Robert Frost has the dubi­ous hon­or of being known the world over as the poet of a seize-the-day cliché. His poem “The Road Not Tak­en” (read by Frost above) appears on cof­fee mugs, autum­nal moti­va­tion­al posters, upbeat email sig­na­tures, and in adver­tise­ments and tele­vi­sion shows, all meant to inspire con­fi­dent deci­sion-mak­ing in uncer­tain times: unin­ten­tion­al­ly iron­ic, pop­ulist appeals to diverge from the herd.

If this is Frost’s lega­cy in the wider cul­ture, it’s a fate most poets wouldn’t wish on their bit­ter­est rival. The typ­i­cal inter­pre­ta­tion of this poem is an unfor­tu­nate mis­rep­re­sen­ta­tion of Frost’s work in gen­er­al. Indeed, “The Road Not Tak­en” may be “the most mis­read poem in Amer­i­ca,” as David Orr argues at The Paris Review.

Frost’s poet­ry does not often inspire con­fi­dence or moti­va­tion, but rather doubt, uncom­fort­able reflec­tion, fear, and some­times a kind of dread­ful awe. Like Faulkn­er was in his day, Frost was, and still is, mis­tak­en for a quaint, col­or­ful region­al­ist. But rather than a poet of New Eng­land folk sim­plic­i­ty, he is a poet of New Eng­land skep­ti­cism and a kind of hard-head­ed sub­lime. Any­one who reads “The Road Not Tak­en” close­ly, for exam­ple, will note the speaker’s ambigu­ous tone in the final stan­za, and final three lines—oft-quoted as a tri­umphant dénoue­ment.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Some­where ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less trav­eled by,
And that has made all the dif­fer­ence.

The trav­el­er does not tell us what “dif­fer­ence” the choice will have made, nor why he should tell of this cross­roads “ages and ages hence… with a sigh.” Implied in these lines, how­ev­er, is at least the sug­ges­tion of unavoid­able future regret, and a reck­on­ing with irrev­o­ca­ble fate. The ear­li­er line, “Oh, I kept the first for anoth­er day!” sounds more like an excla­ma­tion of rue than the cel­e­bra­tion of a choice well-made.

And as Orr points out, the speak­er’s ini­tial encounter presents him with two paths that “equal­ly lay / in leaves.”; the two roads are equal­ly travelled—or untrav­elled as the case may be—and the trav­eller choos­es one arbi­trar­i­ly. In these final lines, he announces his inten­tion to tell a dif­fer­ent, per­haps self-con­grat­u­la­to­ry sto­ry about his deci­sion. “The poem isn’t a salute to can-do indi­vid­u­al­ism,” Orr writes, “it’s a com­men­tary on the self-decep­tion we prac­tice when con­struct­ing the sto­ry of our own lives.”

One can hear even dark­er notes in anoth­er famous poem, “Mend­ing Wall,” in which a name­less, unfeel­ing “Some­thing” goes about its work of dis­man­tling the speaker’s best efforts, and all human work gen­er­al­ly. It’s a theme in much of Frost’s poet­ry that can, if ful­ly appre­ci­at­ed, inspire a dread as potent as that in the most baroque and florid of H.P. Lovecraft’s weird tales. Frost devel­oped his theme of cos­mic indif­fer­ence ear­ly, in “Stars,” from his first pub­lished col­lec­tion, A Boy’s Will. He intro­duces the poem in the table of con­tents with this suc­cinct descrip­tion: “There is no over­sight in human affairs,” a mat­ter-of-fact state­ment that scarce­ly pre­pares us for the unnerv­ing images to fol­low:

How count­less­ly they con­gre­gate
O’er our tumul­tuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When win­try winds do blow!—

As if with keen­ness for our fate,
Our fal­ter­ing few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invis­i­ble at dawn,—

And yet with nei­ther love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva’s snow-white mar­ble eyes
With­out the gift of sight.

