POETRY with Lawrence Spiro
September begins apple picking on Long Island orchards. This poetry column consists of three parts: first, the story of Johnny Apple Seed, our most famous agriculturalist, second, the poem “After Apple Picking,” by Robert Frost, and the third is my interpretation of the Frost poem.
The Story of Johnny Appleseed
Johnny Appleseed spent 49 years of his life in the American wilderness planting apple seeds. Johnny Appleseed’s real name was John Chapman. He was born September 26, 1774 in Massachusetts. He created apple orchards in Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, Pennsylvania and Ohio. After 200 years, some of those trees still bear apples.
Johnny Appleseed’s dream was for a land where blossoming apple trees were everywhere and no one was hungry. A gentle and kind man, he slept outdoors and walked barefoot around the country planting apple seeds everywhere he went. It is even told that he made his drinking water from snow by melting it with his feet.
Johnny was a friend to everyone he met. Indians and settlers — even the animals — liked Johnny Appleseed. His clothes were made from sacks and his hat was a tin pot. He also used his hat for cooking. His favorite book was the Bible.
There are many tales about Johnny Appleseed. It is said that once Johnny fell asleep and a rattlesnake tried to bite him, but the fangs would not go into his foot because his skin was as tough as an elephant’s hide. Another tale describes him playing with a bear family.
Johnny Appleseed died in 1845. It was the only time he had been sick — in over 70 years!!!
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
After Apple Picking
by Robert Frost
- My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
- Toward heaven still,
- And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
- Beside it, and there may be two or three
- Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
- But I am done with apple-picking now.
- Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
- The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
- I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
- I got from looking through a pane of glass
- I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
- And held against the world of hoary grass.
- It melted, and I let it fall and break.
- But I was well
- Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
- And I could tell
- What form my dreaming was about to take.
- Magnified apples appear and disappear,
- Stem end and blossom end,
- And every fleck of russet showing dear.
- My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
- It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
- I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
- And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
- The rumbling sound
- Of load on load of apples coming in.
- For I have had too much
- Of apple-picking: I am overtired
- Of the great harvest I myself desired.
- There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
- Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
- For all
- That struck the earth,
- No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
- Went surely to the cider-apple heap
- As of no worth.
- One can see what will trouble
- This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
- Were he not gone,
- The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
- Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
- Or just some human sleep.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Interpretation of After Apple Picking
In a World of Colors Bright & Loud – By Ethan Bell
“Seeing my poetry published is a great moment. Now no one can doubt my abilities” – Ethan Bell
I feel the waves yet stand apart from the crowd of emotions crash like tides against the shore. A crowd of whispers yet I seek to hear more with every struggle I strive to be free to understand the depths that dwell inside me. A smile, a laugh can hide the weight while silence wraps around a heavy fate.
This poem is about giving perspective with what I deal with being on the spectrum.
- Ethan Bell is a young, non-verbal adult on the autism spectrum. Now, with the help of his tablet, he has found his voice.
When Tides Meet Twilight by Willow Dubrovin
A glistening hum from a sun so far,
and murky calls of rain pristine,
stripe the sky with endless scars,
and lose the hue that was meant to scream.
Macbeth rises from his tragic grave
once again,
to feast on the pieces,
decorating the soul of an empty heart,
that he let remain, on my terrain,
stripped of glory from my golden fleeces.
The face of a ghost- a haunting expression-
selects the tides on an open moon,
drowning a celibate ending
to my simple afternoon.
Heart of malice, words of gold,
they shimmer against the fondness,
under clouds of a void overhead,
and gather in the space of a head so cold,
erupting the roots in a grave so dead.
But once again
does my gentle sky relax,
the hues that blued returned again.
The moon replaces its wax
with the wane of a thousand days,
so as the tides meet twilight,
and ravens arrive with blankets of stars,
gone is my golden blaze
and low is my haunting flames.
Macbeth returns to soundless quarters
amongst the loss of my heart’s many,
and with it my regaining peace,
bound to be lost with the coming of plenty.