Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Fat and White, On a White Heal-All, Holding Up a Moth

Three facts: first, Spock was born 81 years ago today, admit it, when you saw Fleabus in her Halloween evil-Spock costume you thought Spock. Second, Robert Frost was born 139 years ago today. Third, while true I greatly prefer Frost's short poems to his long poems, and while I may have chosen these two anyway, motherfucking blooger no longer accepts ceepees from the two primary resources I use to find these poems - or to be more precise, blooger will not accept ceepees from the two primary resources I use to find these poems on my laptop but will accept ceepees from the two primary resources I use to find these poems on my work desktop but only in Firefox, not in Chrome, motherfucking blooger - I had no choice, it was these two Frost poems, I don't love his long poems enough to type them out, and I've no intention of touching my work computer again until next Monday. Fourth, fuck blooger, I've no idea where that script overlaying the second poem comes from, I don't see it in the html code, I did no ceepeeing on this post, what the fuck, it must be...


Robert Frost

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right.
Like the ingredients of a witch's broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like paper kite.

What had the flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
The steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.


Robert Frost

She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And in its supporting central pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe nought to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To everything on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.