Some months ago, we had some very foggy weather in Istanbul. I was on a ferry, which suddenly stopped in the middle of the Bosphorus and didn’t move for quite some time, waiting for the fog to lift. This is the resulting poem:
I’m stuck on a ferry,
staring at the fog.
It does feel kind of eerie –
when are we gonna go?
The visibility is zero,
although the shore is kind of near.
Or is it?
I don’t know.
The fog’s engulfed us.
Stranded in the strait,
it’s just the boat and me
and what looks like it could be the sea.
Intimacy.
Oh, wait a moment.
I forget
the crew,
the catering staff,
the pop folk band,
the passengers –
two hundred, maybe more,
all kept on board by the untimely fog.
The minds no longer race –
they wander leisurely.
Regrets and joys of past and present
emerge, no longer foggy,
clearer than ever.
A little fog to stop the rush,
to cleanse the mind,
the mind so busy
in conditions of fair weather.
Istanbul, February 2019
Purple Travel Path 