Poetry at the Mending Wall

Part 2 of my video jaunt on Robert Frost’s Farm.

This the actual mending wall on the grounds of Robert Frost’s first farm in Derry, New Hampshire.

Hey there, this is my third(!) attempt to publish this video which I recorded from the grounds of Frost Farm.

Due to the technical difficulties there is a significant gap in time between the last post and this one, which I meant to publish immediately afterward.

If you have not already, please see the video in the last post about the real Hyla Brook for context.

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Before you view the video I wanted to say that the conference I am referring to is the Frost Farm Poetry Conference. It is one of the only poetry conferences that specializes in formal verse (as opposed to free verse). I also misspeak in the video about the number of attendees. There were 40 participants this year—and they were all lovely people and excellent poets. When you have such a small conference it is easy to get to know everyone. I definitely want to come back next year.

And now, here’s part 2:

And leaving this poem here seems apropos…

Mending Wall 
by Robert Frost

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 out-door 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.’

Thank you so much for reading. Let me know if you enjoy this type of update about these types of events and places.

A photo heavy post is coming up soon.