Two Roads

after Robert Frost

I don’t have to wait
for the ages and ages hence.
One will do, it’s been enough.

Though the lights were yellow
I thought were green
when I told you I knew what awaited,

I went, we go, it’s what we do.
We’re not made as sentries stand,
but split the flame in every word,

Take two for every one,
the first in every last,
in every waving hand.

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10 Responses to Two Roads

  1. Kat says:

    That’s wonderful, Mark! 🙂

  2. Kerry O'Connor says:

    We’re not made as sentries stand,
    but split the flame in every word…

    I like that – it is very self-affirming.

  3. thotpurge says:

    Take two for every one,
    the first in every last,
    in every waving hand.
    …intriguing!

  4. Sherry Marr says:

    I especially like the lights one thought were green being yellow…….I so know the feeling in hindsight.

  5. ihatepoetry says:

    Very interesting…I liked the tone of this.

  6. Brendan says:

    Glad to see you again, Mark — I love how you’ve turned the pedestal around in your work, examining the hour from the view of a Frost — this is nicely knit in rhyme and rhythm — the two roads are the split infinitive in our every construction, ever placing But after Yeah, dividing our meanings, divining our digressions. Frost had an opacity to his chugging hurlyburlies and you also keep your intents that obscure here, which means my reading probably only glances the depths you’ve twirled here.

  7. hedgewitch says:

    Time is a fun house mirror, I find, more than the microscope it ought to be. Thanks for the chance to read your words again Mark, and actually a chance to reevaluate the over-published Frost–not a bad poem at all, despite the shallow reading its usually given–in my opinion, yours has an edge it lacks, however. Reaching the point where all the lights are yellow that are not red, but the duality never ceases.

    • You and Brendan totally get it. I’m surprised at how many people read the Frost poem in that shallow and completely inaccurate way. It’s right there–the young narrator is justifying an arbitrary choice, already imagining how, as an old man, he’s going to tell everybody how his choice has “made all the difference”–whatever that is/was. He doesn’t know, he’s too young. it’s actually a rather disconcerting poem, saying that we can’t really know much of anything and we make up our own meaning, splitting every “yes” or “no” into its opposite at every turn.

  8. Marian says:

    So many opportunities to choose.

  9. Life is funny – we charge ahead when we should have paused… the roads often do often lead back to the main road – the detour might just be a bit longer. How fun to play with Frost this way.

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