IF A TREES FALLS...

A friend recently sent me this, so it's making the rounds, perhaps you've seen it, too. I was amazed at the creativity and labor that went into this, painstakingly turning and fitting each piece of wood so it lies just right. I'm wondering if this tree was created to be left as a natural sculpture, to let nature do its work over time (Frost's "slow smokeless burning of decay") or if someone is taking it part again, log by log, for warmth and cheer on chilly nights. I don't know who created this, or who took the picture, to properly credit them, but I certainly thank them, and salute their ingenuity!

Link to Robert Frost's poem The Wood-Pile

POETRY’S FACTS AND FICTIONS

One thing I’ve noticed since I’ve been participating in One Single Impression’s weekly poetry prompt is that occasionally the question arises of how autobiographical (or not) a particular poem may be. I’ve noticed it in how I view some of the poems I read on other blogs, and I’ve seen it in comments left for me. Some bloggers post additional comments to give the backstory of their poem, or dedicate it in a way that gives readers insights, but many times the poems are just offered as they are, and readers decide. We can probably all agree that knowing the biography of a particular poet can often enhance our understanding of “what the poem means” but can it sometimes be a distraction that has the potential, at least, to alter or limit what we can take away from it for ourselves?

Lately, on my blog and on some others, American poet Robert Frost has been mentioned. I was thinking of another poem of his that I love and have memorized – Bereft. I love it for its vivid imagery, and the soft undercurrent of sorrow that runs throughout. I know a little of Frost’s life, but not enough to say: Oh yes, that must have been written about such-and-such. Still more questions crowd in – is the whole poem personal, or just a few lines? Might he simply have explored an old abandoned beach house one day on a lark, and constructed the melancholy poem around that event? What might change for me if I did know where Frost’s inspiration was deeply autobiographical - or a complete fabrication?

Another of Frost’s poems that I enjoy very much, one that isn’t set in New England, is the light-hearted history lesson in The Bearer of Evil Tidings. It’s obviously closed to speculation that it came from his personal life, but wait – what if it came in part from some old childhood book that was read to him? There’s just no telling, unless, of course, the author chooses to. I’m also reminded of the stirring essay and poem that fellow blogger Sandy Carlson wrote for OSI last week, where she talks about a poet’s/poem’s ability to create intimacy and distance both at once. It’s a very insightful post on the subject, worth re-reading.

I’d love to hear from any of you about this, either as a writer or reader, or both. What do you or don’t you assume when reading poetry? What is your own best source of inspiration?






The photo was sent to me by my friend, Sydney; it’s her beautiful blossom-covered backyard deck last spring. I thought the view, taken through the screen, kind of suited this post.

FIRE AND ICE AND DEEP WATER

Ever since the lake first tentatively froze and strong winds piled up slabs and ridges of ice, I’ve been fascinated by one particular monolith, closer to shore, that’s been pushed almost completely vertical. First it was a milky opaque, and then more recently it’s settled a bit, and turned diamond-clear. In this photo, you can see it harboring the cold fire of the setting sun (click to enlarge). It reminded me of one of Robert Frost’s most quoted poems, Fire and Ice. I think it’s especially timely the way things are going in the world. We’re seen a lot of terrible fires in North America, and other parts of the globe (Greece, for one). And strange as it may sound, I’ve read that global warming could actually trigger ice age conditions in the UK and western Europe. That may be, but I don’t think we can rule out some version of Kevin Costner’s Waterworld just yet, either. Like many of you, I have great hope in the new U.S. administration and the return of science, and a call to serious, meaningful action. Here’s a really entertaining and informative intro video to a whole series of videos on YouTube that’s aimed at to all of us who worry about global warming, but especially those who don’t.



