Illustration from a Japanese children’s magazine. 1930s.
Hello Piscean Poets (and poets of all other astrological sensibilities),
On February 19th we said goodbye to the season of Aquarius and welcome in the days of the fish. Pisces is all about compassion, imagination, artistry, and the thinning of the veil between the boundaries that the world may often create between us.
Pisces is governed by Neptune, the planet of dreams and the subconscious and so it is no surprise that some of our most favorite and famous poets have been channeling the power of their sun sign, Pisces. Pisces is the Zodiac's twelfth house and so it champions healing (as most poems do in their own way).
Some poets with Pisces birthdays are Cesar Vallejo, Jack Kerouac, W.H. Auden, Gertrude Stein, Ovid, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
And to celebrate...enjoy this poem about a fish.
The Fish
Elizabeth Bishop - 1911-1979
I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
—the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly—
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
—It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
—if you could call it a lip—
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels—until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
By: Kate Belew