Tag Archives: poetry


Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

In a college course, Poetry 201, I read a quote from Frost saying that everything he ever learned about life was distilled into this poem.

See what you can make of that:


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.


Apollo Takes Charge of His Muses

They sat there, nine women much the same age,
The same poppy-red hair, and similar complexions
Freckling much the same in the summer glare,
The same bright eyes  of green melting to blue
Melting to golden brown, they sat there,
Nine women, all of them very quiet, one,
Perhaps, was looking at her nails, one plaited
Her hair in narrow strands, one stared at a stone,
One let fall a mangled flower from her hands,
All nine of them very quiet, and the one who spoke
Said, softly,

“Of course he was very charming, and he smiled,
Introduced himself and said he’d heard good things,
Shook hands all round, greeted us by name,
Assured us it would all be much the same,
Explained his policies, his few minor suggestions
Which we would please observe. He looked forward
To working with us. Wouldn’t it be fun? Happy
To answer any questions. Any questions? But
None of us spoke or raised her hand, and questions
There were none; what has poetry to do with reason
Or the sun?”




A nice poem from Fred

Sensible Qualities


It took the sea to prove a magnitude agreed on,

And since those who ventured that far disagreed, slashed each

Other’s limbs when lies mismatched and one man’s serpent

Dwarfed another’s, our sphere of argument contracts:

In fields on their hands and knees, growing through

Tall grasses meant to yellow undisturbed, empiricists

Pack beetles into sample bags, counting legs, making notes

In shorthand. Lightning apprehension is the goal.

Prolonged examination changes things, they die and change,

The changed observer dies, death’s meaning changes,

Complexities accumulate for future offspring bred

To sort them out in minutes cleared between the gathering

Of fuel and nourishment. Our legacy. The quality

Of known phenomena dwindles through forgetfulness to one

Unbudging core, what sight obliges us to measure out.


-Fred Muratori