Link to INDEX video


Video by YT member wonderingmind42

THE BEAUTY of NOVEMBER and ONE OF MY FAVORITE POEMS

Late autumn – November – has always been one of my favorite times of the year. Oh, I have moments complaining about the cold and coming snow, but I don’t really have my heart in it. As the days grow shorter and the weather spirals down towards winter, I’m find myself feeling happy, and reveling in the sights and sounds and smells of the season – a bird’s nest revealed in a newly-bared tree, the faint honking of invisible geese, the metallic hint of snow in the air. Last weekend it was overcast and rained off and on all Saturday. In a break between the drizzles I went out with my camera and took a photo of my road trailing off into the chilly distance, and of the puddle at my feet.

I write a lot of my own poetry about autumn, but I’m not the only one who loves this time of year. I record autumn poems by others in a little journal book as I come across them. Two of my favorites are by Emily Bronte, and Robert Frost. Here is Frost's verse, celebrating the sombre beauty of the season.











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 gray
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.

WHY I LOVE ROBERT FROST

I discovered Robert Frost’s poetry my senior year in high school. One of my best girlfriend’s boyfriend was a college freshman, and studied Frost’s poetry. He showed her a poem he particularly liked (Nothing Gold Can Stay) and she in turn shared it with me. I remember the moment clearly; it was the beginning of a life-long love of Frost’s work.

After that chance meeting, I went on to read a lot of Frost’s poems, and found many more that moved me. I committed about half a dozen or so of the shorter ones to memory, so I always have them with me. As the decades have passed, I have continued to go over them in my head, usually once a year or so. Sometimes I write them down again, correct any words or phrases that may have drifted away from the original. It’s one of the most pleasant things I do for myself. Also from time to time I take up a book of his poems and read ones I haven’t memorized, and enjoy those old favorites as well. I love Frost’s way of looking at and thinking about the natural world, and all it’s inhabitants; his wry commentaries on human nature and activity. I also admire the effortless unobtrusive way he handles rhyme.

Recently, I was leafing through my copy of the Complete Poems when I came across one particular poem I’ve been reading since I was in my twenties. As Frost’s poems go, I’ve always found it a bit more difficult to follow. I’d get pieces of it, enjoy a phrase here and there, but I always knew the whole thing was somehow eluding me. Looking at it now, I think it was just because I wasn’t giving it enough time. But perhaps ‘the time it took’ was just spread out over many years. Anyway, a few days ago, I suddenly understood, I simply got it. I can say I know this poem now. You may read it and get it immediately, and wonder what the difficulty was for me. Looking at it now, I wonder, too – it seems so simple in retrospect. However, I don’t begrudge myself the time it took, and I like that this poem held back its mystery for me the way it did. It’s like having a quirky friend. You can’t quite explain what it is about them you like, then one day you get an insight into who they really are, and then you like them even more. That friend for me is Frost’s poem, “The Silken Tent.” I always knew this poem was about love, but…somehow I would lose the thread as I made my way through it, looking for the punctuation guideposts, following the pronouns, yet always getting lost at the turn of a phrase. This is English of a slightly different era, it has its own cadence even above that of the poem itself, more like a song. Then just the other day, I identified the secret that it had been keeping for so long: this poem is really one long breathless and breathlessly beautiful sentence. Today I Googled it, and discovered it is also written in sonnet form. I suppose I could have solved the mystery a long time ago by going to the library. Or taking a class, but I wouldn’t change how everything unfolded for the world.

The Silken Tent

She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To everything on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.


About the photos – this is a good place to mention something about the photos on this blog. All of the Skywatch and One Single Impression photos are and always will be my own, but the rest will come from a variety of sources. Some will be mine, some will be from friends, or from Wikimedia and Creative Commons; others will be stock photos. I was working on a project not long ago that required a short subscription to Shutterstock, and while I had the subscription, I was already planning to start up this blog, so I downloaded a number of photos to use here, subjects I would never have access to otherwise. Many readers have commented on the photos here, so I felt this was important to point this out.


Photo in this post: This is a Shutterstock photo. Having written a number of pattern poems myself, I was intrigued by this little scrap, but I don’t know anything about its origin or the meaning behind it. I just thought it was a lovely image, and fit in with this post.