I like Robert Frost. He’s not in vogue w/ much of the ‘Academy,’ those members of the ruling university class who decide which books/ writers/ thinkers/ ideas are in or out these days. Right now, Frost isn’t ‘in.’
I think it’s because he’s misunderstood. And popular — the Academy doesn’t care much for popularity. But most people who like Frost haven’t read much of his work. They know 2, possibly 3 poems: Stopping by Woods, The Road Not Taken, and maybe Fire and Ice. I have the dubious distinction of having read all Frost’s work, including his work on writing poetry. And let me tell you — that man is DARK. Poet of the American daydream he is not.
So I loved finding the poem of the day (from the Writer’s Almanac) was one titled ‘Robert Frost,’ by George Bilgere. It has far less to do w/ Frost than it does w/ my other passion, teaching. And of course it reminds me of some Buddhist something — in this case, it reminds me that everything passes. Frost, grading, but especially the weekend. During which I should have graded (instead of it all looming over me still!), but instead managed to have a perfectly in-the-moment two days.
I’m not repentant. Not to mention I got the following poem out of it, for National Poetry Writing Month:
Dear George Bilgere ~
and is there an accent grave over the first é
George? Shouldn’t poets bear names
that channel craft & music…?
You’re looking for insight, George ~
I’m seeking music. I’m hungering
for something there is that doesn’t like
something that resists articulation.
The evocation of a darkness in delight
of roads that end in empty swings
or doors that open only into absence.
I’m grading too, George. And I wish
that we were reading Frost.
and language rustled impatiently
on the dented surface of my desk.
I wish just once that even echoes
of the darkness shimmering beneath his lyrics
filled the silence of my study.
Instead, the asthmatic wheezing
of a dog whose days brim with dreams
of material poetry
the fragrance of smoke
the bob & weave of nestlings
of possible lives
spirals from the floor beneath my feet.
No evaluation is occurring, George.
Assessment still clouds the horizon.
and the weekend curls behind me
like the ribbon of a road trip
almost finished Kerouac not Frost
While folders bloom like spring within
the confines of my backpack
feathers across paper like smeared ink.
 http://www.elabs7.com/functions/message_view.html?mid=1458247&mlid=499&siteid=20130&uid=981519c183 ‘Robert Frost,’ by George Bilgere.