Brothers,
Robert Frost (1874-1963) is famed as one of America's greater modern poets (a poet "laureate"--that is, "the best of his kind") along side of T.S. Eliot, among others.
His poetry is--in a way--"regional" in that his imagery is suggestive of the New England landscape in which he lived. His language is relatively simple, clear, and "colloquial" (which is to say, common speech).
As publishers note, he draws upon "everyday incidents, common situations and rural imagery."
Though simple and clear, his poetry is rich in "potent symbolism" that suggests a deeper meaning.
That said, compose a poem of your OWN verse using your OWN subject matter, but in a style similar to Frost. If it helps, pick a favorite poem from the reader or otherwise (by Frost) and mimic his sentence or phrasing structure.
Remember that we read to write and we write to communicate. So go and enter into a dialogue with Frost. See and feel what he inspires you to write about.
Peace,
BRob
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Whose house is this that i pass
It is covered up by high grass
Above the town and the hill
The house smells of sewer gass
Each time i pass i get a chill
Thinking that ive heard a shrill
Shadows that i see are very scary
The noises often make me ill
The people i see often varry
The creatures i encounter are hairy
The house is surley haunted
But no one else is wary
wow this poem goes no where
Through the valley it rose
like a kite in a crisp fall sky;
the sun emerged from a hidden pose
and unleashed light--about to fly
The rays shined across the lakes
in through the grassy plains
melting newly fallen snow flakes
that had been lying on the trains
The heat was flaunted in the light
but would soon be forgotten in the night
When evening fell upon the earth
the sun would behold a dark bearth
As day came to a sorrowful end
the train no longer around the bend
and the sun falling into the sea
like a coward running from an enemy
Some people say the world is great,
Some say it is bad.
From what i have Lived through, the world is not a place that I hate
I agree with those who favor that the world is great
But if i had to choose again
To say that the world is bad
is also rad
and would true
Sweet poem!
Some say we end with death,
Some say we begin with the end or our life.
From what i know about our last breath,
I hold those who favor the begining with death.
But if i had to die with this strife,
I think i would know when it is my night,
To say that we begin with the end of life.
Is all right
And would start my life.
I punch the air
And I look to the sky
The clouds seem to not have a single care
I look at the war and I sigh
Families involved feel pain they cannot bear
Most of the soldiers wish they would just die
We all wish this fighting would cease
And for families to reunite
But the fighting will increase
The enemies are demons who feed on the night
They strike at us from the shadows
They will never stop this bloody fight
School is something I dred
Every monday morning its time for work and no fun
Personally i would much rather be in bed
From first period on the day drags
Minutes feel like hours
Students walk slow because of there heavy book bags
The day ends and I am extatic
I get home and I know i have gotten through antoher one of those days
I have been there many times
I have experienced different tasks I have made strides to achieve long lines
I have looked far far down the road
And impressed close friends
But not enough to impress future competitors
I have stood my ground to be feared
not to be unseeable
And I believe I can be effective
As night turns to day
dark turns to light.
As winter turns to spring
snow turns to flowers.
As years turn to decades
boys turn to men.
Is the world a cruel place,
Is it one of kindness.
By some it is though a grace
But others think not the same case.
Ask around and some may be struck with blindness,
If they want not to look at the world in that way.
Being ignorant to the mess
As it is easier to stay
Taking away the guess.
I have been one aquainted with the winter.
I have walked out in snow - and back in snow.
I have outhiked the furthest tree with her splinter.
I have looked down the roughest trail in Woe.
I have passed the woodpecker in his rythmic beat.
And lost all hope, not able to say no.
I have stood still and still in which I had to meet.
When far away an ear shattering howl.
Came over trees from another feat.
But not to encourage me on it's prowl;
And further still at an unearthly might.
One exclusive bird though as an owl.
Proclaimed the time was neither destroyed nor wright.
I have been aquainted with the winter.
Emotion.
Without a trace.
Nay,
But with life's embrace.
We sing to the heavens.
We preach to the sinners.
Hypocrisy rules our hearts.
If someone ever uttered a solitary phrase.
That spoke of one another in melodramatic praise.
Then speak to your fellow slaves to the power of divine pleasure.
And tell them all your secrets of passion in merry measure.
(poetry)
Based loosley off of Frost's
"Putting in the Seed":
"Turning of the Gut"
Your entrance through these doors startled me,
Though I could not help but be glad
That you came to look for words we cannot see
In books with prayers for souls gone sad
(Sad souls they are but no so crazy,
As the souls of the just that turned so mad;)
In the wake of war no longer free
Of fetters like iron in which they're clad,
Weighed down by forces and bullets unrestrained,
How Desire ignites in the Turning of the Gut
Withstanding the grace of the Spirit unexplained
Which, like the Dove through the clouds does cut,
The puffed air with wings beating
Up and down like eyes still searching.
"A Shakespearean Fool"
We drove home from the far North East
After a long lunch with Michael Larthey--
The court jester whose secret knowledge has everyone so fooled
(He knows it all, He knows them all
Yet still we've ridiculed)
Conversation never spoke so comfortably
With anyone else I know
I speak the same for Finnegan
(But then I can't assume)
I saw his spirit move in eyes that search in brown
Under a long Irish forehead
That juts out beneath graying, disheveled black hair.
He seems a child of God,
But a child he is not--
Less naive than most would think,
His authority housed
By humility.
In that awkward frame
That stiffly moves and stutters phrases
Is the One for whom I search.
If daily I could remember
I would call him everyday.
In coversation our words do wander,
Yet never there is a lull--
News of politics and women...
and Cars, parades, and weather.
It was Larthey who once told me
That "Jennifer" (my sister's name)in 1983
(The year of my birth)
Was America's choicest name
By couples starting families
Useless, but perhaps not,
These facts he bestows.
He has more to say by way of passion
For what we claim to know.
His history runs deeper
Than Shakespeare's time for sure.
He precedes the ones
Who've led Dukes blind
And those we call as Christians,
The "little ones" of the world.
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