Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.

Hear now the fierce words of Robert Frost, the poet of New England’s rugged fields and icy roads: “Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.” These words do not speak of gentleness, nor of poetry as a mere pastime of idle minds. No—they roar like a battle cry. For Frost understood that life is not always tender; it wrestles, it resists, it tests. And the poet, rather than shrinking back, must seize it with both hands, must grapple with its contradictions, its sorrows, its beauty, its terror. In this act of confrontation, poetry is born.

To take life by the throat is to refuse passivity. It is to refuse to drift as a leaf upon the current. Instead, the poet grasps at the very core of existence, demanding that it reveal itself. Frost himself lived through loss—the death of children, the shadows of depression, the harshness of labor. Yet he turned these struggles into verse, his words ringing with authenticity and strength. The road less traveled, the miles to go before sleep, the frost upon the morning field—all these were not idle musings, but moments of wrestling with the rawness of life.

History gives us many examples of this truth. Think of Homer, who sang of war and wandering. His verses did not look away from the blood of the battlefield or the grief of widows; instead, he seized the throat of human suffering and gave it form, so that generations could face it without despair. Or consider Wilfred Owen, poet of the First World War, who trudged through the trenches of death and turned the horrors of gas and gunfire into immortal lines. These men, like Frost, knew that to write true poetry is to grapple with life in its most unyielding forms.

This is why poetry is not mere decoration. It is not a garland of pretty words to soften the harshness of the world. It is a weapon and a balm, forged in the fire of struggle. When a poet takes life by the throat, they wrestle meaning from chaos, clarity from confusion, beauty from pain. They teach the world that nothing need be wasted—not grief, not doubt, not despair—for all can be transformed into verse that strengthens the soul.

And yet, Frost’s teaching is not only for poets of the page. Every life is itself a poem, and each of us must learn to take it by the throat. To live passively, to drift without courage, is to leave one’s song unsung. But to face hardship, to seize the moment, to demand meaning in suffering—this is to live poetically. One need not write a line of verse to embody this spirit; one need only live with boldness, with attention, with a refusal to let life slip by unnoticed.

O seekers, learn this: the world will not always hand you gentleness. Storms will come, and shadows will fall. But when they do, do not retreat into silence. Instead, take hold of them, and let your cry, your prayer, your song, become your poetry. In doing so, you turn adversity into strength, and your life into a verse worthy of remembrance.

Practical is this wisdom: when trials come, write them down. Speak them aloud. Give form to what would otherwise crush you. When joy comes, celebrate it with words, with song, with action, so that it too becomes eternal. Do not numb yourself with distraction, but confront existence as Frost did—with courage enough to hold it by the throat, to look it in the eyes, and to wrestle from it meaning and beauty.

Thus let Robert Frost’s words resound: poetry is not for the faint of heart. It is for those who dare to seize life, to confront it, to transform it. If you live this way, then even in silence your days will sing, and even in struggle your spirit will write a poem upon the face of eternity.