Goldfish - All the Fun at the Fair

I remember the goldfish. It probably had the shortest life of any pet. We already had the dog, the ever-pregnant cat, so we also had a couple of kittens; a budgie and now a goldfish. I was thrilled to win it at a fairground attraction though I’ve completely forgotten what skills won me the prize. I carried it tightly in the water-filled plastic bag and took extra care in the back of my friend’s father’s car where at least four of us were jammed in for the journey home. No restrictions in the good old days. It was the beginning of the summer holidays. Our primary education was over and the prospect of going to secondary school was a million light years away and certainly not worth mentioning.  We’d had a great day out. I’d eaten parched peas for the first time and we’d all had a hotdog and a toffee apple. We were hot, tired and squashed and we soon got bored of thinking of a name for my goldfish. It became Goldie. In spite of all the wriggling and shoving on the back seat, not a drop of water was spilt and I got Goldie home in one piece.

No, of course we don’t have a goldfish bowl or a fish tank, and no, Mummy, I hadn’t considered any of the points you’re making right now…and I was having a lovely day. Was.

Goldie was temporarily housed in a crystal punch bowl, which was part of a set and apparently my Nanna would go mad if she knew about it. Despite having such a posh home and the best food from the local pet shop, Goldie only lived for two days.

I thought it was just resting, I’d never seen a dead goldfish before. It was floating on its side at the top of the bowl. My mother was full of sympathy and explained that from her own experience, goldfish from fairs didn’t always last very long and that was why she had bought it food but not a proper container. I could have another one from the pet shop if I wanted. I didn’t bother.

 Goldie was a living memory of the wonderful day I’d spent at the fair with friends and the generosity of someone else’s parents. We were moving on into different schools, staying friends, but there would be changes ahead. Another goldfish wouldn’t mean the same.

The punch bowl was returned to the sideboard and as far as I know, Nanna never found out.

I couldn’t choose between these two poems, so here they both are.

Privacy  Oh you who are shy of the popular eye, (Though most of us seek to survive it) Just think of the goldfish who wanted to die Because she could never be private.   There are pebbles and reeds for aquarium needs Of eel and of pike who are bold fish; But who gives a thought to a sheltering spot For the sensitive soul of a goldfish?   So the poor little thing swam around in a ring, In a globe of a crystalline crudity; Swam round and swam round, but no refuge she found From the public display of her nudity; No weedy retreat for a cloister discreet, From the eye of the mob to exempt her; Can you wonder she paled, and her appetite failed, Till even a fly couldn't tempt her?   I watched with dismay as she faded away; Each day she grew slimmer and slimmer.   From an amber hat burned, to a silver she turned Then swiftly was dimmer and dimmer.   No longer she gleamed, like a spectre she seemed, One morning I anxiously sought her: I only could stare - she no longer was there .  .  .     She'd simply dissolved in the water.   So when you behold bright fishes of gold, In globes of immaculate purity; Just think how they'd be more contented and free If you gave them a little obscurity.   And you who make laws, get busy because You can brighten the lives of untold fish, If its sadness you note, and a measure promote To Ensure Private Life For The Goldfish.

By Robert William Service

White Ash

 

 THERE is a woman on Michigan Boulevard keeps a parrot and goldfish and two white mice.

She used to keep a houseful of girls in kimonos and three pushbuttons on the front door.

Now she is alone with a parrot and goldfish and two white mice … but these are some of her thoughts:

The love of a soldier on furlough or a sailor on shore leave burns with a bonfire red and saffron.

The love of an emigrant workman whose wife is a thousand miles away burns with a blue smoke.

The love of a young man whose sweetheart married an older man for money burns with a sputtering uncertain flame.

And there is a love … one in a thousand … burns clean and is gone leaving a white ash.
…

 And this is a thought she never explains to the parrot and goldfish and two white mice.

by Carl Sandburg

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Difficulty of Finding...

I have been struggling to write for too many months now. I can just about manage a few sentences, a list of observations, the odd scribble about last night's dream, but the voice of poetry evades me.

I did find it for a moment - the early hours of Saturday morning brought poetic chorus through the darkness, as if morning was finally going to dawn. I wrote the first nine words of a line and they felt like poetry, tasted like poetry. Those nine words - which seemed to be just the right words, in the right order - were like a fix. My boyfriend watched as my eyes lit and my fingers tapped out rhythm on the air. My lips made the shapes of those nine words over and over again, producing a whisper to coax my ear and mind into uncovering another line.

On parts of the track the rain has gathered,

clear and still in mud hollows

clear and still and deep in the mud dirt.

Lakes that give the forest to us again

again. As if a dream, we are giants

as if it were a dream and we were giants

able to pick hundred year old

able to pluck ancient oaks firs from the water like reeds.

