Poetry to stumble over

Robert Frost

Mending Wall

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!‘
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.‘
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’* I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.‘

*Hervorhebung von mir.

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Nacht

Gekleidet in ein Ehrfurcht gebietendes Gewand aus Sternen und Dunkelheit
schreitet Nyx durch die Gischt.

Sie weiß, was es bedeutet, sich mit der Dunkelheit zu betten. Sie kennt alle Monster beim Namen, die die Nacht gebiert.

Sie weiß, dass aus Nacht und Finsternis der Tag hervorgeht.

Und doch fürchtet sie, was sie nicht kennt.

Sie weiß in ihrem eigenen Herzen wohnt ein Schweigen, hinter dem sich das Grauen versteckt.

Was ist es, das da schweigt?  

Wie soll sie, Mutter der Schatten, selbst ein Licht darauf werfen?

Paranoid Trees

We are paranoid.
We live and we breath. We dare and we hurt. We grow and we learn.
We never break. Winds of change erode us, bend us, straighten us (just as they please),
sticks and stones collide: We don’t break. What doesn’t kill us doesn’t make
us harder.We sway and we bruise; we crash to the ground,
just to grow back
stronger
than ever
before. When
we stand tall again,
we are warily eyeing what tries to land in our
crowns and tries to nest in our foliage – we know it won’t bring us down.
We learned to trust in our strength we learned to rely on our roots – we just are paranoid trees.