“Business and Marketing Strategist” Susan Baroncini-Moe does a MARVELOUS analysis of Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken”. You know that one. Commercials and people co-opt it as an anthem for mavericks.
The key lines at the end, delivered sanctimoniously: “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I / I took the one less traveled by, / And that has made all the difference.” Dramatic pause.
When delivered this way, it conveys: “See that road more trampled down, the one the boring HERD keeps taking? Fuck that! Imma gonna take this OTHER one. Aren’t I brave? That’s how I roll! Hey, you! Less-trammeled grass! Prepare to get trammeled!”
“Guinness World Record Holder” Susan Baroncini-Moe is, like: “Hold on, jack! You’re annoying! And you’re wrong!”
Now, I haven’t looked at her website past the page on this poem. I don’t want to. I scoffed like a punk snob at her photo and the starry field in the background. (“An motivational speaker analyzing a poem with subtlety? Absurd! Har har!”) But once I read her article, she is my sister. I would follow her anywhere (on this matter). I believe in her and don’t want the spell broken by peering behind the curtain!
Read her analysis. It is concise and amusing. In short, she points out that BOTH paths in the poem are equally worn. The reflection at the end by the narrator, which is the part used over and over in commercials, is an example of selective memory:
The message is far more like, “I took a road. It could’ve been another road. But this is the one I took. One day, I’ll say that it was this choice, in this moment, to take this particular road that made my life better, but in fact, both roads weren’t very different from one another, so my life might’ve been different if I’d taken the other road, but probably would’ve yielded other cool stuff.”
I don’t have any sage analysis to offer. Only an apology to Ms. Baroncini-Moe: Sorry I scoffed. You made the world better and have salvaged an important poem. Thank you.
Poem text and video of Robert Frost reading it below:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I– I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. – See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15717#sthash.zMLFwFbg.dpuf
The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I– I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
9 lines of despair then 5 of exaltation in love and friendship. I enjoy the turn at the end of this very simple poem.
Jumpstarting (and applying a prolonged cardiopulmonary resuscitation to) my writing aspirations the last three (!) years, especially the last two, definitely has me engaged in the typical carping of hopeful artists caught in the throes of enthusiasmos/manqué anxieties. “How can THAT person be successful? Ugh, such mediocrity in the agora!” Yes, my annoying artist side engages in conspicuous use of Greek terms even more often than French.
Sonnet 29 by William Shakespeare
When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d, Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate, For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
“Desiring this man’s art” I take as a mix of envying another’s accomplishment and salesmanship (or saleswomanship), not so much the substance of the work. And those who find creating art a refuge relate to often being unsettled and grouchy about it: “what I most enjoy contented least”.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. PopoZão. PopoZão.The objects of the Sonnets shift between a Dark Lady to a handsome young man. Shakespeare’s sonnets to the young man reach greater heights. While there is a romantic reverie at the end here, this poem sums up much about how I feel about friends I have known and those in the present. I am fortunate in friends, and while envy of celebrities and other artists kicks in frequently, in times of even light reflection the burdens of fame and the coteries that form around it look annoying as hell. Glad for my friends and the people I love. I’m content to keep them instead of being like, say, Kevin Federline digging on his own song “PopoZão”. Federline surely had “friends” telling him this song was great. Ye gods, this moment from 2006 is golden:
Louise Bogan wrote “Women” at the age of 24. Later in life she said at a reading (listen here) “my feelings concerning the sex have improved a great deal over the years.” There is a young bite to this that is not fair to all +3 billion women, but I like the admonition to all of us, a defiant sign driven deep into the ground by our younger selves. And in many ways we were right to do so.
Women
By Louise Bogan
Women have no wilderness in them,
They are provident instead,
Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts
To eat dusty bread.
They do not see cattle cropping red winter grass,
They do not hear
Snow water going down under culverts
Shallow and clear.
They wait, when they should turn to journeys,
They stiffen, when they should bend.
They use against themselves that benevolence
To which no man is friend.
They cannot think of so many crops to a field
Or of clean wood cleft by an axe.
Their love is an eager meaninglessness
Too tense, or too lax.
They hear in every whisper that speaks to them
A shout and a cry.
As like as not, when they take life over their door-sills
“Lost in Love” is a fucking bonkers song, and either Air Supply deserves more street cred or should be constantly monitored by police.
Air Supply was the soundtrack for a puppy love phase the summer 1981. Me, a 12 year-old townie in Eugene going into 7th grade. Her: a sophisticated older lady, age 14, from another town and headed to high school. I told her I was 13. Hey, age ain’t nothin’ but a number. Am I right, “I’m a 27 year old man who married my 15 year old girlfriend Aliyaah to avoid getting jailed” R. Kelly?
Any-hoo, summer camp ended and we went to separate towns and … those Air Supply songs? On the radio? They felt the way WE did. The world didn’t understand, but Air Supply was there!
