Robert Frost

My favorite poet of all time is Robert Frost. Since I have a captive audience, I'm going to post a few of his poems with my 2nd-grade quality analyses of them. Plus, I'm going to whore myself out for comments. Keep reading...

The Pasture

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;

I'll only stop to rake the leaves away

(and wait to watch the water clear I may):

I shant be gone long. --You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf

That's standing by the mother. It's so young,

It totters when she licks it with her tongue.

I shant be gone long. --You come too.

The Pasture is possibly my favorite poem in the English language. It's touching and beautiful in its simplicity; a farmer inviting his wife or child or friend to accompany him on a short errand, one that could easily be accomplished alone, but one that's made richer with good company.  I look forward to the day when that spouse or child or good friend can drive with me to the gas station or drug store, just for the sake of company. 

Choose Something Like a Star

O Star (the fairest one in sight),

We grant your loftiness the right

To some obscurity of cloud --

It will  not do to say of night,

Since dark is what brings out your light.

Some mystery becomes the proud.

But to be wholly taciturn 

In your reserve is not allowed.

Say something to us we can learn

By heart and when alone repeat.

Say something! And it says "I burn."

But say with what degree of heat.

Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.

Use language we can comprehend.

Tell us what elements you blend.

It gives us strangely little aid,

But does tell something in the end.

And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,

Not stooping from its sphere,

It asks a little of us here.

It asks of us a certain height,

So when at times the mob is swayed 

To carry praise or blame to far,

We may choose something like a star

To stay our minds on and be staid.

I love this poem too. But I kinda wanna try something with it. It's a complicated poem; the first time I read it I was in a class, so I got to sit idly by while others analyzed it for me, which gave me an unfair advantage. I only got to hear one explanation of what it means, the "right" explanation, and I'd like to see what other messages people get out of it.  Drop me an e-mail or leave a comment and tell me what you think about this, my other favorite poem.

The Road Not Taken

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 marked 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 travelled by

And that has made all the difference.

Self-explanatory, but with one twist that I'd never thought of until I talked about this poem with a friend awhile ago. He said that the part in the last stanza, "I shall be telling this with a sigh..." shows that even when he reaches the end of the path, the speaker will still be unsure about whether or not his choice was the right one. I wonder if that's how it will be for all of us: Do we really know we made all the right choices in life because they led us to here? Or are we just seeking the equilibrium that comes with "knowing" that everything happened for a reason? I kind of think that I'll always have that what-if feeling giving me pause to contemplate if I really did make all the right choices.  

Good ol' poetry. I like you, I think I'll keep you around for awhile.

Flamenco

It is built with graceful lines and a sense of control over its body.  With every turn of the steering wheel, every prod of the accelerator, every change of the gears, it obeys commands like a graceful, passionate ballerina following the beat of the music.

It starts, with that distinctive twang.  The door closes like castanets that crash together as musician and dancer become one.  The musician's anger, his passion, direct the dancer through her routine, gracefully drifting from corner to corner.  She moves with controlled, yet forceful élan, tires and brakes and shocks and steering knuckles exchanging glide for grip every other centimeter.  Cascades of red mud, dust, and gravel flow from behind her, like so much dress skirting.  At times her feet slide across the stage, and at times her heavy, black shoes rap upon its uneven surface, crashing onto it with an impact that astounds and surprises all who witness, including the musician.

His fingers caress the strings of his guitar, urging the dancer on, and she responds in kind.  Her pace quickens as his passion plucks out a still-faster tune.  Her feet slip and catch calculatedly, her body turning more drastically, her red-mud skirt surging from behind her.  His fingers play a pizzicato on his guitar, sweat and stress flowing from his body into the music, as she follows, ever so diligently and with still more gusto.  At last, with his hands flying up and down and over the guitar, she revs and spins and twists and rotates and gyrates and swivels and pivots on her feet, again gracefully alternating between freewheel and tread on the dirt, until in an excruciating climax, both dancer and musician collapse in fiery zenith.

She stands, knees quivering.  He takes her by the hand, his fingers raw and blistered, and leads her home.

Rima XXIII

Por una mirada, un mundo;
Por una sonrisa, un cielo;
Por un beso... yo no sé
qué te diera por un beso.
     -Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

I can't wait to share this poem with someone I love.  Spanish, you've won my heart again.

Create

Today in my eternal families class I was reintroduced to Dieter F. Uchtdorf's address to the women of the church regarding creativity.  I know the video is directed mostly at women, but I still really love it.  The combination of rousing music and inspiring images makes me excited and anxious to go do something that hasn't been done before.

I love how President Uchtdorf explains that saying, "I'm not creative," is a fallacy and a short-sell to our divine potential.  As direct spirit descendants of God the Father, we are endowed with a portion of his creativity that, as we "trust and rely upon the Spirit," will increase.

In the spirit of creativity, here's a poem I wrote when I visited my grandparents one cold, snowy weekend.  They live a mile or so away from a train crossing, and the sounds of train horns late at night bring such feelings of nostalgia, reminding me of those nights when I'd fall asleep under a musty old quilt on top of a lumpy old mattress, train horns blasting quietly in the distance.

Train Horns
January 28, 2011

Now I lay me down to sleep,
Off to Dreamland, still and deep.
Silent river, frozen lake,
Softest snow is in the make.

Called back from slumber, briefest pause
In my dreams but ho! no flaws!
5-chimes in distance raise me up
And deeply fill my drowsy cup.

Now back into the land of Nod
I go, but no more have I trod.
For now, aboard a silver train
Go I unto that yawning vein.