Walking to a Beat

Mr. Frost is the kind of poet whose individual lines will sometimes invade my thoughts. Sometimes I'll have the pleasure of remembering these lines wrongly, and discover that his actual words were even more delightful than I had supposed. One such line is that in a poem call 'Choose something like a Star' in which case the line about the star saying merely "I ----." But I always had trouble remembering just what that word was. I do remembering being awed at the simplicity, yet absolution of the statement.

My dear friend Mr. M and I are the kinds of folks who do not do things like go to dances on Halloween. My school assumes that most people are though, and indeed, most are. As such, on Halloween, we had the pleasure of a rather quiet campus to walk about, while everyone else was smashing their bodies against one another in a noisy gymnasium (don't ask me why this phenomenon is popular). Anyhow, October 31st found us sitting on a bench looking up at what would be stars in a sky filled with light pollution. Mr. M finally settled on the moon, who was teasing the idea of being full that night. I, on the other hand, found that the cold of the night was disturbing my moon-gazing abilities. I decided bodyheat was my best bet, and rested my head on his chest.

"I can hear your heart" I realized.

"Oh?" Mr. M said, looking down at last from our other lady friend.

Remembering Mr. Frost, I added, "Yes, it says: 'I beat.'"

The beat of a heart is a wonderful thing. Without a heart that beats, we do not live. The beat of a heart separates life from not life. The beat of a heart is perhaps the significant sound in the world, if you consider it a representation of life.

Before I get ahead of myself, I'm going to go ahead and include that poem by Mr. Frost, so that you may fully appreciate how shamelessly I steal from it later on. Here you are:


'Choose Something Like A Star'

O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud --
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.

Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says "I burn."
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.

It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.


Mr. Frost, no doubt, has a point, and one worth making. In a world a chaos that is ever changing, was comfort must lie in something so constant, something that says only "I burn" (Oh! there's the Word!). Mr. Frost had a point, but I'd like to think that I did also, when I translated Mr. M's heart for him.

I only somewhat knew it at the time, but this meant, of course, I'd have to write a poem defending my theory. To give credit where credit is due, I must admit that Mr. Frost is not the only one who inspired this work. Obviously Mr. M's cardiac organ was not either. I could be convinced to concede that my percussionist, floral friend, Magnolia also had some part, in our conversations, with her arguing the beauty of the mortal, and me the glory of the divine, and her percussion in general. Also, I stole some writing techniques from Mr. Keats (though less shamelessly than I did from poor Mr. Frost).


'Something Like A Man'

I'd call the muse of percussion, if she
Would stay her music but to hear my sounds.
For she whose constant rhythm tides the sea
Is echoed any place where life is found.

In past, I placed my hope in something like a star,
Perceiving only beauty with no end,
Forever burning, and forever far,
Too warm to be strange, too distant t'be friend.

Now I'd put hope in something like a man
Accustomed to death and imperfection.
For man is not mortal if he understands
His tune as both pulse and resurrection.

For though a single stroke could spark defeat,
I asked the heart to speak, it said "I beat."