Being in solitary confinement is being in hell. In this season of merry making and peace, I bring to mind the difficulties of being human with those who are often inhuman in their resistance to everything good.
Frost’s evokes Romeo and Juliet in this poem. This is one of Frost’s lesser known poems. But his legendary machismo intrudes upon the poem unlike Shakespeare who never intruded in his works.
Adultery, murder and anomie go hand in hand in this fast paced thriller. Like all works of popular fiction it is good in patches and demands only one reading. Nonetheless an essential reading if one were to understand today’s India.
This is one of those love poems which never leaves the heart. What use if we call poetry texts? What use if we forget that poetry is what makes us human? What use to know that the Big Bang occurred if one has not felt abject in a sky afire with stars?