For some reason, I can’t explain why, there are a great many poems about fish. I mean rather there are many great poems about fish. What is it about fish, that is, the fish—which has that beautiful singular/plural confusion—to elicit such responses? Evolutionary ancestry? I don’t know.
Don’t get me started on idioms.
A big fish in a small pond. Fish out of water. Big fish. Fishing for a compliment. A fish story. Like a fish to water. We can teach a man to fish, though there plenty of other fish in the sea. There’s always a bigger fish. There’s a kettle of fish, as well as a barrel of them. I’ve met a few cold fishes in my life, for sure. There are fish eyes, fish tails, a fish-eating grin even. But that’s neither fish nor fowl. Queer fish? Why not.
At least some of my personal favorite poems are fish poems, which include the below. Moore, Bishop, Wheelwright, Myles. Read and enjoy.
Marianne Moore
The Fish
wade
through black jade.
Of the crow-blue mussel-shells, one keeps
adjusting the ash-heaps;
opening and shutting itself like
an
injured fan.
The barnacles which encrust the side
of the wave, cannot hide
there for the submerged shafts of the
sun,
split like spun
glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness
into the crevices—
in and out, illuminating
the
turquoise sea
of bodies. The water drives a wedge
of iron through the iron edge
of the cliff; whereupon the stars,
pink
rice-grains, ink-
bespattered jelly fish, crabs like green
lilies, and submarine
toadstools, slide each on the other.
All
external
marks of abuse are present on this
defiant edifice—
all the physical features of
ac-
cident—lack
of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and
hatchet strokes, these things stand
out on it; the chasm-side is
dead.
Repeated
evidence has proved that it can live
on what can not revive
its youth. The sea grows old in it.