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:
Or this, toward the end:Like dead flies on the sill of an abandonednursery, we too are seeds in the rattleof mortality. A foglike baby godpicks it up, shakes it, laughs insanelythen goes back to playing with her feet.
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
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6 comments:
Oh, don't sugar-coat it.
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?
Oh yes. Some of the images are brilliant. He just cuts to the quick, that's all.
Yep. No argument here.
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.
Brenda, take a flashlight. Leave a trail of bread crumbs.
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