Frost is a memorable poem penned down by Adil Jussawalla and here he has personalized his feelings. Europe is the canvas on which he has these poems when he was quite young and had gone to foreign for his studies. It is a poem of natural beauty.

Stars may burst to-night; however, be the frosts burning the hollies and the pines. He has no qualms. He has no lust, no thirst for private worlds.

Galaxies are as they remain unto the last. They keep rotating and the phenomena are ever new, ever resplendent to describe them to be seen with awe and suspense. The village clock strikes and with it the images conjure upon. There is silence around. There is darkness. Shadows and apparitions are there to mesmerize it all. But even then, he is attuned to European space and its silence.

Beating the frost one must learn to live. How does frost freeze it? How does the world appear to be with? What a picture frost gives it to! How does the world appear to be!

Frost

The stars will burst
Tonight; how bright
The frosts burn
The hollies, the pines.
I have no thirst
To-night for private worlds.
Galaxies turn
Complete in themselves;
The village clock
Strikes; back,
Apparition!
I am alive tonight.

Adil Jussawalla’s Fog too is a poem which was written during his period of European sojourn and stay, especially when he had gone to England which he has tried to penetrate it with a poem centring round the fog.

The grey, grey fog hangs it over, envelopes in to blur the landscape and the imagery of it. The invisible terns cry it from when smoke hangs it wet. How do the smokes keep curling endlessly? What vacant songs are these rising, God knows? But on the other the flesh has a tale of its own as has the devil to share with.

His poems are like charred papers over the fuming stokes of the furnaces falling to the invisible river. Man’s world is different from the world of Nature.

Fog

Grey, grey, grey
the invisible tern cries
When smoke hangs wet and rises painfully
Lord, what vacant
songs
rise ?
My songs, like charred paper
Over the fuming stoke
Furnaces, fall to the invisible river, but the world,
Flesh and devil crowd in my skull like smoke.