Tuesday, October 09, 2012

The Last Golden Fish


The night fish
swim in their dark pool
and are lovely for

as I imagine them
nudging to the surface

then drifting back down
in pattern 
after silver pattern

with only
the bright moon
to illuminate them until morning

when they
become just part of the
rippling movement of the shadows.



Peel the light away.
Oh look! Oh look!
A little fish

swimming free of
its capturing stone into
the wet astonishment.
Touch the impression
it made… how your
hand throbs…

how its eye remembers…
how long it took
to release itself…

(After a child’s drawing)

The red fish fly around the spinning sun
in the painted water:
blue… blue…

truest blue. The sun grows dizzy
and melts at the edges;
the water spins,

until it begins
to froth from the fishes’ mouths.
The red fish swim

—mouth to tail—
to  mouth—in a blurry circle,
a red fish whirlpool—

whirl—the red fish are caught—
caught in their red momentum.
They don’t know how to stop.

All is blended—blended now.
Everything freezes
into a churning circle of blue thought.

(Based on 'Elves and Animals Near A Translucent Pond with Water-Beings' by Antonio Giraurdier)

There are many shining colors here, despite the illusion of night. A soft glow of orange light streams down from the moon and spreads like a ripple. An underwater flower sways in the emulated air current.

A Water-Elf sits on the bank and looks at himself in reflection. His bright sleeves billow, nibbled by curious fish. He is no longer real, but this does not seem to bother him. He imagines what he knows, and it is so. He cradles the last of the Blue Things to his heart. They nuzzle against him with affectionate sighs.


This is the dreamscape of the floating child who enters this world that opens up to him as he slides down the tones of a fading lullaby into what he sometimes remembers. He watches himself drift upward from the watery shimmer.

There is a smile so sad on the face of the Water Elf that the child wants to ask what is the matter. But the Elf does not seem to notice the child—he is rocking his arms and crooning to the Blue Things. The curious child floats nearer.  It is the Water Elf who has created the dreamscape—and himself—and the sleeping Blue Things—and the dreaming child.



The invisible white fish
in the lake at night

with only the moonlight

to where 
the invisible white fish live

and with each other;

you imagine them: silver ripples
that move in unison—

that have no shadows—
that are invisible.

(After ‘Composition’ by Victor Vaserly)

Inside the maze
the golden fish swim to the edge
then swim away

to follow the jagged curve
and return again
to where they began.

Inside the maze
they ignite the golden darkness
they exist in—exaggerate themselves—

in a constant waver of motion
they follow and expand, as if they know
there is a way out, but trust what is familiar.


Our thanks today to Joyce Odam for the poems and pix, finishing up our current Seed of the Week: My Favorite Fish. It's appropriate that she send us photos of feathers, because of course birds are just fancy fish with wings.

Look to the green column at the right of this one for our new Seed of the Week, which is a photo. Send your seedy musings to kathykieth@hotmail.com and remember—there are no deadlines on SOWs. Calliope's Closet in the Fuchsia Links at the top of this column will give you more seeds that you can shake, well, whatever you're shaking at them....


Today's LittleNip:

—Joyce Odam

Legend says an ancient golden fish
survives in the icy moonlight
of winter in a lake as
wide and deep as lost time
where it still searches
for another
as golden
and as

(Nonet form first pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine)