Impromptu Poetry

Today, a patron came into my cafe and asked me to recite a poem.

It's not as strange as it sounds. Everyone who works in the cafe wears a name tag that says his or her name and "My passion is _______." My passion, naturally, is poetry. So it's pretty common for people to ask me who my favorite poet is, or to ask me if I write poetry.

But this is the first person who's asked me to drop some rhymes on him. I instantly went to Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." I've memorized it slowly and by accident from teaching it a few times and from just loving it so much. It's one of those rare perfect poems, so elegant and breathtaking that it never seems to lose its power.

So as I handed back the customer's credit card, I rattled off "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. . ." The patron seemed surprised! I think that he just wanted to tease me--he's a regular, and an ornery one at that! He expected a blush and a laugh, and he got some melancholy Modernism instead!

Still, poetry isn't that unusual in our bakery. I get poems "stuck" in my head all the time. They'll run through my head, and I'll say them under my breath as I make a sandwich or blend a smoothie. And since my manager likes to sing showtunes and one of the line cooks falsettos his punk rock tunes while pouring bowls of soup, I guess I'm in good artistic company!

But I love those moments when poetry, those beautiful little bits of language, pop for a moment into everyday life. Frost is good for that: a brush of haunting lyricism at the edge of the ordinary.

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

By 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.