The road crests
and troughs.
Rising
from the water's edge
into clear night air,
then drops again
becalmed in fog.
Tendrils, wisps, and hints,
then dense;
a solid wall of white,
reflecting my lights,
condensing out
in heavy mist.
Wipers slap
at cool glass
ineffectively.
Existence ends
a foot, in any direction.
The edge of sound
smoothed-off.
The softly glowing opacity,
smoothed-off.
The softly glowing opacity,
the world
vanishing.
And the asphalt --
unlined, unmarked
has also gone.
But I cannot stop,
mesmerized
by the permutations of fog,
shifting, drifting
infinite.
The road lifts, and drops,
undulates over the spine of the earth
like waves of rock;
frozen, for tens of millions of years
and as long to unspool,
unthaw, re-heat, re-cool;
magnificently indifferent
to me.
But for an infinitesimal instant, I was here,
dipping in and out
of standing pools;
from hilltops
like uninhabited islands,
to valleys
feeling bottomless
swamped in fog.
Which appeared
out of thin air
and will be as suddenly gone.
When I hit the invisible wall
that guards the sunny uplands.
Out of reach
of the still black shore
of that glacial lake
that goes down deeper than light.
I like the contrast between transience and permanence. There is the insubstantial fog, which appears and vanishes. There is the landscape, which has the reassuring permanence of geologic time. And then there is me, riding its crests and troughs, but almost as fleeting as the fog, and too insignificant for the earth to take notice. And where "hit(ting) the invisible wall" of the final stanza could just as well be mortality as it is the boundary of invisibility: especially since I appear to be tempting death with my foolhardy driving.
The freezing lake of the final stanza calls back to the rocks, emphasizing this contrast of great age with impermanence: it is preternaturally still, glacial, impenetrable. And its reach encloses me, even at a distance; which reinforces the idea of my insignificance -- both helpless, and small.
Water runs through the poem: the mist; the waves of rock, which will later unthaw; the uninhabited islands; the pools of fog; the big cold lake. It's a bit of a unifying device; but I also hope it conveys the fog's cool chill.
Ii also wanted to convey a sense of claustrophobia: the muffled sound, the softly glowing opacity, the world vanishing. And one does get mesmerized: gazing at the beauty of the shifting fog, while forgetting that the road just disappeared! Which is especially dangerous out here, where the shoulders are narrow and soft, the road twists and turns, there are always deer, and the surface is unmarked -- so there isn't even a reflective line to follow.
The poem began as simple description. I wanted to convey the sensation of driving on this rising and falling road, into -- and out of -- these wallowing pools of fog. And I wanted to express the infinite permutations of fog. Because it's not uniform: it moves, and drifts; it thickens and thins. The rest came later. Because a poem will have no interest if it's just a stylistic exercise in description. It needs to have some dramatic or narrative quality. And it need some larger resonance, enough ambiguity to allude to something bigger.
has also gone.
But I cannot stop,
mesmerized
by the permutations of fog,
shifting, drifting
infinite.
The road lifts, and drops,
undulates over the spine of the earth
like waves of rock;
frozen, for tens of millions of years
and as long to unspool,
unthaw, re-heat, re-cool;
magnificently indifferent
to me.
But for an infinitesimal instant, I was here,
dipping in and out
of standing pools;
from hilltops
like uninhabited islands,
to valleys
feeling bottomless
swamped in fog.
Which appeared
out of thin air
and will be as suddenly gone.
When I hit the invisible wall
that guards the sunny uplands.
Out of reach
of the still black shore
of that glacial lake
that goes down deeper than light.
I like the contrast between transience and permanence. There is the insubstantial fog, which appears and vanishes. There is the landscape, which has the reassuring permanence of geologic time. And then there is me, riding its crests and troughs, but almost as fleeting as the fog, and too insignificant for the earth to take notice. And where "hit(ting) the invisible wall" of the final stanza could just as well be mortality as it is the boundary of invisibility: especially since I appear to be tempting death with my foolhardy driving.
The freezing lake of the final stanza calls back to the rocks, emphasizing this contrast of great age with impermanence: it is preternaturally still, glacial, impenetrable. And its reach encloses me, even at a distance; which reinforces the idea of my insignificance -- both helpless, and small.
Water runs through the poem: the mist; the waves of rock, which will later unthaw; the uninhabited islands; the pools of fog; the big cold lake. It's a bit of a unifying device; but I also hope it conveys the fog's cool chill.
Ii also wanted to convey a sense of claustrophobia: the muffled sound, the softly glowing opacity, the world vanishing. And one does get mesmerized: gazing at the beauty of the shifting fog, while forgetting that the road just disappeared! Which is especially dangerous out here, where the shoulders are narrow and soft, the road twists and turns, there are always deer, and the surface is unmarked -- so there isn't even a reflective line to follow.
The poem began as simple description. I wanted to convey the sensation of driving on this rising and falling road, into -- and out of -- these wallowing pools of fog. And I wanted to express the infinite permutations of fog. Because it's not uniform: it moves, and drifts; it thickens and thins. The rest came later. Because a poem will have no interest if it's just a stylistic exercise in description. It needs to have some dramatic or narrative quality. And it need some larger resonance, enough ambiguity to allude to something bigger.
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