Poetry is Art Too

So one of the big ironies of my being involved in visual arts is that I am a huge reader and lover of literature and poetry as well. So today, for the first time on Ash Smith Art I am going to share poems I've been enjoying lately. This is a poem by Robert Frost, he is one of my all-time favorite poets, and I'm sure we all remember "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening", but this is a poem that I'd never seen until this week. It really shows how versatile and gifted Frost truly is (he makes a rhyme with Formic!!). So without further ado....

Departmental

An ant on the tablecloth
Ran into a dormant moth
Of many times his size.
He showed not the least surprise.
His business wasn't with such.
He gave it scarcely a touch,
And was off on his duty run.
Yet if he encountered one
Of the hive's enquiry squad
Whose work is to find out God
And the nature of time and space,
He would put him onto the case.
Ants are a curious race;
One crossing with hurried tread
The body of one of their dead
Isn't given a moment's arrest-
Seems not even impressed.
But he no doubt reports to any
With whom he crosses antennae,
And they no doubt report
To the higher up at court.
Then word goes forth in Formic:
"Death's come to Jerry McCormic,
Our self-less forager Jerry.
Will the special Janizary
Whose office it is to bury
The dead of the commissary
Go bring him home to his people.
Lay him in state on a sepal.
Wrap him for shroud in a petal.
Embalm him with ichor of nettle.
This is the word of your Queen."
And presently on the scene
Appears a solemn mortician;
And taking formal position
With feelers calmly atwiddle,
Seizes the dead by the middle,
And heaving him high in the air,
Carries him out of there.
No one stands round to stare.
It is nobody else's affair.

It couldn't be called ungentle.
But how thoroughly departmental.

-Robert Frost