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Julian Peters’ Illustrated “Birches” by Robert Frost

by Vanderleun on June 27, 2018

Comics adaptation of “Birches” by Robert Frost | julian peters comics

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BillH June 27, 2018, 9:24 AM

Yeah, I was a Swinger of Birches, and anything else that was climbable when I was 7-8 or so. Then a branch broke, I came down fast and hard and broke my left elbow in two places, Spent all summer in a cast, and when the cast came off I couldn’t move the elbow. Took another month or two to get it loose enough to use. That’s when I learned to climb only when necessary, and then to first check the stability and weight bearing capacity of whatever I was going to climb. That was 80 years ago, and have yet to break another bone.

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Bob Sykes June 27, 2018, 4:00 PM

Birches grow wild in clumps in rural NE MA, and I, too, swung on them. But I was lucky. I fell off a bending trunk more than once, but never got anything other than bruises and scrapes. Great fun if you are young and small.

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“From a student radical/hippie/leftist of the Free Speech Movement/Vietnam Day Commitee era and a full-on Democratic Liberal in the decades after, I think I’ve evolved a politics that is neither right nor left but is, in its elemental nature, draconian. In the last 20 years, I’ve taken apart my beliefs with a sledgehammer. Now I’ve got to put the surviving parts back together with tweezers and other ‘shabby equipment, always deteriorating’.”

A Wicker Basket

Comes the time when it’s later
and onto your table the headwaiter
puts the bill, and very soon after
rings out the sound of lively laughter—

Picking up change, hands like a walrus,
and a face like a barndoor’s,
and a head without any apparent size,
nothing but two eyes—

So that’s you, man,
or me. I make it as I can,
I pick up, I go
faster than they know—

Out the door, the street like a night,
any night, and no one in sight,
but then, well, there she is,
old friend Liz—

And she opens the door of her cadillac,
I step in back,
and we’re gone.
She turns me on—

There are very huge stars, man, in the sky,
and from somewhere very far off someone hands me a slice of apple pie,
with a gob of white, white ice cream on top of it,
and I eat it—

Slowly. And while certainly
they are laughing at me, and all around me is racket
of these cats not making it, I make it

in my wicker basket.

— BY ROBERT CREELEY