I'm currently engaged in the process of reading this book, which is the standard edition of his collected poetry. It's been a journey that I thought would be completed within a certain time frame, perhaps in 2018 or 2019, but as it turns out, it's never-ending. The experience has been both enlightening and challenging.

I'm abandoning my reading of Frost's poetry. There are simply too many other books vying for my attention. However, having made it through A Witness Tree, I have a hunch that I've probably encountered most of his poems that are still widely remembered. It was indeed a great adventure. I discovered a great deal about Frost and the astonishing poetry he crafted throughout the majority of his long life. He was a very modern poet, yet in the end, I get the impression that he is accurately classified as a quite regional poet. Much of his work focuses on the people and attitudes found in American New England - that area northeast of New York and more precisely north of Boston, including Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, and the northern edge of Massachusetts.

Below are the nine collections of poetry the book contains, along with the year of publication and links to separate reviews for those I've read and reviewed. These reviews will mainly consist of quotations from some of the poems I enjoyed the most, perhaps with some additional comments.

(1) A Boy's Will, 1913 - review

(2) North of Boston, 1914 - review

(3) Mountain Interval, 1916 - review

(4) New Hampshire, 1924 - review

(5) West-Running Brook, 1929 - review

(6) A Further Range, 1936 - review

(7) A Witness Tree, 1942 - review not yet written.

And the unread...

(8) Steeple Bush, 1947

(9) In the Clearing, 1962

Plus two plays Frost wrote:

(10) A Masque of Reason, 1945

(11) A Masque of Mercy, 1947

Finally (not in the book), I've reviewed the following:

Robert Frost: A Collection of Critical Essays, edited by James M. Cox. See the link for Previous library review below.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Previous review: Basil Street Blues

Next review: North of Boston

Older review: Understanding Power

Previous library review: Robert Frost critical reviews

Next library review: A Boy's Will see above

It's not that I have a particular favourite Robert Frost poem. He's not that sort of a fellow. Indeed, there are numerous "quotable quotes" that people toss around casually. But yet again, he's not that kind of a person. I repeatedly delve into this collection when I desire the world to decelerate a little and I simply wish to dream away a few hours, perhaps an entire afternoon.

These poems are especially wonderful on snowy, blustery, mid-winter afternoons when there is absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to go. And in the evening, when you halt by a wood, it's lovely, dark, and deep.

He's the kind of a fellow with whom one could have engaged in long and interesting conversations. Whether or not the discourse led you anywhere specific on that particular day doesn't matter. However, one must never make the error in that conversation of mistaking his simplicity of language for simplicity of thought. For he is far more than "a considerable speck" in the universe. He has enabled me to traverse many roads in my mind that I haven't taken in the physical world.

This is a well-thumbed and well-loved collection. It holds a special place in my heart and offers a haven of tranquility and inspiration whenever I turn its pages.

\\"The Poetry of Robert Frost\\" is an anthology that truly stands the test of time. It showcases the remarkable lyrical genius and profound insight of one of America's most cherished poets. Spanning across Frost's highly productive career, this collection brings together some of his most iconic and enduring works. It offers readers a fascinating peek into the beauty and complexity of the human experience.

What makes Frost's poetry so distinct is its unique combination of simplicity and depth. Through his masterful use of language and his sharp observation of nature, he has the ability to transform ordinary moments into profound reflections on life, love, and the passage of time. Whether he is pondering the ephemeral beauty of a winter landscape or delving into the intricacies of human relationships, Frost's verse reverberates with universal truths and timeless wisdom.

One of the notable features of Frost's poetry is its accessibility. Despite its inherent depth and complexity, his language is clear and unembellished, making it easily understandable for readers from all walks of life. However, beneath this surface simplicity lies a wealth of meaning and nuance, enticing readers to explore the layers of metaphor and symbolism that are characteristic of his work.

Moreover, \\"The Poetry of Robert Frost\\" provides a window into the American experience. It captures the essence of life in rural New England and the changing seasons with an unparalleled vividness. Frost's deep connection to the land and its rhythms infuses his poetry with a strong sense of place and belonging, which resonates with readers around the globe.

In addition to its literary value, \\"The Poetry of Robert Frost\\" is also a testament to the enduring power of poetry to evoke emotions and stimulate thought. Frost's words have the remarkable ability to transport readers to another time and place, inviting them to contemplate the mysteries of existence and find comfort in the beauty of the natural world.

