Homage to Robert Frost
I would not mind to write blank verse, and count
My syllables ten to the line; I would
Be honored sharing style with such as Frost,
As his intention was life to portray
As truly as he could, and was amused
By human follies just as he was moved
By human truths – his own as well as those
Observable in others whom he knew
Or came to know. Adventure his approach
To life, and keenly mindful focus his
Accustomed practice in his dealings with
Experience. Imagining him on
The farm of his subsistence, working hard
To scratch a living raising chickens there
And teaching English on the side, between
Times writing poems because he had no choice -
A poet’s voice must always find itself.
A hard-life crucible for poetry
That blossoms fresh in youthful minds again
With each new generation like a tree
That bears its fruit in season every year
Like those in orchards tended by him on
His rocky farm in the New Hampshire hills.
This might not be immortality, but still
One could do worse than write blank verse like Frost.
This poem is number seven of thirty I am writing for National Poetry Writing Month 2012.
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