Saturday, September 8, 2012

Fog, Four Poems, and Quiet Saturdays


Fog holds lights in soft hands stroking
the bay, floating across waters alive
with flickering rays. The night air whispers

of ancient sand castles and the gleam
of small stars stirring the romance of darkness.
It clings faithfully to the rise and fall

of waves washing in, swinging to
the rhythm of a sea singing love songs.
Fog holds lights in soft hands, clasps love

in tender touches, grasps hope in strong
fingers as it rolls in. Reality
blurs, an impressionist painting

lying just under the murky paint of fog.
Fog holds light in soft hands, embraces
dreams carefully as they swoop

across our sleep like moonbeams prowling
the night sky. It smothers the future and remolds
the past, leaving us in a blurred limbo.

Fog holds light in soft hands wet with tears.
When it is time for it to be gone,
it lifts silently and disappears.    
 
poem by Raynette Eitel  
 
 
I saw the fog grow thick,
Which soon made blind my ken;
It made tall men of boys,
And giants of tall men.

It clutched my throat, I coughed;
Nothing was in my head
Except two heavy eyes
Like balls of burning lead.

And when it grew so black
That I could know no place,
I lost all judgment then,
Of distance and of space.

The street lamps, and the lights
Upon the halted cars,
Could either be on earth
Or be the heavenly stars.

A man passed by me close,
I asked my way, he said,
"Come, follow me, my friend"—
I followed where he led.

He rapped the stones in front,
"Trust me," he said, "and come";
I followed like a child—
A blind man led me home.
 
 
 

 
A vagueness comes over everything,
as though proving color and contour
alike dispensable: the lighthouse
extinct, the islands' spruce-tips
drunk up like milk in the
universal emulsion; houses
reverting into the lost
and forgotten; granite
subsumed, a rumor
in a mumble of ocean.
                              Tactile
      definition, however, has not been
totally banished: hanging
tassel by tassel, panicled
foxtail and needlegrass,
dropseed, furred hawkweed,
and last season's rose-hips
are vested in silenced
chimes of the finest,
clearest sea-crystal.
                               Opacity
opens up rooms, a showcase
for the hueless moonflower
corolla, as Georgia
O'Keefe might have seen it,
of foghorns; the nodding
campanula of bell buoys;
the ticking, linear
         filigree of bird voices.      


poem by Amy Clampitt
 

 The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on
 
a very famous poem by Carl Sandburg
 
 
 It's a day so foggy that the houses across the street from me here at work are always hazy and not-quite visible. The sun will come out soon enough to burn it off, but until then I'm kind of enjoying the idea of my workplace existing all on its own, its own strange orange brick island.
 
These are my four favorite poems about fog. The last one is my favorite, of course, because it's short and perfect and because it's by Carl Sandburg. I will hear no ill words spoken of Carl Sandburg; he's one of my absolute favorite poets.
 
Which one is your favorite? Or do you have your own poem about fog you love, that I haven't put up here? Share it with me! It's looking like it'll be a quiet day at work and I'd love some new (or very, very old) poems to read to keep my brain busy. Seriously, people. If nobody helps me out I'm going to end up trying to figure out how to create a life-size dummy of myself out of gift shop products and tape.

1 comment:

  1. The first poem I thought of was Carl Sandburg's...and he was an Illinois boy--from Galesburg.

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