MCP: Frost and Sandburg

This semester, my routine work in Modern and Contemporary Poetry consists of written responses to assigned readings. I am expected to turn in evidence of interaction with the texts, presenting at least three responsive ideas with every report. These responses may take a variety of forms. I decided yesterday that it would be interesting to try blogging them.

First, I completed the reading assignment:

Robert Frost:
"Mending Wall"
"Acquainted with the Night"
"Two Tramps in Mud Time"
"Design"
"Never Again Would Birds' Song Be the Same"

Carl Sandburg:
"Chicago"
"The Harbor"
"Subway"
"Cool Tombs"
"Grass"
"Gargoyle"

Here are my reflections:

In "The Need of Being Versed in Country Things," Frost describes the burnt shell of a country house. The wreck is now home to the birds of the forest, who see nothing sad in the remains of human civilization. Despite the irrelevance of human sorrow to these creatures, Frost writes, "one had to be versed in country things not to believe the phoebes wept." These words seem to express a human desire to be significant. We would like to attribute a general design and connectedness to the events of life. Whether Frost belittles this desire or joins in it is not entirely clear to me. Should we resist being "versed in country things"--holding out hope that the phoebes do weep for us? Should we resign ourselves to the impermanence of life? Should we simply appreciate the bittersweetness of a world resilient enough not to care much about us?

'Two Tramps in Mud Time," also the work of Frost, presents another scene from country life. In this poem, the narrator describes the approach of two strangers "out of the mud" as he splits wood in his own yard. These "hulking tramps," it seems, come from the lumber camps; they want to be hired to do the work the narrator is doing for himself. Such work is rightfully theirs, they think, but the narrator loves doing it himself. "My object in living," he explains, "is to unite my avocation and my vocation as my two eyes make one in sight." In the poem, beautiful descriptions of the narrator's natural setting associate his work with peacefulness, but the approach of the strangers seems dark and disturbing somehow. There seems to be something wrong--something dirty and mechanical--about work performed only for the sake of gain.

Carl Sandburg's "Grass" is the work I found the most striking. It is very terse and harsh. In the poem, the grass speaks: "Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo . . . at Gettysburg . . . at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work." The publication date, 1918, is of obvious significance to the rhetorical force of the work. Less clear is what reaction the author would prefer the audience to have. Should time's effectiveness in healing the world's wounds be a source of comfort? Should the ease of forgetting the wartime dead be a source of remorse? Does the poem present restrained, sardonic rage? I would like to think that this last suggestion is the best. The image of humanity being shoveled by the ton into the ground, where the guilt of war can be conveniently hidden, provokes a harsh response. For me, this poem is a source of wrath, not nostalgia.

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