only three dramatic monologues鈥�"A Servant to Servants" in North of Boston, "The Pauper Witch of Grafton," and "Wild Grapes" in New Hampshire. The dramatic monologue emerged as the leading narrative form in Frost's formative years. Brilliantly developed by Browning and Tennyson, it provided a narrative strategy that offered lyric compression and psychological depth of character. It became the central narrative form for early twentieth-century American poets. Robinson, Pound, Eliot, Edgar Lee Masters, and Conrad Aiken all did significant work in the state. Frost's avoidance of dramatic monologue cannot be accidental. Unlike the ballad, the monologue was congenial to his talents. "A Servant to Servants," a dark portrayal of a depressed and exhausted woman on the edge of madness, as Jarrell and Parini have observed, is a poem of memorable intensity. Frost's hesitation with the form came not from what he could put into it, which was compelling, but from what he couldn't include.
The fourth category of Frost's narrative work is the largest and most original. These poems were so innovative in style and structure that there is no conventional name for Frost's verse form even a hundred years later, which I shall call the dramatic narrative. Written in conversational blank verse (except for "Blueberries," which is in rhymed anapestic couplets), the dramatic narratives combine direct dialogue with minimalist narration, usually in the omniscient third person. The conversation predominates, and the narration is strictly descriptive, never offering any overt 鈥媋uthorial interpretation of the characters or situations. Instead, the narration sets the scene and describes the characters' actions when not speaking, just as stage directions would in a realist play.
Source:
March 14, 2018
It's not that I have a favourite Robert Frost poem -- he's not that kind of fellow. Yes, there are many "quotable quotes" that people bandy about; but again, he's not that kind of fellow. I dip into this collection again and again, when I want the world to slow down a little, and I just want to dream away a few hours, an afternoon. These are especially good on snowy, blustery, mid-winter afternoons when there is nothing to do, and nowhere to go. And in the evening, you stop by a wood, ... lovely, dark, and deep.
He's the kind of fellow with whom you could have had long, interesting conversations, whether or not the discourse took you anywhere on that particular day; but to never make the mistake, in that conversation, of confusing his simplicity of language with simplicity of thought -- for he is more than "a considerable speck" in the universe and he has allowed me to take many roads, in my mind, not taken in the physical world.
This is a well-thumbed, well-loved collection.
He's the kind of fellow with whom you could have had long, interesting conversations, whether or not the discourse took you anywhere on that particular day; but to never make the mistake, in that conversation, of confusing his simplicity of language with simplicity of thought -- for he is more than "a considerable speck" in the universe and he has allowed me to take many roads, in my mind, not taken in the physical world.
This is a well-thumbed, well-loved collection.
May 6, 2019
I'm currently working my way through this book, which is the standard edition of his collected poetry. Should be done some time in 2018 2019 never.
Frost in 1941
I'm abandoning my reading of Frost's poetry. Too many other books to get read.
Having gotten up through A Witness Tree I'm guessing that I've probably read most of his poems that are still remembered. It was a great journey, I found out a lot about Frost and the surprising poetry that he wrote through most of his long life. A very modern poet, even though in the end I get the impression that he is properly classified as a quite regional poet, one who in much of his work writes of people and attitudes that are found in American New England - that area northeast of New York and even more specifically north of Boston. Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, and the northern edge of Massachusetts.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Below are the nine collections of poetry the book contains, the year the collection was published, and links to separate reviews of the collections, for those I've read and reviewed. These reviews will primarily be comprised of quotations of some of the poems I enjoyed most, with perhaps some additional comments.
(1) A Boy's Will, 1913 - review
(2) North of Boston, 1914 - review
(3) Mountain Interval, 1916 - review
(4) New Hampshire, 1924 - review
(5) West-Running Brook, 1929 - review
(6) A Further Range, 1936 - review
(7) A Witness Tree, 1942 - review not yet written.
and the unread ...
(8) Steeple Bush, 1947
(9) In the Clearing, 1962
Plus two plays Frost wrote:
(10) A Masque of Reason, 1945
(11) A Masque of Mercy, 1947
Finally (not in the book), I've reviewed the following:
Robert Frost: A Collection of Critical Essays, edited by James M. Cox. See the link for Previous library review below.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Previous review: Basil Street Blues
Next review: North of Boston
Older review: Understanding Power
Previous library review: Robert Frost critical reviews
Next library review: A Boy's Will see above
Frost in 1941
I'm abandoning my reading of Frost's poetry. Too many other books to get read.
Having gotten up through A Witness Tree I'm guessing that I've probably read most of his poems that are still remembered. It was a great journey, I found out a lot about Frost and the surprising poetry that he wrote through most of his long life. A very modern poet, even though in the end I get the impression that he is properly classified as a quite regional poet, one who in much of his work writes of people and attitudes that are found in American New England - that area northeast of New York and even more specifically north of Boston. Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, and the northern edge of Massachusetts.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Below are the nine collections of poetry the book contains, the year the collection was published, and links to separate reviews of the collections, for those I've read and reviewed. These reviews will primarily be comprised of quotations of some of the poems I enjoyed most, with perhaps some additional comments.
