I've actually subscribed to the Poetry Foundation's "Poem of the Day" emails for a few years now; not really sure when or why I started, but it's always a nice little surprise each day to see a new poem in my inbox. Today, I chose to read "Not Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Jennifer Michael Hecht. (Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" is also pasted below for reference.)
"Not Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" - Jennifer Hecht
I
Promises to keep was a lie, he had nothing. Through
the woods. Over the river and into the pain. It is an addict's
talk of quitting as she's smacking at a vein. He was always
going into the woods. It was he who wrote, The best way
out is always through. You'd think a shrink, but no, a poet.
He saw the woods and knew. The forest is the one that holds
promises. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, they fill
with a quiet snow. Miles are traveled as we sleep. He steers
his horse off the road. Among the trees now, the blizzard
is a dusting. Holes in the canopy make columns of snowstorm,
lit from above. His little horse thinks it is queer. They go
deeper, sky gets darker. It's the darkest night of the year.
II
He had no promises to keep, nothing pending. Had no bed
to head to, measurably away in miles. He was a freak like me,
monster of the dawn. Whose woods these are I think I know,
his house is in the village though. In the middle of life
he found himself lost in a dark woods. I discovered myself
in a somber forest. In between my breasts and breaths I got
lost. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I've got promises
to keep, smiles to go before I leap. I'm going into the woods.
They're lovely dark, and deep, which is what I want, deep lovely
darkness. No one has asked, let alone taken, a promise of me,
no one will notice if I choose bed or rug, couch or forest deep.
It doesn't matter where I sleep. It doesn't matter where I sleep.
"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" - 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.
Hecht does a very interesting play off of Frost's iconic poem "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening," an almost twisted parody. Interspersed throughout are references to original poem, sometimes actual lines taken right out of Frost's poem; however, rather than the peaceful, introspective tone of the original, Hecht's version is dark, moody, and depressing.
In the first part of the poem, the speaker mentions that he's traveling "over the river and into the pain" and that "it is an addict's talk of quitting as she's smacking at a vein." These dark comments mixed in with seemingly harmless phrases like "the woods are lovely, dark, and deep, filled with snow" seem to contrast the idealistic, storybook version of the forest and the actual reality, the pain that the speaker is going through. It's as if Hecht is poking fun at Frost for his "perfect" depiction of traveling through the woods at night. (Kind of like those Tumblr pages that glorify disorders and illnesses such as depression or anorexia.)
In the second half of the poem, the speaker shifts and goes into more detail about why exactly traveling through the woods causes him so much distress. He mentions that he has no bed to go to, "no one has asked, let alone taken, a promise of [him]," and "no one will notice if [he] chooses bed or rug, couch or forest deep." The speaker has nothing to look forward to and no one to support him, unlike the speaker of the original poem. Again, this contributes to the sense of loneliness and despair throughout the entire poem. Another interesting line that I noticed is, "but I've got promises to keep, smiles to go before I leap." I'm not sure if I'm just overanalyzing this, but "before I leap" almost suggested to me the thought of suicide. The poem ends with the repetition of "It doesn't matter where I sleep. It doesn't matter where I sleep." Parodying the end of "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," the poem ends just as depressingly as it starts: the speaker expressing his sorrow and dejection.
In the first part of the poem, the speaker mentions that he's traveling "over the river and into the pain" and that "it is an addict's talk of quitting as she's smacking at a vein." These dark comments mixed in with seemingly harmless phrases like "the woods are lovely, dark, and deep, filled with snow" seem to contrast the idealistic, storybook version of the forest and the actual reality, the pain that the speaker is going through. It's as if Hecht is poking fun at Frost for his "perfect" depiction of traveling through the woods at night. (Kind of like those Tumblr pages that glorify disorders and illnesses such as depression or anorexia.)
In the second half of the poem, the speaker shifts and goes into more detail about why exactly traveling through the woods causes him so much distress. He mentions that he has no bed to go to, "no one has asked, let alone taken, a promise of [him]," and "no one will notice if [he] chooses bed or rug, couch or forest deep." The speaker has nothing to look forward to and no one to support him, unlike the speaker of the original poem. Again, this contributes to the sense of loneliness and despair throughout the entire poem. Another interesting line that I noticed is, "but I've got promises to keep, smiles to go before I leap." I'm not sure if I'm just overanalyzing this, but "before I leap" almost suggested to me the thought of suicide. The poem ends with the repetition of "It doesn't matter where I sleep. It doesn't matter where I sleep." Parodying the end of "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," the poem ends just as depressingly as it starts: the speaker expressing his sorrow and dejection.