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.
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.
|
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.
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 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.
…
…
by Carl Sandburg
Thanks for reading, Pam x