(1) A Boy's Will, 1913 - review
(2) North of Boston, 1914 - review
(3) Mountain Interval, 1916 - review
(4) New Hampshire, 1924 - review
(5) West-Running Brook, 1929 - review
(6) A Further Range, 1936 - review
(7) A Witness Tree, 1942 - review not yet written.
and the unread ...
(8) Steeple Bush, 1947
(9) In the Clearing, 1962
Plus two plays Frost wrote:
(10) A Masque of Reason, 1945
(11) A Masque of Mercy, 1947
Finally (not in the book), I've reviewed the following:
Robert Frost: A Collection of Critical Essays, edited by James M. Cox. See the link for Previous library review below.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Previous review: Basil Street Blues
Next review: North of Boston
Older review: Understanding Power
Previous library review: Robert Frost critical reviews
Next library review: A Boy's Will see above
August 3, 2007
Robert Frost wrote some stunning and thought provoking poems. Almost everyone has heard of "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" or "The Road Not Taken", but one of my all time favorites is "Desert Places". The last verse:
"They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places."
"They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places."
Read
June 5, 2017I was intrigued to learn that Frost and had met and spent time together in England before the first world war following on from a review of some of Frost's poetry by Thomas. I feel both that in some way that the two of these people are now coming together in my understanding is a sign both of the deficiencies in my education and that luckily there is ever more to discover about the world. I believe "The Road not taken" was inspired by some of the walks the two went on and that Frost encouraged Thomas to write and publish his own poetry too. There is something unnerving about that connection for me, perhaps just the sense of how long Frost's adult life was since he was also performing at the inauguration of J.F. Kennedy.
I recall a verse about almost being carried off by an eagle as a child which has then that reoccurring theme in poetry of the writer's self identity as poet, but also their own place in their culture. Frost not becoming Ganymede stands in relation to Petrarch and his Laura evoking the laurel which crowns the poet's brow as symbol of the Muse's victory.
Although the volume, no doubt cheaply acquired, stands on the shelf I doubt I'll become deeply acquainted with it. Poetry for me has the feel of hard work to it, I am a lazy reader, disinclined to break my head over ambiguous phrasing and elusive meaning.
I recall a verse about almost being carried off by an eagle as a child which has then that reoccurring theme in poetry of the writer's self identity as poet, but also their own place in their culture. Frost not becoming Ganymede stands in relation to Petrarch and his Laura evoking the laurel which crowns the poet's brow as symbol of the Muse's victory.
Although the volume, no doubt cheaply acquired, stands on the shelf I doubt I'll become deeply acquainted with it. Poetry for me has the feel of hard work to it, I am a lazy reader, disinclined to break my head over ambiguous phrasing and elusive meaning.
December 13, 2018
Lovely poems! Frost isn't a "favorite" poet of mine, but he's definitely memorable and brilliant.
August 24, 2007
I think it's this version I have an old copy of this book. My grandma gave it to me for Christmas many years ago. I love Robert Frost. He's my first favorite poet and my favorite poem will always be The Road Not Taken. "And I, I took the road less traveled by and that has made all the difference." RF is my reason for loving words I think.
September 13, 2016
Robert Frost is the Thomas Kinkade of poetry.
December 15, 2008
Let me say that he is one of poets who have waken me up from my long sleep in "comfortable bed of uniformity and stagnancy". I used to think that being among the crowd was a safe way to live. Being uniform was my "template". In fact, now I learn that being myself -- that might be being different from you all -- is the safest mode anytime anywhere. And, I am sure that I won't be sorry for being uniquely ordinary as I am.
Of course "The Road Not taken" is still a uniform favorite os mine since most of Frost's readers take it as their liking. To me Frost is a prodigy for taking his readers into his realm of extraordinary style to present ordinary ideas.
Let me share with you 3 of his poems that I believe are spellbinding.
The Road Not Taken
by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
***
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
***
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Of course "The Road Not taken" is still a uniform favorite os mine since most of Frost's readers take it as their liking. To me Frost is a prodigy for taking his readers into his realm of extraordinary style to present ordinary ideas.
Let me share with you 3 of his poems that I believe are spellbinding.
The Road Not Taken
by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
***
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
***
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
September 18, 2008
Robert Frost has the most beautiful poetry! My dad used to read to me from this book every night before bed and it has been a fovorite ever since. When I was little my favorite one was The pasture. Now I love "Reluctance"
OUT through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home, 5
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping 10
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone; 15
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 鈥榃hither?鈥�
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason 20
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
OUT through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home, 5
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping 10
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone; 15
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 鈥榃hither?鈥�
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason 20
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
February 10, 2017
Oh, if there were only the words to express how I feel about Frost. There aren't the right words nor near enough. However, I do enjoy reading his poems. They buoy me.
I am usually a lover of short poems, yet, even in his longer poems a line or two will reverberate.
Most will recommend "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening", "The Road Not Taken" or "Nothing Gold Can Stay". There are reasons why they would recommend these poems, as they have merit. Yet, these are not the only poems worth their keep. I recommend reading "Reluctance", "Into My Own", "Tree At My Window", "Wild Grapes" and "Devotion".
