It’s not a new concept, but I haven’t been required to memorize since “Friends, Romans, countrymen...” or “Whose woods these are...” Ninth grade, maybe.
For one class, memorization is required. Not surprisingly, it’s a poetry lecture, and it’s taught by the delightful Alice Quinn, head of The Poetry Society of America. One hundred lines before the end of the semester! Fortunately, I can perform these—sans crib sheets—in her office without twenty sets of eyes on me. It won’t be easy, although it may be good for my mental health, a la the crossword puzzle or Sudoku.
I’m coming around to enjoying contemporary poets through Alice’s class. This week, Michael Dickman spoke with us. And The Writer's Almanac sends a poem to my BlackBerry every morning. Today's happens to be Wordsworth’s “Lines Written in Early Spring”, but the daily offering is usually a much more recent composition. Still, I may have to dedicate at least fifty of those memorized lines to Frost’s work or someone equally familiar and traditional, if only because the rhymes and rhythms, absent from much of the modern poetry I’ve read, will help me through.
Which reminds me that thirty years ago, give or take, my college roommate calligraphed a poem I love but don’t see in most Frost collections. As I am behind on my reading for a lecture this afternoon on Grace Paley, I'll cut this short and leave you with that poem, which hangs in my office. Thank you, Patti!
A Time To Talk
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.
— Robert Frost
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