_refugee_'s beautifully written post here has been rubbing its back upon the window-panes of my imagination. Thus, I propose that anyone feeling so inclined write their own poems of fog and mist. Particularly, perhaps, about the fog that prevents us from seeing one another clearly: the fog within and without that keeps me from getting close to you.
Haven't written for a few months... liberal application of WD40
Also might be severely navel gazing with this one. Honest critique appreciated :3 (Note This doesn't really feel done* to me, but I feel like I've painted myself into a corner.) Cleaned often or not, I still can't see
What's near, and right in front of me. A brush of cloth, or clear insight
Brings sharp focus, mirror bright. Briefly seen and briefer known,
Ego, Id, and not alone. There deep within the fogging vision,
All mans love, and our derision. Love again, and fear and pain,
and tenderness, and love again. I think I know these loathsome depths,
These soaring highs at which I wept, We're not so different, mirror and I,
More similar than would appearance belie, But even with this realization,
fog coats the mirror with perspiration, Until a cloth again I brush,
this truth shall know a gentle hush. Like mist across a mirror pane,
I'll slowly forget I'm you again.
I love rhyming poems. The only place where there seems to be an extra syllable is the word "appearance." Maybe you can change it to "looks." The line breaks are not showing up as you intend them unless you put two blank lines where you want a new line.
(Then I'll take another look) Better still, indent
Two spaces and your
Poems will look like this.
Yes much better. I think that's some of what the poem is asking. Yes? No?might be severely navel gazing
Poetry is a good place to do it. Questions of identity are important (in my world anyway). Who am I? How do I come across to others? Can I change what I see in the mirror? Do I have a core sense of self that I carry with me? Am I lovable?
That's definitely a way to read it, and the thought definitely crossed my mind a few times when I was rereading sections while finishing it. In writing it I was thinking more about how when we get to know people intimately, there is a certain reflection of oneself visible in them. You can look at them, at their actions, into their eyes and empathize so completely that you become them, in a way.I think that's some of what the poem is asking. Yes? No?
Put your hands together
Breath in through your nose
Out through your mouth
Close your eyes
Now, tell me what you see
Is it clear, can you see the sky
Or is the fog sitting on your chest again
Are you winded
I said, "in through the nose"
Why aren't your hands together
Where is your mouth
We were writing poems at the same time on the same topic. Must be the psychic paging system. Again. The lines here about breathing remind me of a conversation I had today about breathing - conversation with a diver about encounters with sharks. He says that sharks can hear much better than he can under water - they can hear his breathing and heartbeat. Who, I wondered, tests shark hearing? I always read your poems as songs. Regarding the poem here: purposefully not look too hard: ouch.
Re the breathing, it was in my head because it's what I ask my daughter to do when she is in the midst of a crying fit. "relax, put your hands together and breathe with me," though it never seems to go that smoothly. Maybe I need a new approach? Thing is, I think I should take my own advice more often and perhaps that's where this poem comes in. As for the sharks, I'm not sure whose job it is to test their hearing, just glad it's not mine. -That said, I'm often shocked by the jobs people have when I meet them.purposefully not look too hard: ouch.
-Yeah, I thought the same thing after I wrote it.
though it never seems to go that smoothly. Maybe I need a new approach?
Maybe. My mother is a child and family therapist and she would say to just empathize and completely accept your daughter's feelings and she will calm herself down. Say, "You're feeling so sad [mad, upset, frustrated] when that happens. You wish ... -- whatever it is she wishes would happen."
An idea of her
A fragment of soul gleaned from
across the room. Surrounded by a mist of love
my daydream fills in the glove
that I can't be sure she fits.
Guessing games garner
a personality, how she walks, the way she laughs... Blinded by the fog
my figment is betrayed, my imagination has
strayed. I'm returned to reality as we converse
and my conception of her
dwindles in the light.
Exodus The ninth plague: Darkness
so thick it could be felt The fog rolls in
with your call Choking, I
can't breathe Or see
Your Skyped face You watch the ballgame
While talking I say, "Look at me
Look at your screen." The game stays on
But my screen goes dark.