Poetry Friday: A June Fish Poem

I had a carefully prepared little entry for today's poetry Friday, but it got eaten by the computer. So I fall back on a poem that amuses me, and which is Month-Appropriate.

A fish poem for June, by Rupert Brooke (The South Seas, 1913)


Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream or Pond,
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear
For how unpleasant, if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And sure, the reverent eye must see
A Purpose in Liquidity.
We darkly know, by Faith we cry,
The future is not Wholly Dry.
Mud unto mud!-Death eddies near-
Not here the appointed End, not here!
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
Is wetter water, slimier slime!
And there (they trust) there swimmeth One
Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent and kind,
And under that Almighty Fin,
The littlest fish may enter in.
Oh! never fly conceals a hook,
Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,
but more than mundane weeds are there,
And mud, celestially fair;
Fat caterpillars drift around,
And Paradisal grubs are found;
Unfading moths, immortal flies,
And the worm that never dies.
And in that Heaven of all their wish,
There shall be no more land, say fish.

The poetry Friday roundup is at Hip Writer Mama today.

1 comment:

  1. Here's my favourite fish poem, by the great Hugh MacDiarmid

    ‘I see herrin’.’ — I hear the glad cry
    And ’gainst the moon see ilka blue jowl
    In turn as the fishermen haul on the nets
    And sing: ‘Come, shove in your heids and growl.’

    ‘Soom on, bonnie herrin’, soom on,’ they shout,
    Or ‘Come in, O come in, and see me,’
    ‘Come gie the auld man something to dae.
    It’ll be a braw change frae the sea.’

    O it’s ane o’ the bonniest sichts in the warld
    To watch the herrin’ come walkin’ on board
    In the wee sma’ ’oors o’ a simmer’s mornin’
    As if o’ their ain accord.

    For this is the way that God sees life,
    The haill jing-bang o’s appearin’
    Up owre frae the edge o’ naethingness
    — It’s his happy cries I’m hearin’.

    ‘Left, right — O come in and see me,’
    Reid and yellow and black and white
    Toddlin’ up into heaven thegither
    At peep o’ day frae the endless night.

    ‘I see herrin’.’ I hear his glad cry
    And ’gainst the moon see his muckle blue jowl,
    As he handles buoy-tow and bush-raip
    Singin’: ‘Come, shove in your heids and growl!’


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