I love Robert Frost.

I transferred schools my junior year of college.

I thought I was going to get a secondary education degree.  Then I changed my mind and took some business classes.  And, well, that didn't suite me, so I changed my again and decided to get an elementary education degree, only to realize that I'd have to stay in school at least an extra year, and Lord knew I didn't have time or energy for one more year of school, so I went for the plain, old, get-it-done-quickly English degree.  And this is the extent of my degree-usage, right here on this blog.  Wow.

Anyway, I dreaded the poetry class that I had to take to get a creative writing minor.  I was certain that it was going to be the worst class ever.  I suck at writing poetry and I don't always like to read it because I think that the meanings are lost on me (unless it's Shel Silverstein, I really get his stuff!) and I wonder why people can't just say that their sad instead of saying that the sky is falling down upon the sparrow's head or something equally deep.


And then I took Introduction to Poetry (or Poetry 101 or Creative Writing: Poetry; whatever it was called.  I still have the syllabus, so I could look it up.  But it's in Minnesota.) and it was as though I was given permission to write quirky poems that have nonsensical meaning.  Poems that make people laugh and not want to stick their heads in gas ovens.  And I learned that it was okay to not get a poem, but still enjoy it for the lyrical way the author's words flowed.


I took an advanced poetry class with that same professor the following year.  I have never missed college as much as when I think about my writing classes and the creative freedom that they allowed in a somewhat structured environment and the constructive criticism that fellow student writers gave, pushing me to be a better writer.

Today, because it's officially January and officially winter and officially cold, and because I officially miss the snow in Minnesota, here is one of my favorite poems.

Happy Monday, friends! 

{Avon, Minnesota | 12.26.10}

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.