Every so often, I’ll take a break from my novel-reading, and I’ll read some poetry. I personally have a rather meager stash; some of Tennyson, a book of Frost, and all of Shakespeare, but really not much else. Recently, Frost has been chilling (quite literally, as it’s gotten pretty cold out) in my car. I refuse to go anywhere without a book, and so he’s been my emergency book for the past few weeks.
A couple of weekends ago, I got the chance to hangout at a coffee shop and took it, giving me some good time to read Frost’s work, and ever since then, I haven’t been able to get his poetry off my mind.
I always enjoy Robert Frost, although he isn’t exactly my favorite poet. However, one of his poems, “Good Hours,” really just seems to depict my life this winter.
I had for my winter evening walk—
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.
And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.
I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.
Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o’clock of a winter eve.
I spend a good deal of time alone. Partially by choice, partially by chance, hours and hours of my days are spent in solitude. On Saturday, I decided to take an arbitrary-solo-Christmas-light-seeing-adventure through the historic, super fancy part of Oklahoma City, and as I drove, I felt quite like Frost (or Frost’s character, be it as it may), in the poem. I was just an observer in people’s lives and homes, wandering through town in the dark of night (granted, I was in my safe, heated, minivan, but that is moderately irrelevant). And as I drove, although I enjoyed myself, I began to notice how alone I really was, despite the many (strange) houses and streets that I passed.
There are many points in my life in which I have felt that my observations are intrusive, and I regret my solitary curiosity.
But next winter’s eve, chances are, I will once again be found, the only soul left awake in a slumbering house, the only headlights in a dark street, and the only eyes left to see what happens when the people stop watching.
So here’s to winter, and nights worth remembering.
Until next time,