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A Visit To The Robert Frost Museum: By Dr. Harsh K. Luthar

On July 3, 2006, I was in Franconia, New Hampshire. Someone mentioned that the famous American poet Robert Frost loved the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Frost, in fact, lived in Franconia from 1915 to 1920 and spent nineteen summers there as well with his family.

I discovered that the Robert Frost Museum was only three to four miles from my motel and was open from 1pm to 5pm. Immediately, I decided to make the sacred pilgrimage to the house where Frost lived. You can find out more about the Frost Place in Franconia, New Hampshire, on the website, http://www.frostplace.org.

Walking along the road, I was struck by the beauty of the flowing creeks and the mountains in the area. Here are just some of the pictures I took on the path which had clear signs to the Robert Frost Museum.

1

It had been a long hike in the sun but the goal was now in view. Sweating profusely and thirsty I arrived at the Frost House.

2

I looked for a water fountain in the yard but there was none in sight. The first person I met was Sara Brickman, a student at Smith College. Sara was busy arranging Robert Frost books and T-Shirts and other memorabilia that visitors buy. Sara welcomed me warmly, told me that she was a Frost Place Intern for the summer, and would be happy to answer any questions and show me around.

3

Upon my request, Sara kindly supplied me with a tall glass of cold water from the house. Water never tasted so good! Sara introduced me to Professor Robert Farnsworth of Bates College who was reclining and reading a book on the porch of the Frost House.

4

Professor Farnsworth is a highly distinguished and well published poet. He is the 2006 summer’s poet-in-residence at the Frost Place and will be doing a number of readings there. I told Sara and Professor Farnsworth that I taught at Bryant University and was a Frost enthusiast. Soon we were all on first name basis, smiling and laughing, having wonderful conversations. I requested Professor Robert Farnsworth for some pictures and he kindly obliged. We took turns taking pictures.

5

I probably spent an hour and a half to two hours at the Robert Frost Museum. Part of it consisted of watching a 20 minute video on Robert Frost’s life and poetry. I saw only four or five other visitors to the Frost House during that time. Sara and Professor Farnsworth told me that the day before, July 2, had seen a much larger inflow of people who had come for the poetry reading and the music concert. July 2 is Frost Day, which is an annual celebration of Robert Frost, and was established by an official act of New Hampshire Governor Hugh Gallen. The following pictures show Robert Frost’s portrait, the chair that he sat on while living in the farmhouse, and his handwritten poem.

6

As I was getting ready to part, Professor Farnsworth generously offered me a ride back to the motel in his car. Since the memory of my long and hot walk earlier to the Frost House was still fresh in my mind, I gratefully accepted. Professor Farnsworth and I continued our conversation during the car ride and he told me that he had grown up in Rhode Island and received his initial academic training at Brown University. Later, he had gone to Columbia University.

7

My afternoon adventure at the Frost house reached its conclusion when Professor Farnsworth dropped me off at the motel. Back in my room, I turned on the air conditioner and took out some ice tea from the refrigerator. As I slowly sipped the drink, I marveled at how perfect the afternoon had been. I had gone to the Frost House with nothing other than my enthusiasm for the poet and his poetry. What I had found was an afternoon of good conversations with two people I had never met before. At the end of the day, what remained with me was the warmth of friendship and good will from Sara Brickman, the student intern at the Frost Museum, and Professor Robert Farnsworth of Bates College, the 2006 summer’s poet-in-residence at the Frost Place. Thank you Sara and Rob!

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You Will, Won’t You?: Image and words by Al Larus

1

this winter, so slow

the ivy’s coming in

above


fifteen pancakes

heating in my stove

and

this love


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Short Visit To Paradise: By Al Larus

obscura

You welcomed me with closed eyes

On the last evening of September.

When I lit a fire you got warm inside

rousing two flies,

now and then

hovering close to the flames

like sleepy old winos.

Undemanding and quiet

you made me settle down.

I fetched a log for the fireplace

and fell towards eternity

listening to the waves

interrupted by small sounds

from your drying wood.

No speedboats or cries from feeding gulls

in the morning.

No hamburgers and overprized pints.

on the tables by the marina.

Paradise returns with empty beaches.

as undisturbed cormorants turn to icons,

unfolding their black wings

on the rock

below the lighthouse.

Before I leave a promenade

along the narrow road.

A fisherman with lobster traps.

A yawning cat.

A caterpillar.

Alan Larus

“I live in Norway and work with database programming. When I have the time I walk in the mountains, forests and along the sea. I also listen to music and read and write a little poetry and take pictures.”

Illustration by Brian Johnsen.

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Mirror: Image and words by Jan Barendrecht

mirror

surface still

the ocean reflects

light only

the perfect mirror

reflects but itself

Jan Barendrect

Jan Barendrecht is a long time contributor to both the HarshaSatsangh and the Nonduality Salon. He originally hails from Holland, but is now living in the bliss-inducing Canary Isles of Southern Europe. He is also an active proponent of fruitarianism, the ahimsa way to nutrition. For more writings by him, see the nonduality salon website and earlier editions of HarshaSatsangh Magazine.

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Stones and Keys: By Alan Larus

Yesterday,

deep inside the forest.

I heard these words.

Whispering between the trees.

‘For each and every stone and key

you turn along this path,

still the quest keeps going on.’

‘The soft edges of each stone,

the worn out handles of the keys

is not made by someone else,

but you.’

‘To tell you it’s already done.

Not once or twice,

but countless times throughout the centuries.’

‘Now turn yourself,

by going home

breaking this spell.

Saying: Never again! ‘

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Steve Toth’s Poetry

Natural Poet

Mayflies don’t even
have a mouth
They have to write their poems
in the air
until their wings wear out
& they die exhausted
Rocks speak very slowly
Their poems are hard
to read in one lifetime

Every creation gives
creation another chance
to work
Let’s meet where the seeds
go to die
& the sprouts come
to be born
Let’s read the poems
the Earth writes
to the Sun

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David Bozzi’s Poetry

My Master

is invisible.
Has no name.
Needs no defense.
Causes no controversy.
Can not be addicted to.
Can not be attached to.
Can not be the object of a club,
organization or religion.
My master defies all my knowing.

Once I believe my master can be defined,
has a name,
needs to be defended,
is controversial…

or

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Mazie Lane’s Poetry: By Mazie Lane

No Form All Form Nowhere Everywhere

Not in form bound in or around this round of existence,
I Am.
In every form finding itself floundering all around, unfound,
I Am.
Can’t be expounded, can’t be propounded, can’t be in my head pounded,
I Am.
This is nothing, that is nothing, you are nothingeverything, say THAT
I Am.
Someone moves inside from somewhere bringing something speaking nothing,
I Am.

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Eric Ashford’s Poetry

There Is A Doe Eyed Eagle

There is a doe eyed eagle.
There is a love within the tiger
of every appearance.

Call to the sky forms
that God paints Her eyelids with,
and become the water in the eye of Her ocean.

You are beautiful limbs of God.
The vein that bleeds this earth
and returns Her blood to Her.

There is a doe eyed eagle.
and all hearts turn inside out,
To catch the song of it’s flight.
There is a love in the tiger
that flutters, as a sparrow
to encircle heaven and earth. Continue reading

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The Call of Love

Damini

Long ago, I gazed into your eyes
and then stopped breathing
but still survived.

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