“For the stronger we our houses do build, / The less chance we have of being killed.”

[larryhammer]

Last Poetry Monday, it was an answer to Frost, so how about some Frost himself:


Departmental, Robert Frost

An ant on the table cloth
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 selfless 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 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.


In the table of contents from the 1936 collection it appeared in, it was given the subtitle "The End of My Ant Jerry." I do not know why the misgendering of worker ants bothers me more here than most other places, but so it is.

---L.

Subject quote from The Tay Bridge Disaster, William McGonagall.

Comments

[cmcmck]

This is one of Frost's I didn't know, but as you say.........

[larryhammer]

.... there is a lot of Frost.

[sovay]

I do not know why the misgendering of worker ants bothers me more here than most other places, but so it is.

I wish I had an appropriate context in which to present this poem to be read against Le Guin's "The Author of the Acacia Seeds."

[larryhammer]

I too mentally check it against that story as I read.

[swan_tower]

One nice thing about the English language is that you can swap out standard pronouns without altering scansion in the slightest -- and Frost even had the courtesy to choose a name that's easily altered to a modern feminine form!

"The End of My Ant Jeri"

An ant on the table cloth
Ran into a dormant moth
Of many times her size.
She showed not the least surprise.
Her business wasn’t with such.
She gave it scarcely a touch,
And was off on her duty run.
Yet if she encountered one
Of the hive’s enquiry squad
Whose work is to find out God
And the nature of time and space,
She would put her 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 she no doubt reports to any
With whom she crosses antennae,
And they no doubt report
To the higher up at court.
Then word goes forth in Formic:
“Death’s come to Jeri McCormic,
Our selfless forager Jeri.
Will the special Janizary
Whose office it is to bury
The dead of the commissary
Go bring her home to her people.
Lay her in state on a sepal.
Wrap her for shroud in a petal.
Embalm her 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 her high in air,
Carries her 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.

I edited for my own entertainment, to see how it would read with feminine pronouns, and then thought others might like to see.

[larryhammer]

Ha! Interesting exercise. Thanks for posting it!