Betta Fish Forum banner

The Poet and the Fish

41K views 469 replies 31 participants last post by  Hallyx 
#1 · (Edited)
I like journalling. I especially like it when it helps me to remember important things, or follows the progress of something I'm working on.

Plus, I'm a poet. We never can shut up, anyway. ;)

I bought my deep red VT betta (Sid Fishus) from the typical can't-be-arsed pet shop, with no real clue of how to keep him. The ensuing panic, once I discovered everything I thought I knew was a load of old cobblers, has amounted to a crash course in betta-keeping.

Sid went from a gallon barrel-vase to a 2-and-a-bit gallon IQ3 cube, to a 3-and-half-ish gallon IQ3 cube (which is where he'll stay put for a while!) in a week and a half, poor little guy. I'm happy with his present tank, which has several species of low to mid-light plants and a nice mangrove root sculpture that doubles as hidey-place for Mr. Fishus.

During this week I discovered Sid has a parasite problem, which I'm working on fixing (though his poo seems to have normalised somewhat; still, I am keeping a eye on that and will buy the cure anyhow just in case). And then his fin tips grew fuzzy white balls, so he resembled some sort of miniature aquatic Santa's helper for a day or so - I still don't know exactly what that was, but it seems to be clearing up of its own accord. Again, keeping a close eye on it.

He has curling and sticking at the tips of his dorsal fin and tail, too -- it looks like somebody's tried to wring his fin out and quit halfway through. I'm assuming these are old problems as the rest of his fins seem healthy. I read that this is caused by bad water conditions, and sometimes by not having any room to swim properly. Maybe those problem bits will grow out, eventually.

He's also really small. I noticed this only by actually seeing some other bettas in person at the pet store (Sid was the only one in the store I bought him from). The others were much larger than him in length and body mass. So he's a squirt. That's okay.

Sid is really a happy guy now. He's a tuffypants, and has weathered all these massive lifestyle and environmental changes really well. We just did a 50% water change and now he's patrolling about, perhaps just to see whether I snuck any rival fish in while he wasn't looking.

Anyway, here's some pics of Sid looking a bit thin and pathetic, taken quite recently. I'm hoping over time that his general condition will pick up and he'll come to look as magnificent as some of the Veiltails in the picture thread here. And - if not? I'll just have to love him to bits anyway. ;)







I haven't found a poem about bettas yet, but I'd like to share this fish poem by Elizabeth Bishop, which I've always loved:



The Fish
by Elizabeth Bishop


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.
 
See less See more
2
#2 ·
Poor Sid. He hasn't flared properly or blown a bubble nest since I brought him home.

That's been perfectly okay by me. He's thin and kind of sickly, and lots has changed in a week for him. He'll get around to these things when he's feeling better, I thought.

So, I'm walking out of the kitchen just now, after making a very late-night snack of various yummy sliced things. I pass Sid's tank and as usual give him a little wave and hello, and was expecting his usual friendly feed-me-please finwiggle.

But -- nope. No finwiggle. Sid Fishus was fully flared and out for a fight. Clearly something had him worked up, but I couldn't figure out what. It took me a full minute of looking around for the cause, before I realised that he was malevolently eyeballing the slice of cheddar cheese I was holding in my hand as I waved to him.

So apparently my fish is aggravated by -- cheese. :shock:
 
#5 ·
Ahaha! No cheesecake for Sid. :|

So, this morning my darling Daughter (who is 13 and currently seems to enjoy a solitary, cavelike habitat) comes bolting in to wake me up, super-early.

"Mum! The fish! Hurry!"

I can't move all that quickly at the best of times. But move, I did. I was expecting some massive aquarium disaster or perhaps a dead betta, and steeled myself for the worst.

What I found was Sid swanning around his tank like a Spanish galleon in full sail. Daughter was beaming.

"I think he's feeling better, Mum."

I had to agree. Daughter also pointed out that his fins had no sign of white fuzzies at all, and while they looked a little ragged (which I'll watch) they had also lost many of the knot-like lumps on their tips that had previously prevented him from flaring properly, I think.

Now, to sort out his parasite issue. If anyone had told me a fortnight ago that I was soon to become an obsessive observer of fish poo, I'd have said they were mad.

His poo seems to curl into a tight spiral at the end, and I am thinking this is the 'white blob' I had been observing (and stressing out about) a few days ago. Today it was a more normal colour, but I am still not happy with how white it has been since he got here.