In three short, dev­as­tat­ing stan­zas, Frost under­cuts ancient, com­fort­ing pre­ten­tions about the stars’ (or gods’) sen­tient benev­o­lence, with images and dic­tion that recall Thomas Hardy’s bleak lament “In Tene­bris” and antic­i­pate Wal­lace Stevens’ imper­son­al and chill­ing “The Snow Man.” The snow and ice in Frost’s poems are not part of the pret­ty scenery, but metonymic fig­ures of obliv­ion.

In short, the kind­ly old Robert Frost we think we know from the triv­ial mis­read­ing of “The Road Not Tak­en” is not the poet Robert Frost at all. Frost is a prick­ly, chal­leng­ing, even some­what devi­ous char­ac­ter whose pleas­ing­ly musi­cal lines and quaint, pas­toral images lure read­ers into poems that har­bor much less cheer­ful atti­tudes than they expect to find, and much more com­plex and mature ideas. The young Frost once described him­self as “not unde­sign­ing,” and in his lat­er, 1939 essay “The Fig­ure a Poem Makes,” he famous­ly declared that a poem “begins in delight and ends in wis­dom.”

In the two Spo­ti­fy playlists above (down­load Spo­ti­fy’s free soft­ware here), you can hear Frost read some of his most famous poems, includ­ing “The Road Not Tak­en,” “Mend­ing Wall,” “Noth­ing Gold Can Stay,” “After Apple Pick­ing,” “Death of a Hired Man,” and sev­er­al more. Not rep­re­sent­ed here, unfor­tu­nate­ly, are poems from the won­der­ful debut A Boy’s Will, but you can read that full col­lec­tion online here, and you should. Get to know the real Frost, if you haven’t already, and you’ll appre­ci­ate all the more why he’s one of the most cel­e­brat­ed poets in the Amer­i­can canon.

The read­ings above will be added to our col­lec­tion, 1,000 Free Audio Books: Down­load Great Books for Free.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lis­ten to Robert Frost Read ‘The Gift Out­right,’ the Poem He Recit­ed from Mem­o­ry at JFK’s Inau­gu­ra­tion

Robert Frost Recites ‘Stop­ping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’

Library of Con­gress Launch­es New Online Poet­ry Archive, Fea­tur­ing 75 Years of Clas­sic Poet­ry Read­ings

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Draw­ing by Graziano Ori­ga, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

An old man sits alone, rant­i­ng in a nasal­ly monot­o­nous drone. He breaks into rue­ful laugh­ter, threats of vio­lence, mock­ery, maudlin lament…. An angry drunk­en uncle cry­ing out into the wilder­ness of a Tues­day night ben­der? A tough guy left behind in the world, unable to stom­ach its restric­tions and blithe hypocrisies? A mad poet on his way to the grave? An every­man ram­bler whose seen-it-all can­dor and hardass sense of humor com­mand the com­mon people’s ear?

All of the above was beloved nov­el­ist, racon­teur, poet, and tren­chant essay­ist Charles Bukows­ki. It’s easy to car­i­ca­ture Bukows­ki for his life­long romance with booze, a dom­i­nant theme in near­ly all of his auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal­ly-inspired poems and sto­ries. But in writ­ing of the life an alco­holic artist, him­self, he also uncov­ered in extrem­is gen­er­al truths about human exis­tence that many peo­ple spend their lives try­ing to avoid. The pain, and solace, of lone­li­ness, rejec­tion, and self-doubt, the des­per­ate need for for­ti­tude in the face of seem­ing hope­less­ness.

Bukows­ki is not only a hero to so many would-be writ­ers because of his epic bar­room tales and rock-star-cal­iber drink­ing bouts. If that were so, his sto­ries might quick­ly grow tedious. What Bukows­ki had over the run-of-the-mill pub reg­u­lars was a sur­pris­ing amount of emo­tion­al vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty and self-aware­ness, and a desire to com­mu­ni­cate his expe­ri­ences with the same raw hon­esty as his lit­er­ary hero, Dos­to­evsky. Put sim­ply, Bukows­ki pos­sessed an abun­dance of what Keats called “neg­a­tive capa­bil­i­ty.”

