I took a risk putting that poem ‘out there.’ What impressions would I be giving of “Just who do I think I am anyway?” Be assured that I do not consider myself a poet.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
I was going to add some context before or after the poem. To say that I did not remember when I wrote it (quite some time ago). Or why (other than I was evidently at an eye appointment). But I then remembered I should not interfere with the poem itself. I needed to allow you space to pause and reflect, perhaps to find some deep personal meaning from it.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
However, I am okay with self-proclaiming the poem as being just an example of a ‘little ditty.’ I expect you did not have to meditate for long before moving on. But perhaps I could have added a layer of intrigue by repeating the final line:<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
I wished her well
and faced forward again,
and faced forward again.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
That might have qualified me to sit beside Robert Frost on the platform of the poets’ conference. In his poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening<\/em> (a copy is included below), Frost repeated the final line:<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n the woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, It isn’t clear what Frost did or didn’t say when often asked to comment on this poem. Folklore suggests at least two responses: “If I could tell you what it meant, there would be no reason to write the poem” and “Like a piece of ice on a hot stove, the poem must ride on its own meaning.”<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n And so, I leave my poem with you. Do feel free to repeat its final line, “and faced forward again,” if that adds value to your experience.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n The Lady in Blue<\/strong><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n I didn’t want to be forward. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening<\/strong> Whose woods these are I think I know.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 My little horse must think it queer\u00a0\u00a0 He gives his harness bells a shake\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The woods are lovely, dark and deep, \u00a0\u00a0 <\/p>\r\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I took a risk putting that poem ‘out there.’ What impressions would I be giving of “Just who do I think I am anyway?” Be assured that I do not consider myself a poet. I was going to add some context before or after the poem. To say that I did not remember when I…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[29],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-716","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/miles2go.ca\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/716","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/miles2go.ca\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/miles2go.ca\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/miles2go.ca\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/miles2go.ca\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=716"}],"version-history":[{"count":22,"href":"https:\/\/miles2go.ca\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/716\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3837,"href":"https:\/\/miles2go.ca\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/716\/revisions\/3837"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/miles2go.ca\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=716"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/miles2go.ca\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=716"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/miles2go.ca\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=716"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
She should have been beautiful – blond, young, slim, poised.
But disturbed.
Here we were in our little room with two open ends.
She, me, an elderly man pursing his lips and blinking his eyes.
Waiting to be called to see the man
in another little room with
four close walls
but bright lights
and look to the left, to the right, up and down.
“I lost sight in my eye a week ago.
They don’t know what it is.”
A quiver, a tremor, a single look into the unknown.
I was turned toward her
my own left eye closed.
Not a large gap, an easy reach
to speak, to touch, to affirm.
Yet a gulf of resistance.
I don’t know her,
what would she think.
The lady in blue came in
and called her name.
I wished her well
and faced forward again.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
By Robert Frost (1922)<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
His house is in the village though;\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0
He will not see me stopping here\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0
To watch his woods fill up with snow.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
To ask if there is some mistake.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0
The only other sound\u2019s the sweep\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0
Of easy wind and downy flake.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
But I have promises to keep,\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0
And miles to go before I sleep,\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0
And miles to go before I sleep.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n