Eventually all gained momentum ceased as the stanza found its end. It had ended where I hadn't anticipated or expected. This stanza, which had been thought of as an opening, now felt more like a dead-end, like I had written myself into a corner and couldn't quite figure out how to write myself back out.

I left the poetry puzzle attached to the pad. Occasionally, throughout Saturday afternoon, I glanced at the words to check if I still liked them.

As night approached, my cat came fumbling in from the window, patrolled the perimeter of the lounge before circling inwards and stepping his damp paws across the laptop and then the paper pad.            I liked the way he caused a few of the words to have inky atmospheres - as if each were a solitary planet within a universe I still fail to truly comprehend.

*          *          *

There is a turbulence between mind and creativity. At some point the poetry puzzle was torn from the pad, squeezed between clenched hands until it was compact and circular.

I thought it had been taken by the bin men.          But it hadn't.

This morning when I found the yellow paper orb tucked behind a bookend it made me think how love will always try its hardest to preserve. I wondered how much else might have been saved if love had been there longer - imagined a mountain built from thrown away paper.

Over time, something begins to accumulate - like mercury within the bodies of hat makers - and the challenge is in remembering

                                                                       who

                                                                              am

                                                                                     I

Thank you for reading,

Lara 

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My Family of Familiars

My Family of Familiars

So Mouse said it is fine,

And Cat agreed the line.

Yet Dog was not so keen,

For Rabbit to make a scene.

So Frog made for the road,

While the others all blamed Toad.

And Hamster chewed her seeds,

Sitting on Chicken's knee.

As Newt gave all the eye,

The large Raven flew on by.

Leaving Snake upon the ground,

With the Spiders running round.

“STOP!” cried the Witch,

“For I've had enough of this”

And she put the Spiders in their web,

Picked up Snake by his head.

Called Raven to it's perch,

Placed Newt on a bookshelf verge.

Took Chicken out to the Coop,

Put Hamster with her group.

Told Toad not to roam,

Then made Frog go back home.

She pushed Rabbit into her hutch,

Sent Dog to bed with slightest touch.

Insisted that Cat slept by the broom,

Ordered Mouse back to her room.

“That's better” said the Witch, looking in the mirror,

“Good night to everyone of you, my trust familiars”

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Stabbing the Cat

 By Ashley Lister

 This past week has been a learning experience for me. It’s been a week where I’ve learnt that what’s 'child’s play' to one person is not necessarily so simple to someone else.

As many of you probably know, Tracy has been taken into hospital with pneumonia. I won’t make any comments here about the incompetence of her local GP, Dr Malpractice, who said she just had flu and should go home and inhale warm water. This is neither the time nor the place to make such cheap jibes against incompetents.

I will say, whilst Tracy’s been away from home, I’ve been learning how to do those jobs around the house that normally fall under the rubric of her responsibility.

Most of this stuff was child’s play. I was able to watch soaps, whine and moan about the neighbours and park the car badly without any additional training or assistance. However, the real challenge came when I was trying to stab the cat.

Mo, our cat, is diabetic. He requires daily insulin injections. Administration of this has always been Tracy’s job since he was first diagnosed with the illness. It’s always been seen as best that she deals with this as I have a bedside manner that’s somewhere between Harold Shipman and Beverley Allitt.

But this week, because she was malingering on a respirator in the hospital, I needed to medicate the cat.

Mo’s dosage is relatively simple: 3 International Units each morning approximately thirty minutes after his first feed of the day. It helps that Mo is supremely good-natured about injections. He lies there and allows amateurs like me to prod, pull and poke as though he’s a stuffed toy. If anything, he’s suspiciously good-natured about injections. In a previous life I suspect he had some sort of substance-abuse habit.

Anyway, according to perceived medical wisdom, the correct way to inject insulin into a cat is to lightly pinch flesh at the back of the neck. The flesh should then be ‘tented’ so there is a hollow where the needle can be slipped. Holding the syringe parallel to the body, the insulin can then be injected.

It sounds so simple.

Written on the page it looks like it’s no more trouble than giving him his dinner.

In real life, it’s all laced with the worry that you’re holding a dangerously sharp needle, filled with a substance that could prove lethal if administered incorrectly. It goes without saying that the practitioner should have steady hands and the cat should have a steady body. And there’s no mention that the cat might decide to mess about instead of simply laying there.

It took me an hour on the first day.

It took two hours on the second day.

He hid. He ran. He jumped. He did everything to avoid being injected. At one point I thought I was going to have to hurl the syringe at him as though I was a darts player and he was a galloping dartboard. When I finally got the syringe near him I didn’t inject before plunging and had to refill my syringe with a fresh dose of insulin and then start the whole process again.

On the third day, empowered by experience and determination, it took less than five minutes.

I’m still not up to Tracy’s efficient skills at stabbing the cat. She can manage it in mere seconds. But not everything in life is child’s play. And there’d be no sense of satisfaction in accomplishment if everything was so simple.

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