I may yet live, as I know others live,
To wish in vain to let go with the mind -
Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me
That I need learn to let go with the heart.
from "Wild Grapes"
I am usually a lover of short poems, yet, even in his longer poems a line or two will reverberate.
Most will recommend "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening", "The Road Not Taken" or "Nothing Gold Can Stay". There are reasons why they would recommend these poems, as they have merit. Yet, these are not the only poems worth their keep. I recommend reading "Reluctance", "Into My Own", "Tree At My Window", "Wild Grapes" and "Devotion".
I may yet live, as I know others live,
To wish in vain to let go with the mind -
Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me
That I need learn to let go with the heart.
from "Wild Grapes"
November 26, 2018
If you like poetry don't miss this!
June 29, 2009
My November Guest
My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
July 28, 2009
He expertly articulates and captures those feelings inspired in us as children.
Wonderment and Beauty, Innocence, and Joyfulness, but also and equally, Loneliness Isolation and Desperation. Wisdom and Naivety.
Reading Frost is like traveling across New England With two people. The First incarnation a small enthusiastic and expressive child awe struck by the simple beauty of the landscape and changing seasons as he passes them by yearning to run ahead and spy what lay beyond the next bend.
The Second, a wiser and well traveled grandfatherly type, Who knows better than to openly advise against taking the short cut,though in a round about way counsels against the idea; lest we miss the point of the taking the back roads in the first place.
(If the above was confusing I apologize. Its late and Im trying to pay homage my favorite philosopher/poet.
I find Its like trying to explain why water tastes good when you've just crossed the Sahara. It should be obvious to all, but then what if the person has no idea what the Sahara IS?
Wonderment and Beauty, Innocence, and Joyfulness, but also and equally, Loneliness Isolation and Desperation. Wisdom and Naivety.
Reading Frost is like traveling across New England With two people. The First incarnation a small enthusiastic and expressive child awe struck by the simple beauty of the landscape and changing seasons as he passes them by yearning to run ahead and spy what lay beyond the next bend.
The Second, a wiser and well traveled grandfatherly type, Who knows better than to openly advise against taking the short cut,though in a round about way counsels against the idea; lest we miss the point of the taking the back roads in the first place.
(If the above was confusing I apologize. Its late and Im trying to pay homage my favorite philosopher/poet.
I find Its like trying to explain why water tastes good when you've just crossed the Sahara. It should be obvious to all, but then what if the person has no idea what the Sahara IS?
August 10, 2013
A fundamental poetry book
There's not much that needs to be said about the poetry of Robert Frost, except that, unlike most things in life, it's as good as it's supposed to be. If you are just getting into poetry, Frost is especially to be recommended: many readers will find his poems more immediately accessible than those of many modern poets. The Poetry of Robert Frost: The Collected Poems, Complete and Unabridged edited by Edward Connery Lathem is the standard collection, and I think it should be on the shelf of anyone who has any poetry books at all. I recommend getting the hard cover: the paperback version usually seems to be almost as expensive. There are also some Selected Poems editions, but again, these seem almost as expensive as this Collected, so you might as well just get this.
There's not much that needs to be said about the poetry of Robert Frost, except that, unlike most things in life, it's as good as it's supposed to be. If you are just getting into poetry, Frost is especially to be recommended: many readers will find his poems more immediately accessible than those of many modern poets. The Poetry of Robert Frost: The Collected Poems, Complete and Unabridged edited by Edward Connery Lathem is the standard collection, and I think it should be on the shelf of anyone who has any poetry books at all. I recommend getting the hard cover: the paperback version usually seems to be almost as expensive. There are also some Selected Poems editions, but again, these seem almost as expensive as this Collected, so you might as well just get this.
October 13, 2007
I've loved Frost's poems for years. "Birches," "A Road Not Taken," a version of which I've sung, "Time to Talk," are just a few of my favorites.
June 19, 2018
I had hoped to enjoy this collection more than I did. I guess I just didn't get what Frost was saying some of the time. There are still many enjoyable poems here.
January 17, 2025
2.5 stars. There were a handful of poems that I really liked, but overall, these just weren't to my taste.
June 5, 2018
An anthology of Frost's best poems. My favorite among all:
In A Disused Graveyard
The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living still,
But never anymore the dead.
The verses in it say and say:
鈥淭he ones who living come today
To read the stones and go away
Tomorrow dead will come to stay.鈥�
So sure of death the marbles rhyme,
Yet can鈥檛 help marking all the time
How no one dead will seem to come.
What is it men are shrinking from?
It would be easy to be clever
And tell the stones: Men hate to die
And have stopped dying now forever.
I think they would believe the lie.
In A Disused Graveyard
The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living still,
But never anymore the dead.
The verses in it say and say:
鈥淭he ones who living come today
To read the stones and go away
Tomorrow dead will come to stay.鈥�
So sure of death the marbles rhyme,
Yet can鈥檛 help marking all the time
How no one dead will seem to come.
What is it men are shrinking from?
It would be easy to be clever
And tell the stones: Men hate to die
And have stopped dying now forever.
I think they would believe the lie.
November 14, 2020
If you're a fan of Robert Frost, this is the only collection you need. Thanks to Lloyd Flannigan for introducing me to Frost.
