Before the Mist
In Battersea Reach from Lindsey Houses, Whistler takes us to the edge of the world where the land gives out and the sea goes on and on right into the sky. Here, along this margin, the air manifests itself as mist, as the planet itself exhaling its hot breath over the cold ocean, as Emerson’s oversoul cloaking all, dampening everything—sound, colour, shape, and light. Whistler lets us stand and look out past seeing, past the almost hidden sailboats, past the white railing, past the three women in their long dresses and full skirts, each solid, each definite—grey and blue and mottled green and yellow-- each anchored on this side of eternity. Two turn at something the third has said beneath her parasol, divert their eyes to her pale round face, to her words which mingle with the mist. Far to their left, maybe fifteen feet down the rail, alone, one more woman floats, transparent, ethereal, the white bars showing through her. Less visible than the distant sailboats, she has already begun to transcend herself, to become more aeriform than human, to loose herself to the infinite expanse of sea and sky and longing, to escape our earthly frame. Cecil Morris Cecil Morris retired after 37 years of teaching high school English in California, where he wrote numerous memos, lesson plans, and the occasional poem. He has had a few poems published, mostly in English teacher magazines (English Journal and California English) and small literary magazines (Poem and Hiram Review).
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
The Ekphrastic Review
Find a writer, artist, or poem, etc. by searching here: Join us on FB and Twitter!
January 2021
|