Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Of Poetry reads Robert Frost's "Stopping by Wood on a Snowy Evening".
We find ourselves, as Heidegger might suggest, thrown into an existence that's nothing less than spectacular: there are the trees, the vaulted blue sky, florescent green grass after it rains- an inexhaustible amount of beautiful things. Indeed, the very idea that one is alive- existing- is marvelous in itself. In short, we're surrounded by an incredible, incredible amount of beauty.
We are?

Bob Frost may have been since he inherited a fat farm from his rich yankee daddy, and then became a hallmark classic--

Frost's work (while perhaps superior to the current beatnik-nostalgia noize) does't seem nearly as sublime.. or Heideggerian.. as, say, Rilke's...authentic poesy concerning angst and alienation, Time, ancient streets-- enough to have darwin-bot or Rortyian hack (like this piece of dreck) reaching for his cliffnotes to the talmud
Bob Frost isn't Wallace Stevens, but he does resonate more easily with the young ones. I liked this post at the duckrabbit blog on how to deal with larger natural numbers.
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