In Poem by Andrew Hudgins
In
When we first heard from blocks away
the fog truck's blustery roar,
we dropped our toys, leapt from our meals,
and scrambled out the door
into an evening briefly fuzzy.
We yearned to be transformed—
translated past confining flesh
to disembodied spirit. We swarmed
in thick smoke, taking human form
before we blurred again,
turned vague and then invisible,
in temporary heaven.
Freed of bodies by the fog,
we laughed, we sang, we shouted.
We were our voices, nothing else.
Voice was all we wanted.
The white clouds tumbled down our streets
pursued by spellbound children
who chased the most distorting clouds,
ecstatic in the poison.
It haunts me now how we played in the mosquito fogger's wake- no one, not even parents thought of its possible harm. This poet captured the allure of that fog and that experience of being veiled in its mystery.
Wonderful so original I loved it with a reflective passion.10+++ :)
This reminded me of Old England (not that I have ever been to England) it just had me picturing it. A very nice piece Andrew! ! Thankyou. Regards...Sharon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/23/2024 8:12:20 PM # 1.0.0.1119
This kind of writing separates the weekend poet from the greats- -to take an incident common to many such events in the fifties and bring it back visually and in deed physically is the mark of a true writer.