Oct 11, 2011

"Son of Fog" by Dean Young: Is Fog a Gas?

You science people, is fog a gas? Are you sure?  In Tipton, Indiana, you can refill your tank at the Sherrill place, a combination diner and filling station. But in both pit stops and poetry, watch out for double meanings.

In Dean Young's fine and perhaps startling poem about fog, you'll find, among other lines, these winners:

Like dead flies on the sill of an abandoned   
nursery, we too are seeds in the rattle   
of mortality. A foglike baby god   
picks it up, shakes it, laughs insanely   
then goes back to playing with her feet.
    Or this, toward the end: 
   What a mess. We stand at the edge
    of a drop that doesn't answer back,
   fog our only friend although it's hell  
    on shrimpboats. 

        But don't take my word for it; read it all.

Son of Fog by Dean Young : Poetry Magazine



Anonymous said...

Oh, don't sugar-coat it.

Banjo52 said...

Yeah, I guess there's burlap and sandpaper here. But the man had a heart transplant in April. You know I try not to read biographies into the poems, but he could have been feeling pretty rotten by 2005. And even if Dean Young's health were fine, the poem presents one view of . . . stuff . . . that's legitimate, doesn't it?

Anonymous said...

Oh yes. Some of the images are brilliant. He just cuts to the quick, that's all.

Banjo52 said...

Yep. No argument here.

Brenda's Arizona said...

Yea, some of the images are brilliant. Most are. But some are just down unappealing. Why are those the ones that stick?
But it does make me want to see some fog and maybe even go stand in it.

Banjo52 said...

Brenda, take a flashlight. Leave a trail of bread crumbs.

Lovers' Lane