December 27, 2013
It may seem strange to allot only four stars to such a great poet. However, for me, there are (more or less) two Frosts. Actually, there are three Frosts, but the third is not a very important consideration.
To take the third first, this is the Frost of lighter, often satirical poetry, as in, for example 鈥淎 Case for Jefferson.鈥� This kind of verse is not really Frost鈥檚 strong suit and I think his reputation might rest a little higher had he not published it. However, virtually all poets publish material not quite worthy of them and few readers hold that against them.
More typically though, Frost has two modes of writing: 1) rhymed verse with tauter rhythms, and 2) the generally much looser blank verse. I often like the first very much; indeed consider the best of his lyrics to be among the finest lyrical poetry in the language. There are very few poets to have written so many lyrics of such high quality. For the second mode, the blank verse (usually, not always) I can find very little affection.
It is important to note that in the first type (the rhymed verse as a opposed to the looser blank verse) is often symbolic, using harvest, night, sea, woodland paths, and other symbols to suggest larger (if vaguer) meaning. The blank verse is often quite literal. Poems like 鈥淒eath of a Hired Hand鈥� or 鈥淗ome Burial鈥� read more like short stories than poetry. And the blank verse lines, drifting so often from the strict iambic pentameter, lines do not gather energy. Blank verse is a very difficult medium for poetry in English. One must be extremely gifted to use it. Only Shakespeare鈥檚 and Tennyson鈥檚 really work for me, and these are two of the very best at handling the English language. Frost (along with Wordsworth e.g.) fails to bring it to life for me.
To illustrate, I will contrast two poems - 鈥淗ome Burial鈥� and 鈥淎cquainted with the Night.鈥� Both are very dark poems.
First 鈥淗ome Burial:鈥� The poem involves the misunderstandings between a husband and wife following the death and burial (by the husband) of their child. I think that we have to admit that we are involved with two pretty dense people. The emotion is not nuanced; it is raw and even simplistic. Take the following where the husband finally realizes that his child鈥檚 burial mound can be seen from a window at which his wife has been seen looking out numerous times:
鈥溾€楾he wonder is I didn鈥檛 see at once.
I never noticed it from here before.
I must be wonted to it鈥攖hat鈥檚 the reason.
The little graveyard where my people are!
So small the window frames the whole of it.鈥濃€�
A husband who does not know that his child鈥檚 grave can be seen from one of the home鈥檚
windows is not credible - it really isn鈥檛; the wife鈥檚 apprehension of things is hardly better:
鈥溾€業 can repeat the very words you were saying:
鈥淭hree foggy mornings and one rainy day
Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.鈥�
Think of it, talk like that at such a time!
What had how long it takes a birch to rot
To do with what was in the darkened parlor?
You couldn鈥檛 care!鈥欌€�
She cannot understand that the unfortunate and pressing business of life goes on, that we cannot, in the normal course of events, stop to give things, including grief, their proper due. This is little more believable than her husbands obtuseness. Painful and absurd as this seems, intelligent women understand it. Nor can she grasp that the husband鈥檚 mourning goes on at a different level from her own.
And the situation is too specific. Unless own happens to have had the same experience, we tend to remain uninvolved; we are placed in an uncomfortable voyeuristic position. I cannot but feel that this is closer to soap opera than poetry.
In addition, the lines in 鈥淗ome Burial鈥� so often deviate from the normative iambic pentameter that in my perception it is really not poetry at all. And when the meter returns to the strict iambic pentameter, is often feels forced and sometimes awkward. Frost is sometimes credited with having broken down the meter as a sort of analogy to the breaking down of the communication of husband and wife; but if the crumbling of communication means crumbling of prosody, then what we have is prose.
On the other hand 鈥淎cquainted with the Night鈥� is a true work of art and a poem to which almost anyone can relate because it is communicated symbolically. There are none but the very fortunate and the self deluding sentimentalist who are not acquainted with the 鈥渘ight.鈥� Here are the last three stanzas of the poem:
鈥淚 have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.鈥�
The 鈥渘ight鈥� is almost psychotically bleak. A cry is heard from streets away - is it real or an hallucination? in any case it鈥檚 terrifyingly hostile. The clock, normatively a helpful product of a coherent society is of no use; instead it is apparently a sinister, glaring eye.
Any yet (and I consider this very important) the rhyme and controlled meter stand for coherence and meaning in which even the darkest place has a context, has a place in the scheme of things. There is a reason for the expression 鈥渘either rhyme nor reason.鈥� Here we have rhyme (and more generally a prosody) which functions as a stand-in for reason, which however unavailable in the midst of the torment, is nevertheless insisted upon (albeit indirectly) by the poet. This is something poetry can do, that is, placing life鈥檚 varied and confusing events in some sort of context; indeed, it is one of its major functions, and Frost does it very well. The symbolic, as opposed to literal, representation allows for reverberating meaning and multiple context.
To take one more brief example of what Frost does so well - from 鈥淎 Prayer in Spring:鈥�
鈥淥h, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.鈥�
How simple and unassuming is the verse at a literal level; yet how rich, replete with meaning, hopeful and ominous at once.