He also had a good deal of luck. If even a hand­ful of the sto­ries he tells about his life are true, it’s a won­der he didn’t die sev­er­al times over. Take his recount­ing below of a live 1979 Van­cou­ver per­for­mance, footage of which became the doc­u­men­tary film There’s Gonna Be a God Damn Riot in Here. In a let­ter that year to a friend, he wrote:

Back from Cana­di­an read­ing. Took Lin­da. Have video tapes of the thing in col­or, runs about two hours. Saw it a cou­ple nights back. Not bad. Much fight­ing with the audi­ence. New poems. Dirty stuff and the oth­er kind. Drank before the read­ing and 3 bot­tles of red wine dur­ing but read the poems out. Dumb par­ty after­wards. I fell down sev­er­al times while danc­ing. They got me back on the ele­va­tor back at the hotel and I kept hol­ler­ing for anoth­er bot­tle. Poor Lin­da. After­wards in hotel room, kept falling. Final­ly fell against the radi­a­tor and cracked a 6 inch gash in skull. Blood every­where. Hell of a trip…Nice Cana­di­an peo­ple who set up read­ing, though. Not poet types at all. All in all, a good show…

The video tapes were Bukowski’s idea—he insist­ed on the record­ing as a con­di­tion for mak­ing the trip. And you can hear audio of the entire per­for­mance at the top on Spo­ti­fy (get Spo­ti­fy’s soft­ware here; or lis­ten on Youtube here). Also on the playlist are two oth­er Bukows­ki spo­ken-word albums, Charles Bukows­ki Mas­ter Col­lec­tion, and Hostage. The lat­ter, writes Ama­zon, “has to be one of the row­di­est poet­ry records ever released, which makes sense con­sid­er­ing how drunk Bukows­ki plain­ly is.” But “the drink nev­er gets in the way of his deliv­ery,” and his tough-but-ten­der verse comes through plain­ly, even if it seems like there might be a riot any minute. Only Bukows­ki could have pulled this off and lived to tell the tale.

Find these Bukows­ki read­ings added to our col­lec­tion, 1,000 Free Audio Books: Down­load Great Books for Free.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lis­ten to Charles Bukows­ki Poems Being Read by Bukows­ki Him­self & the Great Tom Waits

Watch “Beer,” a Mind-Warp­ing Ani­ma­tion of Charles Bukowski’s 1971 Poem Hon­or­ing His Favorite Drink

Four Charles Bukows­ki Poems Ani­mat­ed

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Briefly not­ed: For a lim­it­ed time (for the next 23 days, to be pre­cise), you can hear Jere­my Irons read­ing “The Nam­ing of Cats,” a poem from T.S. Eliot’s Old Pos­sum’s Book of Prac­ti­cal Cats (1939). The poem will cer­tain­ly sound famil­iar to any­one who has ever seen Andrew Lloyd Web­ber’s musi­cal, Cats.

As a bonus, if you revis­it this post in our archive, you can hear Eliot, him­self, read­ing poems from the very same col­lec­tion. And this oth­er Open Cul­ture post fea­tures Eliot’s own cov­er design for Old Pos­sum’s Book of Prac­ti­cal Cats. What angle haven’t we cov­ered?

The clip above comes cour­tesy of BBC Radio 4.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

T.S. Eliot Reads Old Possum’s Book of Prac­ti­cal Cats & Oth­er Clas­sic Poems (75 Min­utes, 1955)

T.S. Eliot Illus­trates His Let­ters and Draws a Cov­er for Old Possum’s Book of Prac­ti­cal Cats

Lis­ten to T.S. Eliot Recite His Late Mas­ter­piece, the Four Quar­tets

T.S. Eliot Reads His Mod­ernist Mas­ter­pieces “The Waste Land” and “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

1,000 Free Audio Books: Down­load Great Books for Free