Overall, \\"The Poetry of Robert Frost\\" is a timeless treasure that continues to captivate and inspire readers of all ages. With its timeless themes, exquisite imagery, and profound insights, this collection serves as a testament to Frost's lasting legacy as one of America's greatest poets. Whether you are a long-time admirer of Frost's work or are just beginning to discover his poetry, this anthology is certain to leave a profound and lasting impression.

I truly liked Robert Frost a great deal more when I naively believed that he was simply writing about farms, taking pleasant walks, and pausing in various wooded regions on nights of bad weather.

However, after three in-depth class discussions of his poems, I am dismayed to discover that it is all an incredibly more complicated matter than that. Dammit.

Yet, he remains nice when I don't have to agonize over the profound philosophical meaning of birches and can simply relish the nice and comfortable feeling that his poems bestow upon me. Here, have a random excerpt.

From "Birches":

"I'd like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over.

May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:

I don't know where it's likely to go better."

Read for: Modern Poetry.

Robert Frost has the most beautiful poetry!

My dad used to read to me from this book every night before bed, and it has been a favorite ever since. When I was little, my favorite one was "The Pasture." Now, I love "Reluctance."

The poem begins with the speaker going out through the fields and the woods, climbing the hills to view the world and then descending. They come home by the highway, and it seems that something has ended. The leaves are all dead on the ground, except for those the oak is keeping, which it will slowly release to scrape and creep over the crusted snow while others sleep. The dead leaves lie still, no longer blowing around. The last aster is gone, and the flowers of the witch-hazel wither. The heart still aches to seek, but the feet question where to go. The poem then poses the question of whether it is ever less than a treason to go with the flow of things, to gracefully yield to reason, and to bow and accept the end of a love or a season.

Timeless!

The concept of timelessness is truly fascinating. It represents something that transcends the boundaries of time, remaining relevant and captivating throughout the ages.

A timeless piece of art, for example, can touch the hearts and minds of people from different generations. It has the power to evoke emotions and inspire new perspectives, regardless of when it was created.

Similarly, a timeless story has the ability to engage readers or listeners, transporting them to another world and making them feel as if they are a part of the narrative.

Timelessness can also be seen in the values and principles that we hold dear. These are the things that have endured through the test of time and continue to guide us in our lives.

In a world that is constantly changing, the idea of timelessness offers a sense of stability and comfort. It reminds us that there are certain things that will always be true and beautiful, no matter what the future holds.

Overall, the concept of timelessness is a powerful one that enriches our lives and gives us a deeper appreciation for the things that truly matter.

It may seem rather odd to assign only four stars to such an outstanding poet. However, in my view, there are (more or less) two Frosts. In fact, there are three, but the third one is not of great significance.

Let's start with the third Frost. This is the Frost of lighter, often satirical poetry, such as in "A Case for Jefferson." This kind of verse is not really Frost's forte, and I believe his reputation might have been a bit higher if he hadn't published it. Nevertheless, almost all poets release some works that are not quite up to their standard, and few readers hold this against them.

More typically, Frost has two writing modes: 1) rhymed verse with tighter rhythms, and 2) the generally much looser blank verse. I often have a great liking for the first mode; indeed, I consider the best of his lyrics to be among the finest lyrical poetry in the language. There are very few poets who have composed so many high-quality lyrics. For the second mode, the blank verse (usually, but not always), I can find very little affection.

It is important to note that in the first type (the rhymed verse as opposed to the looser blank verse), it is often symbolic, using symbols like harvest, night, sea, woodland paths, and others to imply larger (if vaguer) meanings. The blank verse is often quite literal. Poems like "Death of a Hired Hand" or "Home Burial" read more like short stories than poetry. And the blank verse lines, which often deviate from the strict iambic pentameter, do not gather energy. Blank verse is a very challenging medium for poetry in English. One must be extremely talented to use it effectively. Only Shakespeare's and Tennyson's blank verse really works for me, and these are two of the very best at handling the English language. Frost (along with Wordsworth, for example) fails to bring it to life for me.

To illustrate, I will contrast two poems - "Home Burial" and "Acquainted with the Night." Both are very dark poems.

First, "Home Burial": The poem involves the misunderstandings between a husband and wife following the death and burial (by the husband) of their child. I think we have to admit that we are dealing with two rather dense people. The emotion is not nuanced; it is raw and even simplistic. Take the following passage where the husband finally realizes that his child's burial mound can be seen from a window at which his wife has been seen looking out numerous times:

"‘The wonder is I didn't see at once.
I never noticed it from here before.
I must be wonted to it—that's the reason.
The little graveyard where my people are!
So small the window frames the whole of it.’"

