A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
Robert Frost, the farmer-poet of New England, once revealed the secret spark of creation: “A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.” These words, though simple in their cadence, are thunderous in meaning. For he tells us that poetry is not born of cold intellect or empty craft, but of fire in the heart and ache in the soul. The true poem is not first on the page, but first in the body—in the tightening of the chest, in the trembling of longing, in the piercing wound of love and loss.
The origin of this thought lies in Frost’s own life, which was marked not only by rural simplicity but also by deep sorrow. He buried children, endured hardship, and wrestled with despair. Yet from these wounds came verses of enduring power, where the frostbitten fields and quiet woods became mirrors of the human condition. The lump in the throat he speaks of is that first stirring of feeling so strong it demands release. The pen becomes the vessel through which sorrow, yearning, or joy finds form. Thus Frost tells us that poetry begins not in the mind alone, but in the wound, in the hunger, in the ache of existence.
The ancients too knew this truth. Sappho of Lesbos, whose fragments still burn with desire, wrote of love as both sweetness and torment. Homer sang not only of battle but of the grief of Achilles, who wept for Patroclus by the shore. These poets understood, as Frost did, that the deepest art springs from the homesickness of the soul, the longing for what is lost, or the pain of what cannot be. Even the Psalms of David rise from cries of despair and yearning for God, shaped into song. Always, poetry begins with that “sense of wrong” that demands to be set right in words.
Consider also the life of Wilfred Owen, the soldier-poet of the First World War. His verses, forged in the trenches, carried the gasps of dying comrades and the ache of a world betrayed by false promises of glory. His poetry began in the lump in the throat, the suffocating sorrow of war, and from that he gave voice to generations who could not speak. In his work, we see Frost’s truth: that great poems do not begin in comfort, but in suffering, longing, or the sharp edge of love.
Frost’s words also remind us that poetry is not always born of tragedy, but also of tenderness. The lovesickness he names is not merely pain, but also the sweet ache of desire and devotion. Think of Shakespeare’s sonnets, which pulse with longing for beauty and intimacy. The ache itself, whether joyous or sorrowful, is what awakens the poet. Without that ache, words are lifeless; with it, they sing.
What lesson, then, do we draw from Frost’s wisdom? It is this: do not flee from your emotions, for they are the wellspring of your art, your creativity, your humanity. The lump in your throat, the restlessness in your heart, the ache of absence—these are not burdens to be cast off, but sparks waiting to become flame. To silence them is to silence your deepest voice. To embrace them is to create.
Practical action follows: when you feel sorrow, write it; when you feel joy, sing it; when you feel longing, let it shape your deeds. Do not wait for perfection before you speak. Let the rawness itself become your poem, your story, your song. In doing so, you will not only heal your own heart but also give voice to others who carry the same ache in silence.
Thus Frost’s words endure as a teaching: poetry begins not in mastery, but in feeling. It is the translation of longing into language, the shaping of sorrow into song, the transfiguration of the fragile human heart into words that endure beyond a single life. Embrace your ache, embrace your homesickness, embrace your lovesickness—and from them, let poetry arise like flame from kindling.
UGUser Google
Frost’s quote seems to imply that poetry arises from emotional pain or longing, which makes me wonder: is this why poetry often feels so powerful—it comes from a place of deep emotional truth? But does that mean poems that don’t come from strong emotions are less valid? Can poetry still be impactful if it’s not driven by an emotional 'lump,' or is that intensity a core part of what makes it resonate?
QADinh Van Quoc Anh
I really resonate with Frost’s metaphor of a poem starting as 'homesickness' or 'lovesickness.' It’s interesting to think that poetry could stem from a desire to belong or to understand love and loss. But does this mean that poems are always about seeking something? Can poetry ever come from a place of contentment or fulfillment, or is the desire for something more always at the heart of it?
TVPham The Vinh
Frost’s quote is striking because it shows the emotional foundation of poetry. It implies that the impulse to write comes from a deep feeling, one that needs an outlet. But I’m curious—what about poems that don’t seem driven by such intense feelings? Are there other ways poetry can emerge, perhaps from moments of clarity or peace, or does every poem really have to start from a place of emotional discomfort or yearning?
TVnguyen thanh vinh
The way Frost describes the start of a poem as a 'sense of wrong' makes me think about how much art is driven by dissatisfaction or longing. It almost seems like poems arise from a need to make sense of something missing or incomplete. Is this the essence of creativity? Does this mean that poets, like all artists, are most compelled to create when something feels off or unsettled in their lives?
CTpham cat Tuong
Frost’s description of a poem beginning as a 'lump in the throat' really captures the visceral nature of poetry. It’s as if the emotions are physical, demanding to be expressed. But I wonder—do all poems originate from such an emotional intensity, or are some born from more intellectual or observational impulses? Can poetry be a response to quiet moments as much as it is to strong emotions like homesickness or lovesickness?