the Mountain by Frost

THE MOUNTAIN held the town as in a shadow
I saw so much before I slept there once:
I noticed that I missed stars in the west,
Where its black body cut into the sky.
Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wall
Behind which I was sheltered from a wind.
And yet between the town and it I found,
When I walked forth at dawn to see new things,
Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields.
The river at the time was fallen away,
And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones;
But the signs showed what it had done in spring;
Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grass
Ridges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark.
I crossed the river and swung round the mountain.
And there I met a man who moved so slow
With white-faced oxen in a heavy cart,
It seemed no hand to stop him altogether.

“What town is this?” I asked.

“This? Lunenburg.”

Then I was wrong: the town of my sojourn,
Beyond the bridge, was not that of the mountain,
But only felt at night its shadowy presence.
“Where is your village? Very far from here?”

“There is no village—only scattered farms.
We were but sixty voters last election.
We can’t in nature grow to many more:
That thing takes all the room!” He moved his goad.
The mountain stood there to be pointed at.
Pasture ran up the side a little way,
And then there was a wall of trees with trunks:
After that only tops of trees, and cliffs
Imperfectly concealed among the leaves.
A dry ravine emerged from under boughs
Into the pasture.

“That looks like a path.
Is that the way to reach the top from here?—
Not for this morning, but some other time:
I must be getting back to breakfast now.”

“I don’t advise your trying from this side.
There is no proper path, but those that have
Been up, I understand, have climbed from Ladd’s.
That’s five miles back. You can’t mistake the place:
They logged it there last winter some way up.
I’d take you, but I’m bound the other way.”

“You’ve never climbed it?”

“I’ve been on the sides
Deer-hunting and trout-fishing. There’s a brook
That starts up on it somewhere—I’ve heard say
Right on the top, tip-top—a curious thing.
But what would interest you about the brook,
It’s always cold in summer, warm in winter.
One of the great sights going is to see
It steam in winter like an ox’s breath,
Until the bushes all along its banks
Are inch-deep with the frosty spines and bristles—
You know the kind. Then let the sun shine on it!”

“There ought to be a view around the world
From such a mountain—if it isn’t wooded
Clear to the top.” I saw through leafy screens
Great granite terraces in sun and shadow,
Shelves one could rest a knee on getting up—
With depths behind him sheer a hundred feet;
Or turn and sit on and look out and down,
With little ferns in crevices at his elbow.

“As to that I can’t say. But there’s the spring,
Right on the summit, almost like a fountain.
That ought to be worth seeing.”

“If it’s there.
You never saw it?”

“I guess there’s no doubt
About its being there. I never saw it.
It may not be right on the very top:
It wouldn’t have to be a long way down
To have some head of water from above,
And a good distance down might not be noticed
By anyone who’d come a long way up.
One time I asked a fellow climbing it
To look and tell me later how it was.”

“What did he say?”

“He said there was a lake
Somewhere in Ireland on a mountain top.”

“But a lake’s different. What about the spring?”

“He never got up high enough to see.
That’s why I don’t advise your trying this side.
He tried this side. I’ve always meant to go
And look myself, but you know how it is:
It doesn’t seem so much to climb a mountain
You’ve worked around the foot of all your life.
What would I do? Go in my overalls,
With a big stick, the same as when the cows
Haven’t come down to the bars at milking time?
Or with a shotgun for a stray black bear?
’Twouldn’t seem real to climb for climbing it.”

“I shouldn’t climb it if I didn’t want to—
Not for the sake of climbing. What’s its name?”

“We call it Hor: I don’t know if that’s right.”

“Can one walk around it? Would it be too far?”

“You can drive round and keep in Lunenburg,
But it’s as much as ever you can do,
The boundary lines keep in so close to it.
Hor is the township, and the township’s Hor—
And a few houses sprinkled round the foot,
Like boulders broken off the upper cliff,
Rolled out a little farther than the rest.”

“Warm in December, cold in June, you say?”

“I don’t suppose the water’s changed at all.
You and I know enough to know it’s warm
Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm.
But all the fun’s in how you say a thing.”

“You’ve lived here all your life?”

“Ever since Hor
Was no bigger than a——” What, I did not hear.
He drew the oxen toward him with light touches
Of his slim goad on nose and offside flank,
Gave them their marching orders and was moving.

Snow white it’s Blue

So snow white it's blue
So snow white it’s blue

Along the route of…

Old is new

Slate to tin roofs.

You can see dusky corn rows

and,

into the heart of tomorrow.

All the while,

snow white sorrow

Pretentious and antiquated and ancient and misspoken.

Glimpses of a past paid for in tokens.

Granite blue and red with sunset morale.

So snow white it's blue
So snow white it’s blue

Deserted fields with one lone buxom cow.

Gingerbread, maple and fire sift the air.

It would seem the newest of England does not care.

A postal box envisioned by primitive design.

Last stop…missing the sign.

Wildlife encounters and other oblique…traveling shows

Mountains upon mountains of nowhere to go.

Snow white would only be fit the beguiled few

“Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”  ― Robert Frost
“Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”
― Robert Frost

A narrow state of mind…nothing new.

Grandpa’s Deere up on wooden blocks.

Too many, too many’s, pawned at the shop.

Looks like Poe’s the raven.

Feels like Frost’s haven.

Fierce farmland, as far as, the vulture flies

Windchill’s torment a native daughter’s third eye.

Styrofoam sounds like dripping mountain dews.

Underneath, snow white so blue.

Piney sap.

So snow white it's blue
So snow white it’s blue

A Mother’s milk and Mother’s mishap.

Skin stretched out over a dimming fall

Stoned in granite over it all.

Scenic one leading to one more.

Agape, another English styled country store.

Clothes lines made up of crippled shaker chairs.

Bumper-ed Harley’s loosing their flare.

So snow white it's blue
So snow white it’s blue

It is a granite state of mind…

Earthen embryo by design…

Small Town Notes

Small Town notes:

The secret to living in a small town is knowing when to go!

The town that finds you will bind you!

It’s time to give up the drugs…When the drugs give up on you!

Immoral acts are a prelude to the immoral scars left on you!

You, yourself and someone that looks like you…

Either way your wear your town well.

the baggage, the backtalk, the smell.

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New Hampshire has yet to step away from sedate behavior it has grown accustom to…Franklin is it’s skanky underbelly without under garments!

the Good in Good-bye

How far down can I be?

From the life that swallowed me.

Wandering down the same faded lanes.

Looking for mythical messages…

In this, the most old-fashioned of New Hampshire towns.

Where antiquated becomes motionless.

Laying about without a sound!

imageedit_139_8532344155

I would put a name to the provocation.

But am not quite sure how.

It is an unequivocal ride.

That will not end.

Not end until a name is pressed in stone.

Until then…

It is the longest of journey’s home.

 

 

Idle Thoughts on a Gravel Road

The air is ripe with mustard, sweet and sour.

Leaflet of grass…

Drenched in clove.

Green onion accosting the gravel road…

And, heaven’s above.

No trails to speak.

Just an agreeable, steered,  waif.

A four-legged creature…

Somewhat close to the ground.

Lumber some, oh the glory of!

In and out of sight…without a sound.