Robert Frost: a terrifying poet?

Robert Frost has always been one of my favorite poets; therefore when I heard that Lionel Trilling, in a speech at a dinner given in Frost's honor, called him "a terrifying poet," I had to take a close look at this. I found the article that contained his speech. I read the speech. I reread those poems that Trilling had cited, "Design" and "Neither Out Far nor In Deep." I also reread a number of his other poems, and I had to agree with Trilling that there was much in Frost's works that I had missed. At the end of his speech, Trilling turns to Frost and says:

"Like you, Sophocles was the poet his people loved the most. Surely they loved him in some part because he praised their common country. But I think that they loved him chiefly because he made plain to them the terrible things of human life: they felt, perhaps, that only a poet who could make plain the terrible things could possibly give them comfort."

One poem that Trilling didn't mention was "Out, Out--," and this one has struck me as being an excellent example of some of "the terrible things of human life" that Trilling mentions. I have placed the poem at the end of this post for those who wish to read or reread it.

The title comes from Macbeth's soliloquy after hearing that Lady Macbeth has committed suicide. The entire quote is:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."

His soliloquy suggests that life is short, a "brief candle," and meaningless--"a tale/Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury/Signifying nothing." What has this to do with Frost's poem?

It is the story of a young boy who was distracted while cutting wood with a buzz saw. Frost begins the poem by describing the saw as an animal either about to attack or in search of prey--"The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard" and again, seven lines later, "And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled."

His sister calls him to supper, and as she does,

"As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap--"


The boy realized the significance of what had happened,

"He saw all spoiled. 'Don't let him cut my hand off--
The doctor when he comes. Don't let him sister.'
So. But the hand was gone already.
...
And then--the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little--less--nothing! and that ended it."


The boy knew how important that hand was for a farmer during the early days of the 20th century. He c0uld have lived for he was young and strong and healthy. The doctor was there. Why did he die? Perhaps this explains why, "He saw all spoiled."

This is a distressing poem about a young boy who died too soon, but this happens. It was just a momentary loss of concentration; he was distracted for a second, but the consequences far surpassed the events that brought it about.

But, this is not all there is to the story: there are those last lines of the poem to consider:

"Little--less--nothing!--and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs."

How does one read those last two lines? with shock? dismay? -- at the heartlessness of his family who, "since they/ Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs." It is one thing to say that life must go on, but does this go beyond even that commonplace encouragement?


Once again, Trilling ended his speech by saying: "But I think that they loved him chiefly because he made plain to them the terrible things of human life: they felt, perhaps, that only a poet who could make plain the terrible things could possibly give them comfort."

After reading Trilling's comments about Frost, it is now impossible for me to see Robert Frost as simply a rural, regional, bucolic poet who celebrates the beauties of nature and the simple rural life.



"Out, Out--"

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

-- Robert Frost --