Actually i had posted this on Google groups once, but it is an old poem of mine, and I thought I’d get your views on it. It is not modern in style - it is pre-modern, when we used to identify with night in a negative, mysterious sense. And I was influenced by the peotry of an obscure English poet of the 18th century (I think) called Stanyan Bigg. So here goes:


Midnight seems always hiding this
That seems to bridge the night
To the dawn and with our sleep amiss
And render the day from the sandman’s purse
And with the sun shining until days’ fall
Seems taken by some temporary curse
To not deliver light unto us all
As we sleep and indulge to shine tomorrow.

Midnight slows the works of men
And pushes weary eyes until their ends
Meet and bleat across the fence
Counting and playing with the sheep
But to send a word for the next day
Would be too early, for time creeps
Like moon crawling along time’s narrow way
While time’s unfaltering arrow forges,
As we rest in deserved sleep at close of day
Night - passing o’er plains, mountains, gorges.

And in lands of dreams and in between
When we are deposited and are destined
The night takes on this wondrous sheen
At midnight, these changes transcend
From one dream jumping we are seen
And shining, as the chariot of the sun tends
To day, we enter the next, with all our rest
From dream to day, as dawn holds sway.

Midnight was past at night like some trifle
A past so trifling that we’d be fortunate
Midnight to catch, in shades of blue and purple
Strolling and flaunting her robes shed from white
And bringing to us some greater clarity,
In the silence and the truth about night
About midnight and how it does bridge
Like a silent ridge amidst two valleys-
Valleys of activity with shores of slumber
To bring midnight passing through itself
To realize in sleep, the slumber of the self.