To take the third first, this is the Frost of lighter, often satirical poetry, as in, for example 鈥淎 Case for Jefferson.鈥� This kind of verse is not really Frost鈥檚 strong suit and I think his reputation might rest a little higher had he not published it. However, virtually all poets publish material not quite worthy of them and few readers hold that against them.
More typically though, Frost has two modes of writing: 1) rhymed verse with tauter rhythms, and 2) the generally much looser blank verse. I often like the first very much; indeed consider the best of his lyrics to be among the finest lyrical poetry in the language. There are very few poets to have written so many lyrics of such high quality. For the second mode, the blank verse (usually, not always) I can find very little affection.
It is important to note that in the first type (the rhymed verse as a opposed to the looser blank verse) is often symbolic, using harvest, night, sea, woodland paths, and other symbols to suggest larger (if vaguer) meaning. The blank verse is often quite literal. Poems like 鈥淒eath of a Hired Hand鈥� or 鈥淗ome Burial鈥� read more like short stories than poetry. And the blank verse lines, drifting so often from the strict iambic pentameter, lines do not gather energy. Blank verse is a very difficult medium for poetry in English. One must be extremely gifted to use it. Only Shakespeare鈥檚 and Tennyson鈥檚 really work for me, and these are two of the very best at handling the English language. Frost (along with Wordsworth e.g.) fails to bring it to life for me.
To illustrate, I will contrast two poems - 鈥淗ome Burial鈥� and 鈥淎cquainted with the Night.鈥� Both are very dark poems.
First 鈥淗ome Burial:鈥� The poem involves the misunderstandings between a husband and wife following the death and burial (by the husband) of their child. I think that we have to admit that we are involved with two pretty dense people. The emotion is not nuanced; it is raw and even simplistic. Take the following where the husband finally realizes that his child鈥檚 burial mound can be seen from a window at which his wife has been seen looking out numerous times:
鈥溾€楾he wonder is I didn鈥檛 see at once.
I never noticed it from here before.
I must be wonted to it鈥攖hat鈥檚 the reason.
The little graveyard where my people are!
So small the window frames the whole of it.鈥濃€�
A husband who does not know that his child鈥檚 grave can be seen from one of the home鈥檚
windows is not credible - it really isn鈥檛; the wife鈥檚 apprehension of things is hardly better:
鈥溾€業 can repeat the very words you were saying:
鈥淭hree foggy mornings and one rainy day
Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.鈥�
Think of it, talk like that at such a time!
What had how long it takes a birch to rot
To do with what was in the darkened parlor?
You couldn鈥檛 care!鈥欌€�
She cannot understand that the unfortunate and pressing business of life goes on, that we cannot, in the normal course of events, stop to give things, including grief, their proper due. This is little more believable than her husbands obtuseness. Painful and absurd as this seems, intelligent women understand it. Nor can she grasp that the husband鈥檚 mourning goes on at a different level from her own.
And the situation is too specific. Unless own happens to have had the same experience, we tend to remain uninvolved; we are placed in an uncomfortable voyeuristic position. I cannot but feel that this is closer to soap opera than poetry.
In addition, the lines in 鈥淗ome Burial鈥� so often deviate from the normative iambic pentameter that in my perception it is really not poetry at all. And when the meter returns to the strict iambic pentameter, is often feels forced and sometimes awkward. Frost is sometimes credited with having broken down the meter as a sort of analogy to the breaking down of the communication of husband and wife; but if the crumbling of communication means crumbling of prosody, then what we have is prose.
On the other hand 鈥淎cquainted with the Night鈥� is a true work of art and a poem to which almost anyone can relate because it is communicated symbolically. There are none but the very fortunate and the self deluding sentimentalist who are not acquainted with the 鈥渘ight.鈥� Here are the last three stanzas of the poem:
鈥淚 have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.鈥�
The 鈥渘ight鈥� is almost psychotically bleak. A cry is heard from streets away - is it real or an hallucination? in any case it鈥檚 terrifyingly hostile. The clock, normatively a helpful product of a coherent society is of no use; instead it is apparently a sinister, glaring eye.
Any yet (and I consider this very important) the rhyme and controlled meter stand for coherence and meaning in which even the darkest place has a context, has a place in the scheme of things. There is a reason for the expression 鈥渘either rhyme nor reason.鈥� Here we have rhyme (and more generally a prosody) which functions as a stand-in for reason, which however unavailable in the midst of the torment, is nevertheless insisted upon (albeit indirectly) by the poet. This is something poetry can do, that is, placing life鈥檚 varied and confusing events in some sort of context; indeed, it is one of its major functions, and Frost does it very well. The symbolic, as opposed to literal, representation allows for reverberating meaning and multiple context.
To take one more brief example of what Frost does so well - from 鈥淎 Prayer in Spring:鈥�
鈥淥h, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.鈥�
How simple and unassuming is the verse at a literal level; yet how rich, replete with meaning, hopeful and ominous at once.
June 26, 2020
The Road Not Taken- it鈥檚 a scam
May 19, 2020
An old favorite I've returned to many times.
February 9, 2020
recommended by the school librarian! :) who, by the way, miraculously didn鈥檛 comment on my library card鈥檚 status as 鈥淒ELINQUENT鈥� for not returning books in time.
