Welcome to the 179th Virtual Poetry Circle!
Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.
Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.
Also, sign up for the 2012 Fearless Poetry Reading Challenge because its simple; you only need to read 1 book of poetry. Please visit the stops on the 2012 National Poetry Month Blog Tour.
Today’s poem is my favorite winter poem from Robert Frost:
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
What do you think? And what’s your favorite winter/holiday poem?
I love that poem, too! Especially the hint of something darker in those last lines.
I’ve never been in the woods on a snowy evening. I’ll bet it’s beautiful and quiet. I love this poem more each time I read it.
great fan of Robert Frost & like the feel of haste in this old favourite of mine. here’s one in return from a new to me poet.
A Cold Night – Bernard Spencer
Thick wool is muslin tonight, and the wire
Wind scorches stone-cold colder. Boys
Tremble at counters of shops. The world
Gets lopped at the radius of my fire.
Only for a moment I think of those
Whom the weather leans on under the sky;
Newsman with placards by the rivers skirt, Stamping, or with their crouching pose,
The whores; the soldiery who lie
Round wounded Madrid, those less hurt
Who cross that bridge I crossed today
Where the waves snap white as broken plates.
And the criss-cross girders hammer a grill
Through which, instead of flames, wind hates,
I turn back to my fire. Which I must.
I am not God or a crazed woman.
And one needs time too to sit in peace
Opposite one’s girl, with food, fire, light,
And do the work one’s own blood heats
Or talk, and forget about the winter
— This season, this century — and not always
Opening one’s doors on the pitiful streets
Of Europe, not always think of winter, winter , like a hammering rhyme
For then everything is drowned by the rising wind, everything is done
against Time.