A husband who doesn't know that his child's grave can be seen from one of the home's windows is not believable - it really isn't; the wife's perception of things is hardly better:

"‘I can repeat the very words you were saying:
“Three foggy mornings and one rainy day
Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.”
Think of it, talk like that at such a time!
What had how long it takes a birch to rot
To do with what was in the darkened parlor?
You couldn't care!’"

She cannot understand that the unfortunate and pressing business of life goes on, that we cannot, in the normal course of events, stop to give things, including grief, their proper due. This is hardly more believable than her husband's obtuseness. Painful and absurd as this may seem, intelligent women understand it. Nor can she grasp that the husband's mourning occurs at a different level from her own.

And the situation is too specific. Unless one happens to have had the same experience, we tend to remain uninvolved; we are placed in an uncomfortable voyeuristic position. I cannot help but feel that this is closer to soap opera than poetry.

In addition, the lines in "Home Burial" so often deviate from the normative iambic pentameter that in my perception it is really not poetry at all. And when the meter returns to the strict iambic pentameter, it often feels forced and sometimes awkward. Frost is sometimes credited with having broken down the meter as a sort of analogy to the breakdown of communication between the husband and wife; but if the crumbling of communication means the crumbling of prosody, then what we have is prose.

On the other hand, "Acquainted with the Night" is a true work of art and a poem to which almost anyone can relate because it is communicated symbolically. There are very few people who are not acquainted with the "night" - only the very fortunate and the self-deluding sentimentalist. Here are the last three stanzas of the poem:

"I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night."

The "night" is almost psychotically bleak. A cry is heard from streets away - is it real or an hallucination? In any case, it is terrifyingly hostile. The clock, which is normally a helpful product of a coherent society, is of no use; instead, it is apparently a sinister, glaring eye.

Yet (and I consider this very important) the rhyme and controlled meter stand for coherence and meaning in which even the darkest place has a context, has a place in the scheme of things. There is a reason for the expression "neither rhyme nor reason." Here we have rhyme (and more generally a prosody) which functions as a substitute for reason, which, however unavailable in the midst of the torment, is nevertheless insisted upon (albeit indirectly) by the poet. This is something that poetry can do, that is, place life's varied and confusing events in some sort of context; indeed, it is one of its major functions, and Frost does it very well. The symbolic, as opposed to literal, representation allows for reverberating meaning and multiple contexts.

To take one more brief example of what Frost does so well - from "A Prayer in Spring":

"Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year."

How simple and unassuming the verse is at a literal level; yet how rich, full of meaning, both hopeful and ominous at once.

It was far in the sameness of the wood;

I was running with joy on the Demon’s trail,

Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.

It was just as the light was beginning to fail

That I suddenly heard—all I needed to hear:

It has lasted me many and many a year.

The wound was behind me instead of before,

A sleepy sound, but mocking half,

As of one who utterly couldn’t care.

The Demon arose from his wallow to laugh,

Brushing the dirt from his eye as he went;

And well I knew what the Demon meant.

(The Demiurge's Laugh)

I think there are many sides to Robert Frost, which this early poem of his exemplifies rather well. He is widely known for his humble reflections on rural life in New Hampshire and Vermont. However, he is sometimes dismissed as a sentimental American rambler in the shadow of Longfellow. In fact, many are surprised to learn that Frost was contemporary with the modernist poets and not a 19th-century romantic. Poems like this one perhaps express his two competing drives. On one hand, there is the simple parable of a foolish pursuit in the New England woods. On the other hand, there is the uneasy sense of the world's cosmic ineffability that is always just beyond the comprehension of his mind and his poetry. His earliest poems were written naively, as he was a layabout on his relatives' farm in Derry, NH. The faint gesture at gnosticism is quite appropriate for Derry, which adjoins Londonderry, NH in a great cosmic irony. There are two towns named after the same Irish town, one taking its anglophonic colonial variant and the other restoring its historical Irish name (decades before the North Irish Londonderry voted to become Derry once more).

The Irish connection is rather faint. While southern New Hampshire is now filled with Boston Irish, at Frost's time it was nearly as Anglo-Saxon as England itself. The landscape had been terraformed into a perverse image of England, with all its millennia-old trees cut down (every single one of them, it seems) and replaced with hilly fields of grass and farmlands. It is only right that Frost takes up as his principle theme, at least on some level, the vague irony between the commonplace platitudes of very English speech (down to the gerunds, -aw rhyming with -ar, etc) and the bizarre and deeply meaningful spirit of New England nature, its (re-growing) forests and mountains. One recalls Marianne Moore's fine poem, Spenser's Ireland, about the same phenomenon of a powerful landscape overtaking the Anglo-Saxon mind and endowing it with a capacity for profound fantasy far beyond recognition. She wrote of Ireland, but New Hampshire is perhaps no less a potent locale. Indeed, there are many similarities in terms of insane local politicians and alcohol consumption (by a significant margin the highest in the state). However, I will reserve my theories about New England, Ireland, and Atlantis for some other time.

