I turn back, time and time, again…to the voice and words of Frost. Having spent time with similar, familiar demons, self induced negativity and judgment from beings…I, too, did not ask for in my life…There was a slight, speck of dust in time, where I turned to poetry and it’s suffering.
We all, each and everyone of us, can find the art needed to get us…not only out…but through!
Oven Bird by Robert Frost
There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.
“Most people do not believe in anything very much and our greatest poetry is given to us by those who do.”
– Cyril Connolly
