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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538792" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On The Porch At The Frost Place, Franconia, N. H.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">So here the great man stood,<br>fermenting malice and poems<br>we have to be nearly as fierce<br>against ourselves as he<br>not to misread by their disguises.<br>Blue in dawn haze, the tamarack<br>across the road is new since Frost<br>and thirty feet tall already.<br>No doubt he liked to scorch off<br>morning fog by simply staring through it<br>long enough so that what he saw<br>grew visible. &quot;Watching the dragon<br>come out of the Notch,&quot; his children<br>used to call it. And no wonder<br>he chose a climate whose winter<br>and house whose isolation could be<br>stern enough to his wrath and pity<br>as to make them seem survival skills<br>he'd learned on the job, farming<br>fifty acres of pasture and woods.<br>For cash crops he had sweat and doubt<br>and moralizing rage, those staples<br>of the barter system. And these swift<br>and aching summers, like the blackberries<br>I've been poaching down the road<br>from the house where no one's home --<br>acid at first and each little globe<br>of the berry too taut and distinct<br>from the others, then they swell to hold<br>the riot of their juices and briefly<br>the fat berries are perfected to my taste,<br>and then they begin to leak and blob<br>and under their crescendo of sugar<br>I can taste how they make it through winter. . . .<br>By the time I'm back from a last,<br>six-berry raid, it's almost dusk,<br>and more and more mosquitos<br>will race around my ear their tiny engines,<br>the speedboats of the insect world.<br>I won't be longer on the porch<br>than it takes to look out once<br>and see what I've taught myself<br>in two months here to discern:<br>night restoring its opacities,<br>though for an instant as intense<br>and evanescent as waking from a dream<br>of eating blackberries and almost<br>being able to remember it, I think<br>I see the parts -- haze, dusk, light<br>broken into grains, fatigue,<br>the mineral dark of the White Mountains,<br>the wavering shadows steadying themselves --<br>separate, then joined, then seamless:<br>the way, in fact, Frost's great poems,<br>like all great poems, conceal<br>what they merely know, to be<br>predicaments. However long<br>it took to watch what I thought<br>I saw, it was dark when I was done,<br>everywhere and on the porch,<br>and since nothing stopped<br>my sight, I let it go.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Anonymous submission.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Matthews">William Matthews</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538792" data-title="On The Porch At The Frost Place, Franconia, N. H. de William Matthews" data-description="So here the great man stood,
fermenting malice and poems
we have to be nearly as fierce
against ourselves as he
not to misread by their disguises.
Blue in dawn haze, the tamarack
across the road is new since Frost
and thirty feet tall already.
No ..."></div>
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