The Fog at Dusk


The fog at dusk is crowded now
And the whispery voices of dead poets
Susurrate ‘round my head and through me
Like uninvited guests determined
To see me home or elsewhere,
Their resolution known to them alone;
I am but a pawn in this odd game
Of which I find myself the seeming prix de jour

“Remember,” rasps a husky voice, “All My Pretty Ones?”
Anne Sexton, to be sure; just to think of her, makes me smile
From beyond the grave; she sees it, and snaps,
“It wasn’t meant to amuse, my dear,” - then falls silent.
I am about to protest; I know that, but resist talking to
A spectre, for all that, when I feel chilly hands clamp
About my shoulders; I even look to see if they are there

Which, of course, they aren’t – or at least not visibly, but still
Their clamminess is such that I am tempted to pry off each cold finger
When a hollow chuckling in the mist is followed by Teasdale’s unmistakable lines,
“I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful,
when rain bends down the bough...”
Sighing deeply, I do relax, if even for a moment, so fond I am of this fine poem –
The title of which, eludes me for a second, no wait - “I Shall Not Care” -
Did that just come to me – or did I hear it muttered? I know not, but again, I tense.

Once more, voices swirl round, and I, still not surefooted on the path, stumble
Then, as if pitying me, a voice says, rich in tones all too knowing,
“Ennui... designing futures where nothing will occur...” - ‘tis Sylvia Plath
Who is slipping her hand in mine, in such comradely a fashion,
I am taken aback; rumour had it she could be aloof and difficult
It is dawning on me finally, as she quotes, out of hand,
the tiniest piece of her work,
Just where I am and why, and all the hapless rest,
my own boredom not the least of it

And Plath, impassive, as always, since that damned Bell Jar success
And all that followed, or didn’t, is nodding, touching
My wrists affectionately, approving I suppose of the unhealed
Slashes she’s observing; slashes that run deep and vertically,
A guarantee that I too, a failed successful poetess, have succeeded in death
And earned the right to be amongst this holy number, earned my place
With those gathered, in the fog at dusk; here, with all the dead poets, whispering.
S.E.Ingraham