Robert Frost

I really LOVE Robert Frost!  I have included my favorite poem of his at the end of this post. His poetry is descriptive and has many meaning. I really enjoyed the four poems we were required to read for class. Also In the past I have read many of  his other works. I enjoy most all  of his poetry.


He is a more modern writer. He lived from 1874-1963. I am sure she saw so much change in his life and I wonder is that was influence on his poetry. He was well recognized for his works receiving 4 Pulitzer prizes over his lifetime. Many authors/artists of the past are not recognized for their greatness until after they have passed. His work was appreciated when it was written and is still appreciated today!

Robert Frost (1874–1963).  Mountain Interval.  1920.

1. The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;         5 Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,         10 And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.         15 I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.         20

Bartleby, the Scrivener : Melville, Herman. 1853.

I read an interesting short story this weekend called Bartleby, the Scrivener.


It was a story about that "mystery" surrounding this man Bartleby.


It is a story which has been interpreted in many different ways through the years.


The basic story is that this Lawyer, ends up getting "stuck" with Bartleby. Bartleby works for the lawyer at first, but then begins refusing to do his work or anything at all for that matter. Bartleby does not eat, or even leave his spot in the office. The lawyer can not get rid of Bartleby as he refuses to leave the lawyer's office as well. Something intrigues the lawyer about Bartleby and he feels he cannot just throw him out on the street. The lawyer tries to give Bartleby money to help him out but Bartleby does not take it. The lawyer moves his office to rid himself of Bartleby, and it works. But the lawyer soon finds out Bartleby has been still hanging around the old office. Bartleby ends up being arrested. The lawyer visits him in jail, and days later Bartleby is dead because he refused to eat. The lawyer then finds a few things out about Bartleby after he dies that changes his perspective on him.


This is just a very short summary of what happens in the story.
This story shows that things may not always be as they appear.


I suggest this story to anyone!


It will remind you that when you think you "don't know anything" about someone; that you actually probably know a lot about them. Just just have to take the time to see.

Poetry

So I began working in the poetry unit today.


I really enjoyed reading the following 3 poems:


My Papa's Waltz by  Theodore Roethke


Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden


Facing It by Yusef Komunyakaa


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My Favorite was "Facing It". It made a large impact on me because my Grandfather was in Vietnam. He always tries not to "face" his memories of Vietnam. He does not like to talk much about his experiences and 2 years of life in Vietnam. I respect all the brave men and women who served in Vietnam. I hope to one day visit the memorial and pay my respects to all the soldiers who fought in Vietnam.
When you read the poem, what do you get out of it?


Facing It by Yusef Komunyakaa


My black face fades,   

hiding inside the black granite.   

I said I wouldn't  

dammit: No tears.   

I'm stone. I'm flesh.   

My clouded reflection eyes me   

like a bird of prey, the profile of night   

slanted against morning. I turn   

this way—the stone lets me go.   

I turn that way—I'm inside   

the Vietnam Veterans Memorial

again, depending on the light   

to make a difference.   

I go down the 58,022 names,   

half-expecting to find   

my own in letters like smoke.   

I touch the name Andrew Johnson;   

I see the booby trap's white flash.   

Names shimmer on a woman's blouse   

but when she walks away   

the names stay on the wall.   

Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's   

wings cutting across my stare.   

The sky. A plane in the sky.   

A white vet's image floats   

closer to me, then his pale eyes   

look through mine. I'm a window.   

He's lost his right arm   

inside the stone. In the black mirror   

a woman’s trying to erase names:   

No, she's brushing a boy's hair.