I've changed my mind about the whole poetry thing. I've decided to read a poem a day every day for the rest of my life. (Ha!) Therefore, I am going to pick an anthology (the one by Bloom) and start from the beginning. He has a section on "how to read poetry" that's fairly long, so that may be all I read today. That's okay, though, because I've already read a poem this morning.
Eighty-nine years ago today (March 7, 1923) The New Republic published a poem by Robert Frost that has gone on to be one of my favorites (and a favorite of many). Alex was in a community chorus when he was a kid and they sang this poem put to music; I can't read it without singing it in my head. It's lovely and evocative.
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.