vague as fog, looked for like mail

 

 Week 30

I taught this poem for two years for my HKDSE Lit classes... but only now do I truly feel the anticipation, the affection, the mix of certainty and nervousness, and the startling realization of this new life being at once ours to steward and fully its own self.


You're

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools' Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.

                                                       - Sylvia Plath