| Robert
McDowell
In
Robert McDowell's poem, as in many a Frost long poem, the longer story
that unfolds is often compressed into a final couplet with an effortless
sleight of hand.
YOUNG RICHARD ON THE ROAD
(for Richard Wilbur)
Our
neighbor fed the wanderer and called
To
see if we had any work to give.
I
met him at the drainage ditch that cut
Between
her place and mine. A rabbit dove
Into
the hedge where the bindlestick stood
Talking
of trains, the barn needing repair.
All
day without a word we labored there
Inside
the ping of tools, the sussh of wood
Until
I stopped. He stopped because I did,
And
side by side we trekked along the fence
Down
to the house, a wash, a meal, then bed.
For
three days we smoothed corners, banged out dents
And
when we finished the barn breathed easier.
Then
Wilbur said that it was time to go
And
turned in early. My sleep was like my water,
Which
stung and came down sudden or too slow,
So
I got out of bed. I warmed the damp
With
tea, a slice of buttered bread, and stepped
Out
to admire the moonlit barn. The lamp
Still
glowed in the back room where Wilbur slept.
I
saw him in his long-johns, wearing specs
And
writing in a book. I thought to say
What
gives? But
checked my curiosity
Before
I broke whatever spell it was
That
kept him there after a brutal day.
I
went back up to bed, and when I woke
He’d
already gone, his room as orderly
As
if he’d never come. A page from his book
Lay
on the table, pinned by a bolt of yarn.
I
found it first and handed it to you
Who
drank your tea and studied it twice through;
A
poem it was, his poem of the barn.
I
keep it in a ledger of accounts
And
have occasion, once or twice a year,
To
take it out and read it to the horses,
To
you, or someone dropping by. No matter
That
the man who wrote it is far from here
Or
near, living or dead. He understood
That
all we are is work if it is good.
Robert
McDowell's "Young Richard on the Road" received an honorable
mention in the 2003 Robert Frost Award.
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