Word: frosts
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Somehow, though, both in his translations of the Odes and other work, Ferry manages to convey the poetic gist of the original. Robert Frost famously noted, “Poetry is what gets lost in translation.” But, as Ferry makes so clear, Frost was only half correct, for poetry functions on two levels. The first is its purely linguistic pleasures—poetry is distillation of language creation, and all of its linguistic uniqueness is lost when it is translated. To whatever extent a poetic translation is linguistically pleasing, it is entirely due to the work...
...Dylan, not least in the rambunctious and rock-steady band Dylan has assembled around him, including a guitarist who almost outdoes Robbie Robertson’s blistering licks from the good old days of the Hawks. Dylan has produced the album himself under the pseudonym Jack Frost, which gives the album a much more straight-up feel, in contrast to the wizardry of Daniel Lanois (U2, Peter Gabriel). On Time, Lanois placed Dylan’s voice, sounding the oldest and possibly frailest it ever has, right at the front of the mix, creating a funereal atmospheric as the dying...
...described on the page. Through poetry, Jack comes to grips with the death of his beloved yellow dog, Sky: "He was such a funny dog/that dog Sky/that straggly furry smiling dog Sky." The book, deceptively simple and never preachy, is studded with work by acclaimed poets such as Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams and Walter Dean Myers...
...markets, who after hearing the Fed?s Robert Frost recital glumly sold off the Dow and NASDAQ into the newly restated unknown, restating their own frustration: Businesses aren?t saying when business will pick up. The Fed, perhaps a little gunshy after misfiring both at the top of this cycle two springs ago and the bottom last fall, isn?t saying either. The White House is sunny as heck, declaring that capital investment will be back by spring, to the tune of 3.2 percent GDP for 2002 - but they need it too badly to be believed...
When Tongchart Nusu, a food distributor in Phitsanulok, Thailand, yanks open the heavy steel door of his cold-storage locker, you get the expected burst of snowy frost?along with a moist, overpowering, rancid stench. Nostrils flaring, Tongchart draws the mist into his lungs, this sweet aroma of hard work, money, success: the odor of bugs...