For A. Mole: The Poetry Of Fish

He asked, when you talk to a stranger in a bar, do you speak in poetry

Would a mundane conversation reveal revelation worthy of preservation

Guided by the idea, I went into a bar and some guy asked me, do you fish

Are there any good rivers or streams with trout, maybe bass

I nodded my head and said,

I listen to music and cry when I’m thinking about stuff

I cry so much the fish in the river get upset

They curse my tears as alien

Grouse about my loss of control

For them the universe swirls around their perfect movement in the water

Tears are simply unhelpful

But there is nothing to be done

That’s just the way of loving

Even though the fish don’t understand

I still feel sorry for them while standing in front of the fish counter at the market

Their bodies scattered about on the ice

Frozen schools, acting as if nothing has happened

The bar got very quiet and the stranger looked at me and said, I’ll get right on that

6 thoughts on “For A. Mole: The Poetry Of Fish

    1. At the moment it is all about Drive My Car, which is a meditative on things buried deep within. To paraphrase Arthur Miller, most people think that life is only on one side of the hand, turn the hand, there is where tragedy lies, there on the inside. I am wondering when it is that you pass from love to indifference and maybe into hatred. When do you say, we have crossed the line from happiness to sadness. It is a fault line rendered by infidelity, a suicide, an illness , something like that and gatherings with friends become stilted, awkward, desultory. Caresses fail to excite. The secret life of words evolves, just like humans, always shifting in the meaning of those letters, those sounds we call language. When does “I love you” mean something else? When does it become a lie? These are the things that trouble me. Love. Duke

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      1. I’ve been thinking about floating over the city and finding the spiral ribbons shooting up into the air of puppies whimpering, sometimes crying. These ribbons might be 30 or 40 feet high over neighborhoods. I’d take scissors with me and clip them into 20 or so foot sections. Cart them home and chop them into fire wood. It goes on from there. I end up inviting people to a party and these are people that I harbor a dislike inside, but they don’t know it. So, I sit them outside and build this fire with the crying of puppies and then watch them listen to the sound. I want to see how they will react. It is a short story. Duke

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      2. I just read the synopsis of a new book based on Sylvia Plath’s memoir The Bell Jar. Supposedly Plath felt owned but didn’t know by whom – by her husband, psychiatrist, overbearing mother, rival poets – and thus lashed out in her words.

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  1. a wonderful ‘stream of consciousness’ flowing from a mundane query. Yea, right on, fish do seem to have that ‘grouse’ mien as they meander about in their waterworld.

    Liked by 1 person

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