Buzz Saws and Robert Frost

When I was younger I somehow knew that Robert Frost was an important American poet, that he wrote a poem about two paths diverging in the road, and that the speaker of that poem chose the path less traveled by and that that had made all the difference. Like most Americans, I liked this notion of marching to the beat of my own drummer, of striking out on my own, of being different. And, as years went on, I would hear this Frost poem every once in a while on the radio, or in a lecture, or cited in conversation and so as far as I was concerned, this one poem was what made Robert Frost this great American poet. But, as often happens with me, eventually I grew curious. To satisfy this curiosity, I decided to read Frost’s collected poems and essays. I discovered an amazing body

of dark, disturbing, and resonating verse and prose that, as Kafka says, was an ice-axe that broke the seas frozen inside my soul. 

I mention all this because today I woke up with Frost’s poem “Out, Out” on my mind. Here’s the poem and some of my thoughts inserted. If you have never seen the poem before, read it first skipping over my insertions.

Out, Out 

Robert Frost 

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
 

Frost is great at establishing a grounded location for his poems. I always think of the old TV show the Waltons as I imagine this backyard lumber mill in the woods of Vermont. Everything seems so peaceful, pure, and innocent. A natural setting and good honest work prevail. 

And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done. 

So cool. Nothing happened. It is just the end of another day. Sure the saw rattling and snarling is a bit ominous and harsh, but it is surrounded by such serenity that it does not seem threatening at all. This is Frost. Let’s 

disguise the raw horror of existence behind a serene curtain. Let’s forget about the agony of life for a while and just live in the false safety of the world. 

Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.

Oh do I remember how I loathed chores as a kid. That free half-hour was so precious. I had nothing to do of course, but give me my free half hour!

His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them "Supper." At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling.

So Frost surprises us. Sure he sort of set us up for this, but still, the boy severely cuts his hand! What?! Life strikes a blow. This is the dark and disturbing stuff that I did not know Frost, the gentle nature poet, wrote about. 

Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man's work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. "Don't let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!" 

Oh how we plead for a do-over. Of course we cannot have it, but yet we plead. I love the line “Since he was old enough to know, big boy.” It reminds me of those adolescent years when I was both old enough and not old enough at the same time. When I was a cool and tough dude with my buds, but a wimpy kid who sought nurturing at home.

So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.

He dies! Really?! Weren’t we just hanging out on Walton Mountain? Weren’t we just talking about that free half-hour of childhood bliss. Supper and sunsets and summer evenings. But no, Frost will not allow it. He will remind us that reality is always lurking, ready to strike.

No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs. 

So cold, Mr. Frost. So dispassionate, but so true. How many calling hours and funerals have I been to where mundane conversation and witty banter is tossed around well within view of the body in the open casket. But what else can we do? We are helpless to change things. We just go on and try not to think about that buzz saw that will someday, out of the blue, cut into each of us.

Strangely, although my insertions seem rather harsh, I love this poem and actually enjoy reading it and thinking about it.