Posts
Sleep swept me along in currents of rich, quiet darkness as I drifted along ink seas under starless skies.
A thin, reedy voice spoke to my right. Gypsy yowled her "Not another friggin' ghost" yowl.
"All literature begins with geography."
I pried lead-heavy eyelids reluctantly open. Gypsy shoved her tiny head under my pillow, grumbling low. Robert Frost smiled at her from his ghost chair by my bed.
He gazed off into the darkness and murmured one of the last lines he ever wrote while alive :
"Unless I'm wrong
I but obey
The urge of a song
I'm—bound—away!
And I may return
If dissatisfied
With what I learn
From having died."
He turned his eyes back to me. "As it turned out, I was quite satisfied with what I learned. But Elinor has chased me out of our celestial farm tonight."
He rubbed his chin ruefully. "She says I always get insufferable on this day."
Gypsy pulled her head out from under the pillow and yowled. Robert Frost shook his head and answered my cat.
"Upon this day in 1963 I learned that my "In the Clearing" collection had won the Bollingen Prize for best book of American verse, 1962. It oddly pleased me to no end for some reason."
I tried to blink some clarity to the fog of my awakening mind. "Ah, Mr. Frost ...."
"Rob, please."
"Uh, Rob, do you really think all literature begins with geography?"
He laughed. "Starting with absolute pronouncements is an old teaching trick, Roland. You were a teacher as was I. You know that. It is human nature to rail against them, to kick holes in them, thus thinking through your own beliefs in the meantime."
He pursed his lips like a troubled librarian for a moment. "But geography certainly shaped my own poetry. You could call these places "Frost Country":
San Francisco, Lawrence, Derry, England, Franconia, Shaftsbury, Ripton and Bennington. These are the literary time capsules of my beliefs and will enrich your enjoyment of my poetry."
Gypsy angrily muttered under her feline breath, and Robert Frost chuckled, "No that is not the reason I disturbed your sleep, cat."
He patted his knees. "I wanted to tell you, Roland, to persevere. You, and all your blog friends, have more talent than you believe, and this new year will bring fresh harvests."
He rose slowly, smiling ruefully. "By working faithfully eight hours a day you may eventually get to be boss and work twelve hours a day."
He started to fade like a dream upon awakening. "No great wisdom from beyond I'm afraid. In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on."
He tapped my shoulder with all-but-invisible hand. "Forgive me my nonsense, as I also forgive the nonsense of those that think they talk sense."
The last thing I saw was his faint smile. "Now, back home to Elinor. Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."
And he was gone.
So? Do you have any tricks you use when you want to make your readers think? And do you think Rob was right? Does all literature begin with geography? Do the important places in your life affect how and what you write?
***
A thin, reedy voice spoke to my right. Gypsy yowled her "Not another friggin' ghost" yowl.
"All literature begins with geography."
I pried lead-heavy eyelids reluctantly open. Gypsy shoved her tiny head under my pillow, grumbling low. Robert Frost smiled at her from his ghost chair by my bed.
He gazed off into the darkness and murmured one of the last lines he ever wrote while alive :
"Unless I'm wrong
I but obey
The urge of a song
I'm—bound—away!
And I may return
If dissatisfied
With what I learn
From having died."
He turned his eyes back to me. "As it turned out, I was quite satisfied with what I learned. But Elinor has chased me out of our celestial farm tonight."
He rubbed his chin ruefully. "She says I always get insufferable on this day."
Gypsy pulled her head out from under the pillow and yowled. Robert Frost shook his head and answered my cat.
"Upon this day in 1963 I learned that my "In the Clearing" collection had won the Bollingen Prize for best book of American verse, 1962. It oddly pleased me to no end for some reason."
I tried to blink some clarity to the fog of my awakening mind. "Ah, Mr. Frost ...."
"Rob, please."
"Uh, Rob, do you really think all literature begins with geography?"
He laughed. "Starting with absolute pronouncements is an old teaching trick, Roland. You were a teacher as was I. You know that. It is human nature to rail against them, to kick holes in them, thus thinking through your own beliefs in the meantime."
He pursed his lips like a troubled librarian for a moment. "But geography certainly shaped my own poetry. You could call these places "Frost Country":
San Francisco, Lawrence, Derry, England, Franconia, Shaftsbury, Ripton and Bennington. These are the literary time capsules of my beliefs and will enrich your enjoyment of my poetry."
Gypsy angrily muttered under her feline breath, and Robert Frost chuckled, "No that is not the reason I disturbed your sleep, cat."
He patted his knees. "I wanted to tell you, Roland, to persevere. You, and all your blog friends, have more talent than you believe, and this new year will bring fresh harvests."
He rose slowly, smiling ruefully. "By working faithfully eight hours a day you may eventually get to be boss and work twelve hours a day."
He started to fade like a dream upon awakening. "No great wisdom from beyond I'm afraid. In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on."
He tapped my shoulder with all-but-invisible hand. "Forgive me my nonsense, as I also forgive the nonsense of those that think they talk sense."
The last thing I saw was his faint smile. "Now, back home to Elinor. Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."
And he was gone.
So? Do you have any tricks you use when you want to make your readers think? And do you think Rob was right? Does all literature begin with geography? Do the important places in your life affect how and what you write?
***
