Happy deathday, Mr. Frost (h/t to IC)
A nod to Kierkegaard and Walker Percy: existentialist tomfoolery, political satire, literary homage, word mongering, a year-round summer reading club, Dylanesque music bits, apocalyptic marianism, poetry, fiction, meta-porn, a prisoner work-release program.
Søren Kierkegaard
Walker Percy
Bob Dylan
Literature & History
Letters from an American
Beau of the Fifth Column
This American Life
The Writer’s Almanac
San Diego Reader
The Stranger
The Inlander
Adoremus
Charlotte was Both
The Onion
From Empty Hands
Ellen Finnigan
America
Commonweal
First Things
National Review
The New Republic
All Manner of Thing
Gerasene Writers Conference
Scrutinies
DarwinCatholic
Catholic and Enjoying It
Bad Catholic
Universalis
Is My Phylactery Showing?
Quotidian Quintilian
En pocas palabras
William Wilson, Guitarist Extraordinaire
Signposts in a Strange Land
Ben Hatke
Daniel Mitsui
Dappled Things
The Fine Delight
Gene Luen Yang
Wiseblood Books
© Copyright 2020 Korrektiv Press. · All Rights Reserved · Admin
Nicely executed, Mr Potter. 😉
I.C., yes, Potter does a great job. But, keep in mind that he is a long time user of deer antler spray. Some might think that gives him an unfair advantage.
One non-scholer’s opinion is that Frost is the greatest. An onion the be peeled and enjoyed at every layer.
Thanks Jonathan.
An onion that makes one weep — with joy!
Yes, Frost is one of the greats.
As some wag posted on Facebook:
Robert Frost is dead
And angels fear to tread
Into the frenzied fray about
Whether he was or was not devout
But Kollektivists rush in
Cuz being foolish ain’t a sin.
I have seen evening fall on morning frost.
I’ve watched black woods fill up with moonlit snow.
I have looked down two roads from where they crossed;
I know that one of them, I’ll never know.
I have worked side by side with wordless men,
And thought ‘Good-bye’ when it was time to go.
I have thought homeward thoughts, once and again,
But winter was the wind against my back
When summer drove me west and drew me in
Until I reached the utmost end of track
On beaches gray as asphalt and exhaust;
And further west, the churning, chilly black
Said summer was not found and was not lost.
I have seen evening fall on morning frost.
Well,now.