I thought this post would have been straightforward: a week in New England, surrounded by traces of Robert Frost, whom I happen to already have read and written about. It takes longer than expected, not only because of travel disruption and demands, but because as I dig into Frost’s life and work and I keep finding more to admire.
Appreciating Frost’s work might seem obvious—he is frequently referred to as one of America’s most loved poets—but that designation initially repelled me. I want difficult, off-the-grid poetry, the feminine, the voices we don’t hear enough of. My partner sparked a reconsideration of this position when he shared that Frost was one of his favorites. I was shocked that this Oakland/Berkeley-raised man with a passion for hip-hop and leftist politics would be interested in the Frost I imagined—staid, paternal, traditional.
Always grateful to learn more about those I love, I revisited some of Frosts’s classics.
Birches
In “Birches”, I can feel my partner reading it at fourteen, relating to Robert Frost as a fellow swinger of trees. “Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, / Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.”
Did he also wonder about his own mortality? Frost wrote the poem in his forties, the doldrums of middle age, musing on what is left of his life and how to live it, with a yearning to start fresh.
It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood ... I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over.
Again I’m struck by how much this sentiment resounds, both for myself and for my partner—perhaps for all of us. Our trips to the mountains are one way to escape, and when we return we are full of vigor to begin again.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better.
My favorite part of this poem are these verses near the end, a reminder that a desire to go away is not equal to a desire not to return.
The Road Not Taken
How many times have I heard this poem quoted? Parental lectures, epigraphs, commencement speeches, a Jason Mraz song—it’s exhausting to think about, and so deeply ingrained into my idea of how to live a “good” life, that I realize this line is the source of much of my distaste for Frost. The message to “take the road less traveled” has been a source of internal pressure throughout my life, accompanied by inevitable judgement and scorn for anything too popular or mainstream.
So imagine my shock when I reread the whole poem and realize that the poem is NOT about the inherent value of taking the road less traveled. It is about making decisions, knowing that each decision will lead you one way and that other paths will be left behind, unexplored, and being okay with that. Each decision means closing a door on something else, and though that may feel hard, it is the only way to move forward. The only way to live with endless opportunities is to never make a choice.
Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.
Choice can be paralyzing, thinking of the beautiful opportunities in front of you, and what terrible fates may befall you if you choose wrong. What will you miss? Alternatively, you can look ahead at the beauty of the first fresh step on fallen leaves, walking in the tall grass, appreciating the bounty of the path ahead.
I have to pause here to acknowledge the gift of sharing poetry with my partner. It’s not about having the same tastes or relating to the same words; it’s about knowing what moves him. The poetry you love says something about who you are and what you care about. Frost’s words offered me insight into a piece of his mind that I might not have known otherwise.
The Aim Was Song
I keep reading about Frost, particularly one afternoon as Maya takes an extended nap. I’m sitting in bed, wrapped up in a white comforter, listening to the recorded sounds of rain playing on the sound machine while real rain falls softly outside. Green in every window. We’re visiting a friend outside of Boston, both of us in need of rest after a long day of travel. I close my eyes for a while, but knowing that reading and writing will also revive me, I pull out my laptop.
I learn that Robert Frost was a San Francisco Kid! When he was 11, his rowdy father died of tuberculosis and the family, in destitution, moved to Massachusetts where grandparents took them in. Eleven years was enough time for California to make an impression, and Frost has several poems about his time there, such as “A Peck of Gold” and “Once by the Pacific”.
In browsing other poems, I find one more that calls to me. “The Aim Was Song” is a parable about harnessing the unruly energy of the wind and turning it into something beautiful. Harnessing isn’t quite the right word. It’s not about controlling the wind, but about the wind learning how to create something beautiful from her own wildness. Again Frost’s words connect across worlds, letting me remember those I love who left us too young, before their songs were fully sung.
Lastly,
It’s not my intention to lecture you, dear reader, or to have every post end with a lesson, so I apologize for any parts that feel moralizing or pedantic. My explorations of the poets and poems often lead me to some new awareness or realization that I feel compelled to write down and share, if only for my own sake. This week’s close reading of Frost has been a welcome reminder of how good poetry can reach across continents and generations and touch us in unexpected ways.
Thanks for sharing.