A tiresome day weeps

A tiresome day weeps for a lonely night,
a patched life, sweet and sour, seeks release,
exit denied, each new day is the old sight,
when will chaos end and dawn peace;

change as only constant, a lie, for all same,
same boredom, same drudgery, same pain,
joy a memory, still possible in life’s game,
the parched soiled sands seek pure rain;

but with rain comes thunder frightening,
what use invisible rainbows at night dancing,
can’t move in dark with spasms of lightning
as the torch, mud puddles in path prancing;

a lonely night calls for a cheerful and eager day,
a rainy holiday where in groups inside we stay.

Acquainted with the night

Robert Frost is famous and known by most. He is known for his metaphors, symbols and imagery. He uses simple everyday things and actions to mean very broad and complex things in life. His words are simple and no need for a paraphrase to enjoy his poems. In acquainted with the night I presume the night is a symbol for dark, wild and bad things. He makes sense on both levels from the simple narrative to the complex hidden meanings. I don’t emulate him because I am not sure in my prowess and if the symbol I use will be correctly interpreted by the reader. I use direct references to reinforce my metaphors and symbols. My school day scribbles were meant only for my eyes initially and so contained unexplained metaphors and images.

Acquainted with the night 
by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.


The poem is most often read as the poet/narrator’s admission of having experienced depression and a vivid description of what that experience feels like. In this particular reading of the poem, “the night” is the depression itself, and the narrator describes how he views the world around him in this state of mind. Although he is in a city, he feels completely isolated from everything around him.

The poem is written in strict iambic pentameter, with 14 lines like a sonnet, and with a terza rima rhyme scheme, which follows the complex pattern, aba bcb cdc dad aa. Terza rima (“third rhyme”) was invented by the Italian poet Dante Alighieri for his epic poem The Divine Comedy. Because Italian is a language in which many words have vowel endings, terza rima is much less difficult to write in Italian than it is in English. Because of its difficulty, very few writers in English have attempted the form. However, Frost was a master of many forms, and “Acquainted With The Night” is one of the most famous examples of an American poem written in terza rima.

What have I done?

The famous american president Kennedy said “Ask not what the nation has did for you, ask rather what you have done for it.”

What have I done?


I sure have benefited a lot from the corporate entities and various body polity that I so easily criticize.

The society has so industriously provided for all my wants, and in accusing glares and satire ask me, where were you when our children were learning and why are you like this. I got no answers.

The loving ones whose money made my survival possible, my friends and peers say we are sweating, we have moved on, and ask me subtly or directly what have you done and why are you thus.

The caregivers near me accuse me truthfully have you ever lifted your finger, ever taken a pebble away to ease the path of another. Life may not be about money to dream walkers yet the thick skulled should realize it is about work. Leave alone work, have you ever acted or forgone little things for the sake of those you love. You are a burden unto society and yourself. What have you done and why are you thus.

I had no answers and cowing inside I would bristle with anger on the outside. Now I have a realization.

I might not have done anything but I am waiting for what I will do.

I am not going to do wonders, but if in the end on a dark desolate highway I bring cheer to a starving puppy, my life would have been done. This is escapism, some would say, he types words without action, a management student would quickly point the cost benefit ratio isn’t right, after all society invested in him, what a waste. This isn’t what I want to do, but just pointed that I am prepared for this too.

What I want to do or rather be part of is concrete reality requiring concrete continuous action, that I seek to figuratively express through words. Yes metaphorically.

The boat landed on the shore, a few of the industrious young got down and me too. In the crossing here, our parents rowed, in midstream my peers took over relieving them, not me, I ran hither and thither making the boat stumble, tried a paddle, one here and there, all borne for my parents, when they were feeble, others took the rows, for the wealth of hidden markers they had. Markers are the system the boat ran. Now as people young and old were hauled into the boat by the industrious few, I stood aloof gazing, not moving a finger. Yet when it was time for the final haul, all cried for me to get within. Please come inside they begged in good spirit.

They said you’ll never know life until you row across rivers of your own. We travel the ocean yet fighting for rivers our own. We’ll never accept claim of outsider, nor allow him to share the fruit of love, so get in or get lost forever.

I said yes I am an outsider, yet you’ve forgotten that one is needed to push the boat along in forward journey, else all of you’ll remain here forever stagnant and slowly decaying. A final push is needed from one who’ll stay here forever alone, and maybe that’s why neither mind not limb of mine ever knew tiredness. Here go yonder.

Please don’t judge what I was, what I am and what I will be, for I was never part of you, yet you fed me, and you could never save me yet I saved you. For I may be deaf to human call from this shore but still can reminisce what pass my truths in dream or wise sense.

What have I done? Nothing.

What will I do? Push the boat ahead while staying my ground and hope the onward journey isn’t blurred by thoughts of me cast aside on this shore.

I’ve enjoyed the journey and so shall I this solitude imposed upon me. My very last breath is on reason of those aloft the boat and shall stay for their happiness as I depart.

What have I done?


What will I do?

Make it reality.

Laughter’s Son


Resources of mind, soul and body drain,
mental laziness renders the creative pond dry,
I find no drop to fill however hard I try,
no spark of lightning, no hope for rain;

I move dead slow with tortoise brain,
never I come out of shell, I am shy,
but at times I let inhibitions fly,
I lie low, never serious, ever in playful vein;

I enjoy life and all is fun,
and I seem so to those around,
away from the pond I run,
to escape the ridicule of the hound;

I’ve chosen to be laughter’s son,
so I silence the inner sound.