FOG:
SO WHAT?

Eight out of ten literary scholars who have examined this poem agree that what Carl Sandburg is doing in this poem is that he is comparing the fog to a cat. The cat comes in, see, on little cat feet, just as the fog does. The cat sits on its silent haunches (well, let’s hope they’re silent) just like the fog sits on its own haunches. Then – and this is perhaps the most striking similarity between fog and cat – it moves on. Those not trained in understanding the subtleties of modern poetry might find this all a little difficult to follow, so we’ll repeat it in a handy format, which you are welcome to cut out, plasticize, and carry in your wallet:

Cat comes in, sits, leaves. Fog, same.

How Carl Sandburg ever made a buck in the poetry racket is a mystery. Apparently, he was out sick the day the memo went around explaining that readers appreciate poems better when they have to work to understand them. he thought that he'd do something new, something different, such as writing simple and direct lines that people could understand just by reading them.

Of course, all poets think that their poetry is simple and direct. They think that they are communicating clearly, even when no one knows what they are talking about. Good poems are supposed to mean roughly the same thing to everyone: when average people don't "get" a poem, poets often prefer to believe that there are too many less-than-average people out there.

Even if Sandburg had written this poem in traditional poetic language, such as "O fog, o fog, how like a cat thou art," he still would have thought that he was writing in the language of common people, because that is just what poets think. Or else they pretend that the fact that no one knows what they are talking about is actually a good thing. Bad poets are like the people who finish long, rambling stories with, "He was looking at me like I was crazy! Hahahahahahaha!!"

 So, you have to give Carl Sandburg credit for recognizing what a huge pain in the neck poets can be when they try to clever. He has something simple to say – the fog's like a cat – and he says it, then shuts up about it. He says no more about it than absolutely needs to be said.

On the other hand. . . do we really want poems to give up their virtues so easily? It would be hard to imagine a world where they message of each poem was what we all understood at first glance. The highest praise reviewers could give any poem would no longer be "exquisite," but "duh." All of the literary critics would sit around with their hands even more idle than they are now, if that's possible, until they became hungry: then they would start plying their craft elsewhere, resulting in a buyers' market for busybodies and Nosy Parkers. 

Sandburg is also the guy who started his poem to Chicago with “HOG butcher for the world.” Another city, like Tucson or Boise, might have responded with,” Who are you calling a HOG butcher?” Chicago, however, derives great civic pride from the compliment, and shouts out a collective “T’anks!!” to Mr. Sandburg for recognizing the city’s collective artistry with snouts and chitterlings.

So, to recap: Carl Sandburg writes about cats and hog butchers to the world, and three out of five middle schools in the country are named after him. Young Master Poetical writes one poem in fifth grade about “Cat Butcher to the World,” and it’s all “psychiatric evaluation” this and “held until such time as can be determined” that. There ain’t no justice.