He seems to be filling out, very slowly. I upped his food intake to two pellets per feed (twice a day) and two small or one large brine shrimp. He's still skinny, but not so bony as he was a few days ago, when he appeared to be declining in weight.

So perhaps I can at last relax a little bit and simply enjoy my on-the-mend and very happy fish.

Here's another fish-related poem, this time by Marianne Moore. I'm not a huge fan of hers, really, but I do enjoy some of her work.

Still no betta poems to be found! Perhaps I'll write some. :) Or maybe somebody else would like to write one? Or has already? I'd love to read it, if so!


The Fish
by Marianne Moore


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.
 
#7 ·
I think Sid has ich! In fact, I'm sure of it. Just three spots, right now, small ones. Off to the shops for aquarium salt tomorrow, and ich cure in case the salt isn't effective.

Oh, well. I hope being treated for ich doesn't stress him out too badly. I'll have to pick up a heater for the little 2g tank, as I can't put salt in with his plants, apparently. 25w ought to be not too much?

Poor wee fishy. He deserves a break! And just when he's really beginning to enjoy life, too. He's been flaring at me all day - I think it's the fuschia pink t-shirt I wore. And scooting about his tank like a little shark, on the prowl for 'elusive' brine shrimp and those sneaky, invisible bettas that he just knows are lurking, somewhere....

Here's a poem by Nancy Willard, who I haven't read very much of, but probably ought to:


A Wreath to the Fish
by Nancy Willard


Who is this fish, still wearing its wealth,
flat on my drainboard, dead asleep,
its suit of mail proof only against the stream?
What is it to live in a stream,
to dwell forever in a tunnel of cold,
never to leave your shining birthsuit,
never to spend your inheritance of thin coins?
And who is the stream, who lolls all day
in an unmade bed, living on nothing but weather,
singing, a little mad in the head,
opening her apron to shells, carcasses, crabs,
eyeglasses, the lines of fisherman begging for
news from the interior-oh, who are these lines
that link a big sky to a small stream
that go down for great things:
the cold muscle of the trout,
the shinning scrawl of the eel in a difficult passage,
hooked-but who is this hook, this cunning
and faithful fanatic who will not let go
but holds the false bait and the true worm alike
and tears the fish, yet gives it up to the basket
in which it will ride to the kitchen
of someone important, perhaps the Pope
who rejoices that his cook has found such a fish
and blesses it and eats it and rises, saying,
"Children, what is it to live in the stream,
day after day, and come at last to the table,
transfigured with spices and herbs,
a little martyr, a little miracle;
children, children, who is this fish?"
 
#8 · (Edited)
So, another trip to the LFS, to get ich cure and salt and stuff. It left me cranky. They've replaced the really ill and dead bettas with an array of fresh ones. Poor little sods. And the bimbo working the counter was so proud of her five bettas at home all kept in 500ml betta boxes, because they're all so healthy, and I was actually wrongheaded in thinking that my betta needed as much as 3.5 gallons because SEE? Right here, it says they live in mud puddles and IT'S IN A BOOK LADY so SHUT the hell UP OKAY -- was the general vibe.

Right.

I grit my teeth, paid for my salt. I hope get I better REAL soon so I can find another place to buy my fish related things.

Aaaanyway. Sid's on the ich cure - the one guy in that shop who knew his arse from his elbow was actually pretty helpful and talked to me about the parasite's life cycle, etc, and seemed to give a damn about the well-being of my wee fishy. And since the ich is in its very early stages, it ought to clear up just fine.

Sid seems happy enough, burbling around as he has been these past few days, flaring at the flies (Aussie summer = tiny black flies EVERYWHERE) which land on his tank. He gets cross because he can't catch them and goes to sulk in his hammock. Cute factor 9.5.

To cheer myself from the trauma of dealing with the fish bimbo and her cupped array of doomed bettas, I went looking for today's fish-related poem.

Another poet I haven't read before, but really must: Rupert Brooke, 1887-1915. He was a terribly handsome, terribly emotional young Englishman who was buddies for a time with Virginia Woolf. He died at age 27, of a mosquito bite.