I think the problem is that Frost may not have been the right poet to approach these themes. Although he is quite right in his splendid poem "New Hampshire" in suggesting that the general lack of literary output from the state is due to how tranquil life is here, such that there are no problems or distress and therefore no call to writing. Frost, for his part, seemed called to the task as a consequence of his life-long ambition to become a farmer and his many failures at trying to turn up a single good crop. This aspiration, in the long run, somewhat destroys his poetry. The beautifully rooted tales of "North of Boston" and "New Hampshire", overflowing with local details that still persist a century later, degenerate into sterilized mediations on agricultural life, dull platitudes about the pleasantry of plants and the simplicity of farm-work that can be found in any of the thousands of dull southern pastoral poets (of the US).

Another issue with Frost is his analogues to W. H. Auden. They are essentially similar kinds of poets (ironically simple rhymes, inversions of platitudes, narcissistic indulgence in the sweeping judgments they feel popular poets are entitled to). Frost mastered the form of the rough, naturalized blank verse early on, as well as a parodic style of heroic couplets, and rarely wrote in any other form. As a result, so many of his poems, even ones where he is reflecting on interesting subjects, read as obnoxious in their attempt to fake humor with absurd rhymes (none so bad as Auden's, but definitely contaminated with the same disease. One of the last poems in this book I read rhymed "verbatim" with "ate him" for no reason other than to be cheeky) and, like Auden, too often debases himself by excessively indulging in platitudes when his exact intentions seemed to be to lament the deeper woes people hide behind their platitudes.

Of course, what separates Frost from AAA (Arch-Anglo Auden) is his almost Goethean sensitivity to the world. Much of why his poetry is universal is that his poetry reaches towards the metaphysical secrets of the world without having any intelligible doctrine or philosophical impulses behind them. At some points, this almost seems deliberate, with occasional hints at a profound learning and intelligence behind these works. But at other points, it seems like a genuine inability to think deeply that permits him this sense (particularly his political poetry surrounding his enthusiasm for The New Deal is so obviously ignorant and stupid that it makes me think this). This fascination with metaphysics almost sandwiches his career, being the great preoccupation of his youth with its poems about stars and nature-in-abstract, and that of his old age with poems about the morphology of trees and the secrets of the earth and sea.

The core of his work, then, is his localized prose tales about life in rural New Hampshire. "The Mountain" and "Birches" are, to my eye, unforgettable and true elaborations of the things I can still see around me living in this state. They are the sort of poetry I wish people would write more of, being genuine and earnest expositions of the types of thoughts and ideas one develops over their lifetime in engaging with the world, the actual use and meaning of language without any sort of literary imposition or intellectual pretense. Ezra Pound, in his endorsement of Robert Frost, said something to the effect of "I was traveling down a boat on a river in New England in the middle of nowhere and passed by two old men talking between themselves on the shore; Robert Frost's poetry is equivalent to a transcript of that conversation". I suppose it's in poor taste to theorize too wordily about the importance of localization in writing of this kind and to contrast it (one way or another) with abstracter kinds of writing. But we can also think of something Pynchon says in Slow Learner, that he spent his youth trying to transpose his experiences to areas other than where he had lived and only began writing anything of merit when he began writing about where he lived himself.

Whether or not you're convinced by this, I would prefer any reader take away from my review the polemic against Anglo-Saxons, a topic far less open to debate.

The New England Poet

I spent my childhood in New Hampshire until the age of eleven when my family relocated to upstate New York. Now, it's often said that no patriot is more passionate than an exile. My family and I identified strongly as New Englanders, and I still do, although as the years pass, the justification for this connection seems to fade a little more each day.

Robert Frost was renowned as the New England poet. Most of his poems are set in rural New England, especially in New Hampshire where he owned a farm. This made him highly respected by my family and me. As a high school student, I committed many of his poems to memory.

