Sunday, July 18, 2010
Some pieces blur the lines between poetry and drama or prose. Robert Frost's "Birches" has the feel of a monologue, especially as he seems to switch his train of thought at moments: "But I was going to say when Truth broke in with all her matter of fact..".
As I read the poem, I wondered if the speaker might be a young Frost, and if so what age. The line about Truth breaking in gave me a sense of someone very young, whereas "So I was I too a swinger of birches" called to mind someone older -- at least a little bit. (Don't the still young have a way of looking at their younger selves as if looking down from a tree?)