"man," my creative writing teacher said as she flipped through the pages of my copy, "Robert Frost must have written a poem for every day of his life." she placed it back on the table. "and yet the only one people know is that one. bit sad, isn't it?"
she was talking about "The Road Not Taken," but I agree to a degree. regardless... finally! this beast of a volume I can now leave in peace and it me.
Robert Frost, as I gather him from this compilation of his published books, is a poet with a paintbrush. he dips his instrument in eloquence and paints his words in expert artistry. nature is the obvious centrepiece of his works, which is a fitting specialty, but I found I admired more the everyday life, youth and loss of innocence aspects in his writing.
now, for all my praise, don't get me wrong, I loved the poems but loved only some and definitely not the whole volume. more than often, I slugged through various parts and the process became tedious. I felt intimidated several times by the sheer size, although I'm never one for longer tomes of poetry. I admit I skimmed the biographical and textual notes, just because I didn't read this book with the intent of noting Frost's textual changes or E.C.L.'s annotations. they seemed to offer not a great deal more than pieces' first appearances anyway.
either way, I'm happy to say I've read the person widely regarded as America's greatest poet.
Devotion
The heart can think of no devotion
Greater than being shore to the ocean鈥�
Holding the curve of one position,
Counting an endless repetition.
"man," my creative writing teacher said as she flipped through the pages of my copy, "Robert Frost must have written a poem for every day of his life." she placed it back on the table. "and yet the only one people know is that one. bit sad, isn't it?"
she was talking about "The Road Not Taken," but I agree to a degree. regardless... finally! this beast of a volume I can now leave in peace and it me.
Robert Frost, as I gather him from this compilation of his published books, is a poet with a paintbrush. he dips his instrument in eloquence and paints his words in expert artistry. nature is the obvious centrepiece of his works, which is a fitting specialty, but I found I admired more the everyday life, youth and loss of innocence aspects in his writing.
now, for all my praise, don't get me wrong, I loved the poems but loved only some and definitely not the whole volume. more than often, I slugged through various parts and the process became tedious. I felt intimidated several times by the sheer size, although I'm never one for longer tomes of poetry. I admit I skimmed the biographical and textual notes, just because I didn't read this book with the intent of noting Frost's textual changes or E.C.L.'s annotations. they seemed to offer not a great deal more than pieces' first appearances anyway.
either way, I'm happy to say I've read the person widely regarded as America's greatest poet.
Lines Written In Dejection On The Eve Of Great Success
( . . . )
He answered her back, "Well, who begun it?"
That's what at the end of a war
We always say鈥攏ot who won it,
Or what it was foughten for.
January 24, 2023
Probably the best English poetry I鈥檝e ever read.
P.S. Newborns evidently also enjoy the Frost鈥檚 poetry.
P.S. Newborns evidently also enjoy the Frost鈥檚 poetry.
August 23, 2023
"It was far in the sameness of the wood;
I was running with joy on the Demon鈥檚 trail,
Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.
It was just as the light was beginning to fail
That I suddenly heard鈥攁ll I needed to hear:
It has lasted me many and many a year.
The wound was behind me instead of before,
A sleepy sound, but mocking half,
As of one who utterly couldn鈥檛 care.
The Demon arose from his wallow to laugh,
Brushing the dirt from his eye as he went;
And well I knew what the Demon meant."
(The Demiurge's Laugh)
I think there are many sides to Robert Frost, which this early poem of his exemplifies pretty well in my opinion. He's known best for his humble reflections on rural life in New Hampshire and Vermont, and perhaps often dismissed as an sentimental American rambler in the wake of Longfellow (indeed, many are probably surprised to learn Frost was contemporaneous with the modernists poets, and not an 19th century romantic). Poems like this one express perhaps his two competing drives, the simple parable of foolish pursuit in the New England woods, and the uneasy sense of the world's cosmic ineffability always just beyond the comprehension of his mind and his poetry. His earliest poems he wrote in naivite, as a layabout on his relatives' farm in Derry NH; the faint gesture at gnosticism is very appropriate for Derry, which adjoins Londonderry NH in the great cosmic irony -- two towns named after the same Irish town, one taking its anglophonic colonial variant and the other restoring its historical Irish name (decades before the North Irish Londonderry voted to become Derry once more).
The Irish connection is faint; while southern New Hampshire is now filled with Boston Irish, at Frost's time it was nearly as anglo-saxon as England itself, and the landscape had been terraformed into a perverse image of England -- all its millennia-old trees cut down (every single one of them, if you'd believe it) and replaced with hilly fields of grass and farmlands. It's only right that Frost take up as his principle theme, at least on some level, the vague irony between the commonplace platitudes of very english speech (down to the gerunds, -aw rhyming with -ar, etc) and the bizarre and deeply meaningful spirit of New England nature, its (re-growing) forests and mountains. One recalls Marianne Moore's fine poem, Spenser's Ireland, about this same phenomena of a powerful landscape overtaking the anglo-saxon mind and endowing it with a capacity for profound fantasy far beyond recognition. She wrote of Ireland, but New Hampshire is perhaps no less potent a locale, and indeed there are many similarities in terms of insane local politicians and alcohol consumption (by a significant margin the highest in the state) ... but I will reserve my theories about New England, Ireland and Atlantis for some other time.
