Frost and Frost

Blackening chipped green of

The John Deere wearing away

Under rust and lichen, huddling

In a frosted corner of the barn

 

Where the wind-blown roof gaps,

And a spider web almost as old

Is holding on to the desiccated

Husks of moths where the last

 

Bales of crisp gray hay dust into

The humusy floor, silver motes

Tarnishing in the black dirt.

The horse stalls empty, bitten

 

Rails rotting in old straw, mouse-

Nibbled bridles and blankets,

The loft leaning on its ladder,

Feed bags over broken windows.

 

Frost said home is where, when you

Go there, they have to take you in.

But he never warned that nothing,

Nothing will ever be the same.





Poetry by countryfog
Read 396 times
Written on 2011-12-01 at 20:52

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In another example of how cliches so often tell the truth better than anything, I call to mind the adage, 'You can't go home again.' Your fine poem (I'm a big fan of your on-the-mark analogies) really expresses that well. I have very pleasant memories of the rural house that I grew up in, but when I recently asked my mom what happened that old house full of memories, she matter-of-factly noted: 'Oh, that. It burned down years ago.' I was devastated.
2011-12-03


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
This is a fine elegy, possibly your best.
2011-12-02


Rob Graber
A wonderful poem, and a most thoughtful and entertaining comment. It's a fine thing to love old barns and our frosty beloved Midwest; but new stuff and sunnier climes ain't all bad either...

:-,?
2011-12-02



The level of despair in some Frost poems belies his (late) image as the nation's silver-haired orator of country, folksy, barnsy poems. He has a dark side and you've tapped into that. Yet, here I am, temporarily (I hope) removed to L.A., and your poem shoots pangs of missing home, the Midwest, and frost and the even, or especially, the harsh nature of the place. L.A., with its eighty degree December opening, is not the stuff of Frosty poetry. Nosir, it ain't. I could write of homelessness on the beach or Beverly Hills or the good life in Santa Monica, and I probably will, but this, your poem, brings me home, and home is where I really want to be.

Though . . . the weather quite pleasant here.
2011-12-01