One dude was named Graham Russell. The other was named Russell Graham. I think. There may be a handy resource for looking up such details but damned if I’m leaving this laptop to go to a library.
Jump about 17-18 years later, I’m joking with my friend Paul about Air Supply. He does the BEST (okay, only) impression I’ve seen of the lead singer’s manner of holding a corded microphone and gently shifting his weight back and forth. We start running over songs and realize every Air Supply song we can think of is an apology. Hilarious! Wimps! (Them, not us.) The topic gets left alone. I still avoid listening to Air Supply, as it fills me with puppy love shame. Certainly my summer girlfriend got a significant upgrade over me in the course of her life. Yet, there were eternal promises made that I’ve fallen short of.
Jump forward to now. Looking at a karaoke experience coming up, a friend wants to duet on an Air Supply song. Sure. Confront the fear, can only make me stronger. A few days I listened to “Lost in Love”. Of course I still knew the words, but I hadn’t contemplated them for a while. They are weird and terrifying. Let’s take a look! (After the video)
I realized the best part of love is the thinnest slice, And it don’t count for much. But I’m not letting go, I believe there’s still much to believe in.
What is “the thinnest slice”? Is love best when it’s portioned out by a miser? Tough for anyone, who has watched a movie or tv show about killers who imprison a person they fetishize, to NOT grow alarmed by these initial words. Still, let’s assume positive intent and that he wants to believe in this love bond in defiance of some undefined oppositional force.
So lift your eyes if you feel you can. Reach for a star and I’ll show you a plan. I figured it out, What I needed was someone to show me.
Why would the love object have difficulty raising her/his eyes? Sadness? Hogtied and laying on the floor? Let’s go with sadness. Positive intent. He’s addressing the love object, and boasts about having figured something out concerning reaching toward stars and getting a plan. Presumably, it wasn’t the love object who showed him, as she/he cannot even look skyward.
You know you can’t fool me, I’ve been loving you too long. It started so easy. You want to carry on. (Carry on)
Palpable menace here. Goodwill over positive intent diminishing. Our fingers start moving toward the phone to call for help. Imagine the two lines being reversed: “I’ve been loving you too long. You KNOW YOU CAN’T FOOL ME!” So, the love object may have tried to fool him, he protests here that’s not gonna happen. Things started simply, and the love object wants to carry on. To persist in love? To cry out for help? Damned vague. (Now I’m) lost in love and I don’t know much. Was I thinking aloud and fell out of touch? But I’m back on my feet, And eager to be what you wanted.
Now the dynamic has changed. He was the man with the star and a plan. Now he’s obsequious. He has stumbled or been off-balance and now regained his footing. The disorientation is possibly related to having shared his thoughts aloud. Was there something wrong about the thoughts? He seems to speculate there is. Now he’s changed for the love object, can’t she/he see that? Does she/he not approve?
Air Supply. Run. As fast as you can.Lyrics repeat several times, including a musical bridge with outer space noises. Then reaches the climax where a yielding to the moment has far exceeded a craven thankfulness for a thin “slice” of love. Now the narrator is engorged, intoxicated, and in a revelry over his now abundant portion of love. Now I’m lost, lost in love. Lost in love, lost in love. Now I’m lost, I’m lost in love. Lost in love, lost in love.
But as any creature with an appetite learns, satisfaction is a temporary state. The cravings return and one must consume again. To move from a niggardly “slice” of love to an outright banquet. The song is a warning.
A poem displayed at the Native American Heard Museum in Phoenix, Arizona.
Native American history is a rich topic, but I struggle with it. Ancient history I’m all over. Native American history is too present with signs of the crimes and dishonor done to various native tribes in the U.S. all around.
And through the thick veil of generations of crimes, I have trouble imagining vast tribes of humans living peacefully in the pastoral way associated with the time preceding the intrusion of Europeans.
This museum was excellent, and a special exhibit on the history of Indian boarding schools was fascinating, wrenching, and provocative. And the restaurant was good. Food in the belly first, THEN I can ponder and absorb.
Don’t Touch by Cecelia Nuñez in When it Rains
“Leave the horned toad alone!” My grandmother said. Does she tink I want to touch him? Red eyes, long tongue, rough skin, Horned toad, leave me alone.
“Daddy” is often taken as a feminist anthem (at least in the 80s and 90s). I take it as more complex, slyer, and funnier.
Decades ago I read the poem as a litany of victimization and thought Nazi references were over the top (though it was written in 1962 and closer to WWII as a common frame of reference). I have an MP3 of Plath reading her poem, and her voice and ideas and phrasing stick much more than other author readings on the iPod. Once I wished the Nazi references had been taken out, now I think they are essential to its power. The daring and exaggeration comparing herself (and society, then back to herself) to war atrocities are part of the very audacity that makes it memorable and strong. The poem is not victim politics, it’s humor deployed to put massive, dark forces into a box and master them.