I believe I was an undergraduate in college when I first purchased this collection and read it cover to cover. It contains all of Frost's books in sequence. In his first book, A Boy's Will, his voice had not yet fully developed into what it would become. However, it does contain one of my favorite Frost poems, "My November Guest". The final verse is truly beautiful:
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
The deliberately "poetic" phrasing in the fourth line, which no ordinary New Englander would use in casual conversation, is a characteristic that is only present in this earliest of Frost's books. From North of Boston onwards, Frost's poems are free of "twere's" and "twas's" and sound like real speech. North of Boston contains one of his most famous poems, "Mending Wall", and his next book, Mountain Interval, begins with "The Road Not Taken", a very popular work among teenagers who like to think they are unique.
It was in his large 1923 collection, New Hampshire, that I discovered my absolute favorite Frost poem, "To Earthward", with its heart-wrenching lines:
I crave the stain
Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love.
I could go on listing the poems I love, but there would be no end to it. You can find such lists elsewhere. My list of favorites would likely be different from the list of the most popular Frost poems. But I firmly believe that if you truly love poetry and want to hear an authentic American voice, you cannot do better than Robert Frost.

Robert Frost, the outstanding poet, is renowned for his simple and clear poetic language. His works have touched the hearts of countless readers around the world.

Frost's poetry often reflects on the beauty and complexity of nature, as well as the human condition. Through his vivid descriptions and profound insights, he invites us to see the world from a different perspective.

His achievements are not only limited to his literary works. Frost has also received numerous awards and honors, including 4 Pulitzer Prizes. These accolades are a testament to his卓越的才华 and significant contributions to the field of literature.

In conclusion, Robert Frost is a literary giant whose poetry will continue to inspire generations to come. His simple yet powerful words have the ability to move us, make us think, and connect us with the world around us.

Robert Frost to Ruzah Jamali's Translation

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood:
They were apart and distant from each other.
Sadly, I could not travel both
And I was the only traveler on this road.
So, for a long time I endured
And looked at one of them until I was lost in thought.
Until the path was covered with vegetation.
But I took the other road,
Which had a similar appearance to the other one on the surface.
It would have been better if
I wore a green garment of grass on my body in that green passage.
Perhaps someone would pass by it
And become like the other one that was clothed in grass.
That morning, a wide expanse of both roads was the same before my eyes.
And the Japanese had not swept the leaves.
Sadly,
On these two roads.
I had reserved the first road for another day.
Although I knew that the roads end at each other.
And one road is a path behind another road.
I was in doubt whether I should turn back.
I must tell you this with a sigh.
A place behind the years:
Two roads diverged in the forest.
And I chose the one
That fewer people had passed through.
And this changed my destiny.

The Dust of Snow

Just like a flake
From the branch of a hemlock tree
It shook.
The dust of snow on me.

It has fallen on my heart.
And changed the atmosphere.
And some parts of the day
That had been rescued from the past of sorrow.

Robert Frost (1874-1963) is a poet who, while describing the scenes with the eyes of a painter, presents philosophical thoughts in his poems. As we can see in the poem "The Road Not Taken", he has explained a philosophical doubt with empirical evidence in nature and has created a philosophical vision with delicacy and detail from a simple image.

From the perspective of the critics of the 20th-century poetry theory, he has written about the status of Frost's poetry and his importance.

In this translation, the translator has aimed to update the language of the poet and rewrite it in the present moment so that it can be read by today's generation and in today's Persian. Some of the expressions have been translated in a free form and with some changes from the original language. The translator has tried to preserve the poetic moments in the target language.
http://rosajamali.blogfa.com/post/120

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Ruzah Jamali is a poet, writer, playwright, translator, researcher, and literary critic. So far, more than fifteen book titles in various fields have been published by him. He has a bachelor's degree in dramatic literature from the School of Cinema and Theater of the University of Arts and a master's degree in English literature from the University of Tehran.

A fundamental poetry book


Robert Frost's poetry truly stands out. There isn't an abundance that requires elaboration about it, other than the fact that, contrary to many aspects of life, it lives up to its expectations. If you are just beginning to explore the world of poetry, Frost is highly recommended. Many readers will discover that his poems are more easily understandable compared to those of numerous modern poets. The Poetry of Robert Frost: The Collected Poems, Complete and Unabridged, edited by Edward Connery Lathem, is the definitive collection. I firmly believe that it should grace the shelf of anyone who owns any poetry books whatsoever. I suggest obtaining the hardcover edition. Surprisingly, the paperback version often appears to be nearly as costly. There are also some Selected Poems editions available, but once again, these seem to be almost as pricey as this Collected Poems. Therefore, you might as well simply opt for this comprehensive collection.