Jun 2015
There is a strangeness in fog
that is palpable
and perhaps it is the strangeness in me
which responds
It is no accident I know
that I was raised
where fog is legend
and so remains
a cloying fact of life
for coastal Sunny California
is coldly blanketed each morning
six months of every year
in chilly dampness
What once was familiar
now changed
hidden within soft billows
of clouds brought to earth
the monotonous drip
from the leaves of the trees
the eaves of the roof
the rocks on the hillsides . . .
stars and planets obscured
only the mysterious moon
peeks through the diaphanous veil
lighting her shroud from above
now moving
now shifting
a glimpse of . . . something
caught
only to disappear once more
deep within the flowing haze
Yet where others find in fog
a thing to fear
I find in it a pleasure
seldom found elsewhere
for me familiar comfort
in the heavy grey mist
enveloping me
as a blanket of spirit
or ancestors
And perhaps it is this
the others fear
for the spirits of fog
can be cunning and cruel
hiding dangers
from those unwary
or disrespectful
But I miss the fog
laying low upon the cliffs
turning ordinary landscape
into otherworldly and strange
I long for the lonely cries
of the foghorn at sea
and should the sea monster come
I pray it finds
the love it seeks
Cori MacNaughton
19Jan2007
that is palpable
and perhaps it is the strangeness in me
which responds
It is no accident I know
that I was raised
where fog is legend
and so remains
a cloying fact of life
for coastal Sunny California
is coldly blanketed each morning
six months of every year
in chilly dampness
What once was familiar
now changed
hidden within soft billows
of clouds brought to earth
the monotonous drip
from the leaves of the trees
the eaves of the roof
the rocks on the hillsides . . .
stars and planets obscured
only the mysterious moon
peeks through the diaphanous veil
lighting her shroud from above
now moving
now shifting
a glimpse of . . . something
caught
only to disappear once more
deep within the flowing haze
Yet where others find in fog
a thing to fear
I find in it a pleasure
seldom found elsewhere
for me familiar comfort
in the heavy grey mist
enveloping me
as a blanket of spirit
or ancestors
And perhaps it is this
the others fear
for the spirits of fog
can be cunning and cruel
hiding dangers
from those unwary
or disrespectful
But I miss the fog
laying low upon the cliffs
turning ordinary landscape
into otherworldly and strange
I long for the lonely cries
of the foghorn at sea
and should the sea monster come
I pray it finds
the love it seeks
Cori MacNaughton
19Jan2007
This is one of my favorites, written about growing up in my native Southern California, with a nod to Ray Bradbury's short story "The Foghorn" (aka "The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms") at the end.
The first time I read this poem in public, shortly after it was written, the conversation in the Oxygen Bar (Dunedin, Florida) stilled to the point that, by the end of the poem, there was silence but for my voice. Having only begun reading my poems in public a couple of years before, that was an awesome experience, and having my boyfriend (now husband) there to witness it was wonderful. This was a favorite of my mother's, who introduced me to the Bradbury story, as it was her favorite short story.
This is the first time it appears in print.
The first time I read this poem in public, shortly after it was written, the conversation in the Oxygen Bar (Dunedin, Florida) stilled to the point that, by the end of the poem, there was silence but for my voice. Having only begun reading my poems in public a couple of years before, that was an awesome experience, and having my boyfriend (now husband) there to witness it was wonderful. This was a favorite of my mother's, who introduced me to the Bradbury story, as it was her favorite short story.
This is the first time it appears in print.