Daddy by Sylvia Plath
You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time– Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene
An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You–
Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I’m finally through. The black telephone’s off at the root, The voices just can’t worm through.
If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two– The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now.
There’s a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
12 October 1962
– See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15291#sthash.deiLhS2L.dpuf
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
12 October 1962
– See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15291#sthash.deiLhS2L.dpuf
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
12 October 1962
– See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15291#sthash.deiLhS2L.dpuf
April is National Poetry Month. I’m going to try to post something poetry-related every other day. A charming performance by Seamus Heaney of his poem “Oysters”. Hope it gives quickening and tang.
“Oysters” by Seamus Heaney
Our shells clacked on the plates. My tongue was a filling estuary, My palate hung with starlight: As I tasted the salty Pleiades Orion dipped his foot into the water.
Alive and violated They lay on their beds of ice: Bivalves: the split bulb And philandering sigh of ocean. Millions of them ripped and shucked and scattered.
We had driven to the coast Through flowers and limestone And there we were, toasting friendship, Laying down a perfect memory In the cool thatch and crockery.
Over the Alps, packed deep in hay and snow, The Romans hauled their oysters south to Rome: I saw damp panniers disgorge The frond-lipped, brine-stung Glut of privilege
And was angry that my trust could not repose In the clear light, like poetry or freedom Leaning in from the sea. I ate the day Deliberately, that its tang Might quicken me all into verb, pure verb.
For months your book of poems sat atop all the other books on my nightstand. I would read a poem, or two, or three And re-read them once, or twice. And dream of you and me. We would sit. You had no Minerva wisdom, Manifesting a shimmering catalog model now leading a life of thought.
We would talk. And act. And each morning I would wake And approve and wonder why you had visited.
As I have now come to the end of your work, the book set down To be shelved soon, I realized why you never had advice. You were not a sage. You set the pen down and let the car run And exhale its happily fine particled gas and smoke to fill Your lungs more gently than the acrid burn of cigarette ash. Little more warm smog than on a busy intersection and not moving. The hum of activity making your garage both busy and alone. You thought of your beautiful friend’s undercalculated death. Cassandra’s last cry not meant as a final cry. But she famously made a man’s cheek trickle blood. You thought of her and wanted to go. Ten years on, the world drawn small And unyielding and nothing shown for enduring it. You knew you’d be a nuisance for those who found you. But you wanted to go.
I close your book and my heart aches, but the world grows. What we shared is the sigh of smarts to drown out our wants. We heaved measured words and smiled and threw darts From our desk chairs or living rooms with our feet up on ottomans And won. We pinned down for a time the things that We saw approach. A victory of sight and talking over the whispering loam that sustains our homes Until the brittle frames snap or rot from tremors or time or newer houses And the earth that oozed us up sops us back in.
Your mind and wants and moans are on paper on my nightstand. A cat has knocked that book to the floor many times. You would have laughed each time. That same cat now lays and warms my back as I write this, My stomach on my bed, In my bedroom over the garage. As I shift its front claws stick to the back of my shirt.
With a need for something I slide the drawer open. Metal and plastic and metal tools clatter. How many years since I used some of these?
When children inherit cluttered drawers do they scavenge and consider “What is this?” “A melon baller.” their sibling or spouse or partner will answer. And that will be it. Tossed back with a clatter.
Will they recall that I hated canteloupe? Will the melon baller find its way to their home? Will they neglect it as I did? Will they manufacture a false memory of me scooping melon shavings into juicy cold globes? Will they donate it? “Why did our parents have three pair of scissors in this drawer?”
So, yes, posting about Anne Sexton again. Saw this on Facebook and was amused by Anne Sexton’s reverie on camera about music:
Where are the t.v. shows capturing artist rapt in enthusiasmos instead of stars stumbling in and out of buildings and cars?
While typing up purple prose from my hand-written manuscript (Dirty parts, yay! Also: yikes and ugh!) I came across this quote from Anne Sexton I jotted down from a podcast in June 2012 (where I was in my manuscript). The quote is over-the-top. Most anyone can think of good poetry that isn’t extruded from the writer’s marrow. But then I saw this photo and laughed and decided to put it all together. Don’t know what the deal is with the dress, but fair guess it was funny. Check the cigarette cherry!
“Business and Marketing Strategist” Susan Baroncini-Moe does a MARVELOUS analysis of Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken”. You know that one. Commercials and people co-opt it as an anthem for mavericks.
Now, I haven’t looked at her website past the page on this poem. I don’t want to. I scoffed like a punk snob at her photo and the starry field in the background. (“An motivational speaker analyzing a poem with subtlety? Absurd! Har har!”) But once I read her article, she is my sister. I would follow her anywhere (on this matter). I believe in her and don’t want the spell broken by peering behind the curtain!
