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Archive for February, 2009

Mending Wall

Mending Wall

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors’.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

Robert Frost

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The Lake's Breath

The Lake's Breath

I feel the cool Autumn breeze on my face and arms as it makes my skirt dance across my knees. It is grandma, of course, giving me a kiss “hello”. She always made these woods come alive with her stories of the wind fairies – and though mom said she was gone now, I know she is here. Her presence is particularly strong as I near the edge of the woods as it spilled into the shore of the lake. I can smell her fragrance emanating from the leaves on the trees as they sway in the breeze all around me. I hear her lyrical voice echo from the waves as they sweep against the shore and carry in the wind all around me. I see her smile reflected as the light glitters across the lakes’ surface.

Yes, grandma – I hear you – I’m fine…

original story fragment

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The Little Knitters

The Little Knitters

“When can I knit Ang’l?”, asked Dently. “In a while Dent”, replied Angel.  “Mom said I could help, Ang’l.”  “I know Dent – you are helping by holding the thread for me.  That’s an important role in knitting – you know.”  “Oh ok – what are we making again?”  “It will be a sweather for grandma – to help keep her warm.”  “Then, will she come outside and play with us?”  “Maybe Dent.”

original story fragment

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Mowing

Mowing

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound —
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

Robert Frost –  A Boy’s Will (1914)

In a natural poem and fine art painting mashup, the “Mowing” by Robert Frost gives voice to ”The Veteran in a New Field” painting by Winslow Homer. I imagine Robert penning his thoughts into his lyrical poem after gazing at this painting – closing his eyes and hearing the whisper sound of the scythe as it made its back and forth rhythm across the hay – and we get a moment in time full of the imagery and voice of a quiet contemplation of man and his interactions with nature.

Mike Evans

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The Vantage Point

The Vantage Point

If tired of trees I seek again mankind,
Well I know where to hie me–in the dawn,
To a slope where the cattle keep the lawn.
There amid lolling juniper reclined,
Myself unseen, I see in white defined
Far off the homes of men, and farther still,
The graves of men on an opposing hill,
Living or dead, whichever are to mind.

And if by noon I have too much of these,
I have but to turn on my arm, and lo,
The sun-burned hillside sets my face aglow,
My breathing shakes the bluet like a breeze,
I smell the earth, I smell the bruisèd plant,
I look into the crater of the ant.

Robert Frost

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Acquainted With The Night

Acquainted With The Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I 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,
O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost

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There's a Certain Slant of Light

There's a Certain Slant of Light

There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are

None may teach it – Any
‘Tis the Seal Despair
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air

When it comes, the Landscape listens
Shadows – hold their breath
When it goes, ’tis like the Distance
On the look of Death

Emily Dickinson

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