These past few days I've been working on a paper which examines the great American poet Robert Frost and his popularity. No American poet has ever been so lauded, so acclaimed, so known, and so read. It makes for really interesting material. Frost had serious fears of failure and rejection, making recognition and praise extremely important to him. At times it seems like he found little purpose in anything other than the accolades of others. Whenever his poetry books or lectures receved less than glorious reviews, Frost often spun into periods of depression and illness.

He also created for America the role of the poet as a public figure, something I'm not sure we've seen in quite the same way since Frost. Frost spent the majority of his life, right up until his death at nearly 90 years old, traveling and speaking or doing poetry readings: an activity he called "barding around." People literally came out by the thousands to hear him read and to watch his spontaneous, humor-filled presentations. It seems very strange - imagine a poet getting such public attention today!

Frost often covered his insecurities and low self-esteem with big talk. In letters he would write of himself as "the only artist" or the only poet with "a theory." He claimed on more than one occasion to "not care what people think of my poetry, so long as they award it some prizes." At the same time, other statements - and his own behavior - indicate that the love of the popular reader was extremely important for Frost's own agenda as a poet of the people. He looked with disdain - or nervous competition - on the majority of his contemporary authors, and instead sought the praise of critics and academics, knowing that their good words would bring public success.

I find Frost interesting, because at first glance or skim, it seems his poems would be easy and simplistic. They bear none of the modernist trademarks that Frost loathed in his peers: no obscure words, or curious punctuation, or lack of capitalization, or unstructured verse. In form they are classic and familiar, and even in vocabulary they do not hinder the average reader. But in concept, in poignancy, in "sense of sound," and in complexity, they rival the best poems ever written. This is my favorite Frost poem, so far - although I know it is well known, I think it is very beautiful:


Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.