Fishy Pancakes

14 12 2010

Ms. Ross slowly walked out onto her porch. She sat down and filled her lungs with the thick and rich various smells of spring. With quivering hands she opened her old poetry book. She spent late nights reading it. The book was frail, just like her, stained with tears and coffee and weathered and worn by ocean air. She read the first line of the poem, Death is a fisherman, the world we see . Her mind wandered.
At first she liked his forgetfulness. “He is so much nicer now” she would say.
His fish-pond is, and we the fishes be;
“Where am I,” he once asked.
“Home. You’re home”
“Okay”
His net some general sickness; howe’er he Is not so kind as other fishers be;
“Who the f—- are you?”
“Greta, Charles. Your wife”
She walked towards him.
“Don’t come near me!”
For if they take one of the smaller fry,
911.
Sirens.
Scared, hopeless eyes.
“Stop touching me!”
They throw him in again, he shall not die:
Greta sat in the chair.
Her eyes dozed in and out of conciousness. Back and forth between the sight of his empty eyes and the opening of her own.
She knew this day would come.
But death is sure to kill all he can get, And all is fish with him that comes to net.

A tear fell and spread across the paper as Ms. Ross looked beyond the horizon of the words.

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One response

16 12 2010
Mister Fischer

This is a very delicate story, one that hints and suggests rather than states. It’s a poem that exists within the world of poetic images, and that’s a neat effect. I think she might be “Mrs. Ross” rather than “Ms” if you want to emphasize that she was married to this man, the poet. That confused me at first.

Most of the images work really nicely, though some seem a little heavy-handed (the sirens, for example). This piece works best when it hints rather than pushes, and most of your images DO hint.

Again, what I like most is how this is carefully crafted. You have a great ear for language, and that makes for great story telling.

Assignment complete = 25/25

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