I think the problem is that Frost may not have been the right poet to approach these themes, although he is quite right in his splendid poem "New Hampshire" in suggesting that the general lack of literary output from the state is on account of how tranquil life is here, such that there are no problems or distress and therefore no call to writing. Frost, for his part, seemed called to the task as a consequence of his life-long ambition to become a farmer, and his many failures at trying to turn up a single good crop. This aspiration is what destroys his poetry so much in the long run; the beautifully rooted tales of "North of Boston" and "New Hampshire", overflowing with local details that still persist a century later, degenerate into sterilized mediations on agricultural life, dull platitudes about the pleasantry of plants and the simplicity of farm-work that can be found in any of the thousands of dull southern pastoral poets (of the US).
Another issue with Frost is his analogues to WH Auden, being an essentially similar kind of poet (ironically simple rhymes, inversions of platitudes, narcissistic indulgence in the sweeping judgements they feel popular poets are entitled to). Frost mastered the form of the rough, naturalized blank verse early on, as well as a parodic style of heroic couplets, and rarely wrote in any other form -- as a result so many of his poems, even ones where he is reflecting on interesting subjects, read as obnoxious in their attempt to fake humor with absurd rhymes (none so bad as Auden's, but definitely contaminated with the same disease -- one of the last poems in this book I read rhymed "verbatim" with "ate him" for no reason other than to be cheeky) and, like Auden, too often debases himself by excessively indulging in platitudes when his exact intentions seemed to be to lament the deeper woes people hide behind their platitudes.
Of course, what separates Frost from AAA (Arch-Anglo Auden) is his almost Goethean sensitivity to the world, and much of why his poetry is universal is that his poetry reaches towards the metaphysical secrets of the world without having any intelligible doctrine or philosophical impulses behind them; at some points, this almost seems deliberate, with occasional hints at a profound learning and intelligence behind these works, but at other points it seems like genuine inability to think deeply that permits him this sense (particularly his political poetry surrounding his enthusiasm for The New Deal is so obviously ignorant and stupid makes me think this). This fascination with metaphysics almost sandwiches his career, being the great preoccupation of his youth with its poems about stars and nature-in-abstract, and that of his old age with poems about the morphology of trees and the secrets of the earth and sea.
The core of his work, then, is his localized prose tales about life in rural New Hampshire; "The Mountain" and "Birches" are, to my eye, unforgettable and true ellaborations of the things I can still see around me living in this state, and the sort of poetry I wish people would write more of, being genuine and earnest expositions of the types of thoughts and ideas one develops over their lifetime in engaging with the world, the actual use and meaning of language without any sort of literary imposition or intellectual pretense. Ezra Pound, in his endorsement of Robert Frost, said something to the effect of "I was traveling down a boat on a river in New England in the middle of nowhere and passed by two old men talking between themselves on the shore; Robert Frost's poetry is equivalent to a transcript of that conversation". I suppose it's in poor taste to theorize too wordily about the importance of localization in writing of this kind, and to contrast it (one way or another) with abstracter kinds of writing; but we can also think of something Pynchon says in Slow Learner, that he spent his youth trying to transpose his experiences to areas other than where he had lived, and only began writing anything of merit when he began writing about where he lived himself.
Whether or not you're convinced by this, I would prefer any reader take away from my review the polemic against anglo-saxons, a topic far less open to debate.
I was running with joy on the Demon鈥檚 trail,
Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.
It was just as the light was beginning to fail
That I suddenly heard鈥攁ll I needed to hear:
It has lasted me many and many a year.
The wound was behind me instead of before,
A sleepy sound, but mocking half,
As of one who utterly couldn鈥檛 care.
The Demon arose from his wallow to laugh,
Brushing the dirt from his eye as he went;
And well I knew what the Demon meant."
(The Demiurge's Laugh)
I think there are many sides to Robert Frost, which this early poem of his exemplifies pretty well in my opinion. He's known best for his humble reflections on rural life in New Hampshire and Vermont, and perhaps often dismissed as an sentimental American rambler in the wake of Longfellow (indeed, many are probably surprised to learn Frost was contemporaneous with the modernists poets, and not an 19th century romantic). Poems like this one express perhaps his two competing drives, the simple parable of foolish pursuit in the New England woods, and the uneasy sense of the world's cosmic ineffability always just beyond the comprehension of his mind and his poetry. His earliest poems he wrote in naivite, as a layabout on his relatives' farm in Derry NH; the faint gesture at gnosticism is very appropriate for Derry, which adjoins Londonderry NH in the great cosmic irony -- two towns named after the same Irish town, one taking its anglophonic colonial variant and the other restoring its historical Irish name (decades before the North Irish Londonderry voted to become Derry once more).
