Robert Frost

  • Aug. 9th, 2012 at 9:34 PM
beth_shulman: (Default)
Style is... the mind skating circles around itself as it moves forward.

Robert Frost

  • Feb. 27th, 2012 at 12:49 AM
beth_shulman: (Default)
Speaking of contraries, see how the brook
In that white wave runs counter to itself.
It is from that in water we were from
Long, long before we were from any creature.
Here we, in our impatience of the steps,
Get back to the beginning of beginnings,
The stream of everything that runs away.
Some say existence like a Pirouot
And Pirouette, forever in one place,
Stands still and dances, but it runs away,
It seriously, sadly, runs away
To fill the abyss’ void with emptiness.
It flows beside us in this water brook,
But it flows over us. It flows between us
To separate us for a panic moment.
It flows between us, over us, and with us.
And it is time, strength, tone, light, life and love-
And even substance lapsing unsubstantial;
The universal cataract of death
That spends to nothingness — and unresisted,
Save by some strange resistance in itself,
Not just a swerving, but a throwing back,
As if regret were in it and were sacred.
It has this throwing backward on itself
So that the fall of most of it is always
Raising a little, sending up a little.
Our life runs down in sending up the clock.
The brook runs down in sending up our life.
The sun runs down in sending up the brook.
And there is something sending up the sun.
It is this backward motion toward the source,
Against the stream, that most we see ourselves in,
The tribute of the current to the source.
It is from this in nature we are from.
It is most us.

(West-Running Brook)

Robert Frost

  • Apr. 20th, 2011 at 10:55 PM
beth_shulman: (Default)
Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.

Robert Frost

  • Dec. 20th, 2010 at 10:01 PM
beth_shulman: (Default)
Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.

Robert Frost

  • Nov. 26th, 2010 at 2:36 PM
beth_shulman: (Default)
I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering.

Robert Frost

  • Aug. 11th, 2010 at 2:53 PM
beth_shulman: (violin)
A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.

Robert Frost

  • Jul. 29th, 2010 at 8:14 PM
beth_shulman: (black and white tree scene)
"A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness."

Robert Frost

  • Jun. 22nd, 2010 at 8:20 PM
beth_shulman: (black and white tree scene)
"The best way out is always through."

Jean Little

  • Jun. 20th, 2010 at 1:29 PM
beth_shulman: (black and white tree scene)
I used to like “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”
I liked the coming darkness,
The jingle of harness bells,
Breaking—and adding to—the stillness,
The gentle drift of the snow...

But today, the teacher told us what everything stood for.
The woods, the horse, the miles to go, the sleep—
They all have “hidden meanings.”

It’s grown so complicated now that,
Next time I drive by,
I don’t think I’ll bother to stop.
(After English Class)

Source

Robert Frost

  • Jun. 4th, 2010 at 12:03 PM
beth_shulman: (Default)
"Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words."

Robert Frost

  • May. 25th, 2010 at 2:50 AM
beth_shulman: (black and white tree scene)
Out of the mud two strangers came
And caught me splitting wood in the yard,
And one of them put me off my aim
By hailing cheerily "Hit them hard!"
I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind
And let the other go on a way.
I knew pretty well what he had in mind:
He wanted to take my job for pay.

Good blocks of oak it was I split,
As large around as the chopping block;
And every piece I squarely hit
Fell splinterless as a cloven rock.
The blows that a life of self-control
Spares to strike for the common good,
That day, giving a loose my soul,
I spent on the unimportant wood.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill )


Robert Frost

  • May. 25th, 2010 at 2:09 AM
beth_shulman: (black and white tree scene)
"Poetry is what gets lost in translation."

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