Pujit Aggarwal Redivivus - Robert Frost

 


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.

  Frost owes his reputation today to one of his simple metrical poems and to three public dignitaries who accidentally became its publicists because of its memorability and alleged profundity. JF Kennedy, Jawaharlal Nehru, and Dr. Tom Dooley praised this poem in speech and writing for its inspirational quotient.

  Dr. Tom Dooley volunteered his services in Southeast Asia, especially in conflict-riddled Vietnam, as a humanitarian medico. His autobiography is titled ‘Before I Sleep', which he finished just before his premature death from cancer. He was 34.

  Robert Frost was unable to benefit much from formal education on account of his unstable temperament and indigent circumstances. He dropped out of Dartmouth as well as Harvard. He held odd jobs to eke out a shabby-genteel subsistence. His father was a slipshod journalist who drank hard, virtually teetering on the brink of alcoholism.

  Predominantly a traditional poet in form and style, he did stand shoulder to shoulder with his contemporaries like Ezra Pound, Wallace Stevens, and TS Eliot—minus the aura of elitism and snobbery. Dip into his corpus at any stage, and you will find Frost frowning or smiling at you from an agrarian or pastoral landscape. He was a failed poultry farmer but a moderately successful agriculturist.

  By the time he earned some recognition and income from poetry, Frost was nearly 40. The poem under study was published around 1922. It remains the most popular and anthologized poem by Frost. Tipping our hat to Susan Sontag, we shall not dive deep and end up over-interpreting the poem. So here we go, tipping a wink to the wide-awake jury.

  The poet, astride his accustomed horse, halts on his trail, attracted by the mysterious allure of the nearby woods, half covered in snow. Conscious of the privacy with which he could dismount and explore the beauty of the woods without the owner thereof getting any wind of the trespass, he impulsively restrains himself, making due allowance for the tocsin rung by the intuitive horse.

  The woods are irresistible, but he cannot afford the potential misadventure. He has a slew of commitments to honor and traverse a long distance before he crashes on bed after swallowing a liberal dose of sleeping pills. The emphasis on sleep is the key to the crux of open-door felicity.

  It is okay if I hear the poet’s toes curling. The theme of the poem is insomnia coupled with somniphobia. Close your eyes. Can you see Susan Sontag not only laughing up her sleeve but also rocking in her grave?

  There is no lingerie under the radar. The text does not have even a stitch on it.

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