The Irish connection is faint; while southern New Hampshire is now filled with Boston Irish, at Frost's time it was nearly as anglo-saxon as England itself, and the landscape had been terraformed into a perverse image of England -- all its millennia-old trees cut down (every single one of them, if you'd believe it) and replaced with hilly fields of grass and farmlands. It's only right that Frost take up as his principle theme, at least on some level, the vague irony between the commonplace platitudes of very english speech (down to the gerunds, -aw rhyming with -ar, etc) and the bizarre and deeply meaningful spirit of New England nature, its (re-growing) forests and mountains. One recalls Marianne Moore's fine poem, Spenser's Ireland, about this same phenomena of a powerful landscape overtaking the anglo-saxon mind and endowing it with a capacity for profound fantasy far beyond recognition. She wrote of Ireland, but New Hampshire is perhaps no less potent a locale, and indeed there are many similarities in terms of insane local politicians and alcohol consumption (by a significant margin the highest in the state) ... but I will reserve my theories about New England, Ireland and Atlantis for some other time.
I think the problem is that Frost may not have been the right poet to approach these themes, although he is quite right in his splendid poem "New Hampshire" in suggesting that the general lack of literary output from the state is on account of how tranquil life is here, such that there are no problems or distress and therefore no call to writing. Frost, for his part, seemed called to the task as a consequence of his life-long ambition to become a farmer, and his many failures at trying to turn up a single good crop. This aspiration is what destroys his poetry so much in the long run; the beautifully rooted tales of "North of Boston" and "New Hampshire", overflowing with local details that still persist a century later, degenerate into sterilized mediations on agricultural life, dull platitudes about the pleasantry of plants and the simplicity of farm-work that can be found in any of the thousands of dull southern pastoral poets (of the US).
Another issue with Frost is his analogues to WH Auden, being an essentially similar kind of poet (ironically simple rhymes, inversions of platitudes, narcissistic indulgence in the sweeping judgements they feel popular poets are entitled to). Frost mastered the form of the rough, naturalized blank verse early on, as well as a parodic style of heroic couplets, and rarely wrote in any other form -- as a result so many of his poems, even ones where he is reflecting on interesting subjects, read as obnoxious in their attempt to fake humor with absurd rhymes (none so bad as Auden's, but definitely contaminated with the same disease -- one of the last poems in this book I read rhymed "verbatim" with "ate him" for no reason other than to be cheeky) and, like Auden, too often debases himself by excessively indulging in platitudes when his exact intentions seemed to be to lament the deeper woes people hide behind their platitudes.
Of course, what separates Frost from AAA (Arch-Anglo Auden) is his almost Goethean sensitivity to the world, and much of why his poetry is universal is that his poetry reaches towards the metaphysical secrets of the world without having any intelligible doctrine or philosophical impulses behind them; at some points, this almost seems deliberate, with occasional hints at a profound learning and intelligence behind these works, but at other points it seems like genuine inability to think deeply that permits him this sense (particularly his political poetry surrounding his enthusiasm for The New Deal is so obviously ignorant and stupid makes me think this). This fascination with metaphysics almost sandwiches his career, being the great preoccupation of his youth with its poems about stars and nature-in-abstract, and that of his old age with poems about the morphology of trees and the secrets of the earth and sea.
The core of his work, then, is his localized prose tales about life in rural New Hampshire; "The Mountain" and "Birches" are, to my eye, unforgettable and true ellaborations of the things I can still see around me living in this state, and the sort of poetry I wish people would write more of, being genuine and earnest expositions of the types of thoughts and ideas one develops over their lifetime in engaging with the world, the actual use and meaning of language without any sort of literary imposition or intellectual pretense. Ezra Pound, in his endorsement of Robert Frost, said something to the effect of "I was traveling down a boat on a river in New England in the middle of nowhere and passed by two old men talking between themselves on the shore; Robert Frost's poetry is equivalent to a transcript of that conversation". I suppose it's in poor taste to theorize too wordily about the importance of localization in writing of this kind, and to contrast it (one way or another) with abstracter kinds of writing; but we can also think of something Pynchon says in Slow Learner, that he spent his youth trying to transpose his experiences to areas other than where he had lived, and only began writing anything of merit when he began writing about where he lived himself.
Whether or not you're convinced by this, I would prefer any reader take away from my review the polemic against anglo-saxons, a topic far less open to debate.
June 9, 2020
The second poet (after Edgar Allan Poe) that I read in grade school at, you guessed it, Robert Frost Elementary (also attended a Thoreau, a Whitman, and an Emerson). What strikes me reading many of these now is the narrative power, the beautiful stories told in verse. Plus, so many charged moments, precisely described. And the quiet moments, too.
December 3, 2009
I almost put three stars here, but how does someone "down check" Robert Frost. It's just that I like some of the poems and not some others. Still this is a book of poems that do speak and do stay with you so...4 stars.
I don't think I've ever read a poetry book from cover to cover, but instead open up the covers and either search for a poem I'll like or "luck dip".
I've had this a long time and don't take it down like I once did, but then I don't often have the peacfulness of mind needed for that pass time.
I don't think I've ever read a poetry book from cover to cover, but instead open up the covers and either search for a poem I'll like or "luck dip".
I've had this a long time and don't take it down like I once did, but then I don't often have the peacfulness of mind needed for that pass time.
January 18, 2014
Easily my favorite poet. Now I need to move on to someone else for my morning poem...
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