There's a lot to like about this poem. The phrasing is really very beautiful in places - "the exquisite knocking of the blood".. sigh. <3

The Fish
by Rupert Brooke

In a cool curving world he lies
And ripples with dark ecstasies.
The kind luxurious lapse and steal
Shapes all his universe to feel
And know and be; the clinging stream
Closes his memory, glooms his dream,
Who lips the roots o' the shore, and glides
Superb on unreturning tides.
Those silent waters weave for him
A fluctuant mutable world and dim,
Where wavering masses bulge and gape
Mysterious, and shape to shape
Dies momently through whorl and hollow,
And form and line and solid follow
Solid and line and form to dream
Fantastic down the eternal stream;
An obscure world, a shifting world,
Bulbous, or pulled to thin, or curled,
Or serpentine, or driving arrows,
Or serene slidings, or March narrows.
There slipping wave and shore are one,
And weed and mud. No ray of sun,
But glow to glow fades down the deep
(As dream to unknown dream in sleep);
Shaken translucency illumes
The hyaline of drifting glooms;
The strange soft-handed depth subdues
Drowned colour there, but black to hues,
As death to living, decomposes--
Red darkness of the heart of roses,
Blue brilliant from dead starless skies,
And gold that lies behind the eyes,
The unknown unnameable sightless white
That is the essential flame of night,
Lustreless purple, hooded green,
The myriad hues that lie between
Darkness and darkness!...
And all's one.
Gentle, embracing, quiet, dun,
The world he rests in, world he knows,
Perpetual curving. Only grows
An eddy in that ordered falling,
A knowledge from the gloom, a calling
Weed in the wave, gleam in the mud--
The dark fire leaps along his blood;
Dateless and deathless, blind and still,
The intricate impulse works its will;
His woven world drops back; and he,
Sans providence, sans memory,
Unconscious and directly driven,
Fades to some dank sufficient heaven.
O world of lips, O world of laughter,
Where hope is fleet and thought flies after,
Of lights in the clear night, of cries
That drift along the wave and rise
Thin to the glittering stars above,
You know the hands, the eyes of love!
The strife of limbs, the sightless clinging,
The infinite distance, and the singing
Blown by the wind, a flame of sound,
The gleam, the flowers, and vast around
The horizon, and the heights above
You know the sigh, the song of love!
But there the night is close, and there
Darkness is cold and strange and bare,
And the secret deeps are whisperless;
And rhythm is all deliciousness;
And joy is in the throbbing tide,
Whose intricate fingers beat and glide
In felt bewildering harmonies
Of trembling touch; and music is
The exquisite knocking of the blood.
Space is no more, under the mud;
His bliss is older than the sun.
Silent and straight the waters run.
The lights, the cries, the willows dim,
And the dark tide are one with him.
 
#9 ·
Oh oops, I also bought a bottle of Prime and some Stress Guard, to add to my fishy first aid kit. The ich cure is Protozin, which Mr. Elbow said was less stressful for a betta.

I wanted to try salt, but one of the ich spots looks like it could become quite huge and nasty very soon, and I'm not very confident yet about my ability to get the salt thing right.

Sid's eating well. He had one last mystery-fuzzball appear on another fin-tip and then vanish a few hours later. His fins could be in better shape, but that was the case when I got him and they don't seem to be infected or falling apart. I'm wondering whether this might actually be him shedding the gnarled-up knot bits that were compressing the ends of his fins.

Time will tell, I guess. I am remaining fin-vigilant.

My housemate came with me to the shop today and we went to visit the lovely macrostoma and his fry there. The display tanks (unlike macro's poor cousins in their godawful, dirty cups) there are kept quite well, and this macrostoma is the first one I have ever seen. Impressed? Why, yes I am.

He looks a lot like this one:



and is kept in a dark water tank, very natural looking.

I want. This fish. Want it. Yes, I do.

They're much bigger than betta splendens - a good 3-4 inches long and bulky with it. I was surprised at how robust it was, compared to the fancy bettas. The fry are stripey and .. well, cute. Bigger than they were a few days ago.

Something to aspire to, in years to come. :)
 
#10 ·
Being a parent isn't easy. <--- call me Cap'n Obvious :roll:

More specifically, it isn't easy to recognise that your child isn't an extension of yourself, and therefore may hold some radically different ideas, ideals and values.

Even more specifically, Daughter has no issue buying a betta from the LFS, whereas I have made a bit of a stand on that front and sworn never to buy a betta from a pet outlet again. Nevertheless, she wanted to give one of these pathetically neglected bettas a home.

How can I fault her for intending a kindness, when at her age altruism so often is not a priority?

I did warn her that the fish were in bad shape. I agreed to go with her, and she agreed to choose one of the healthier fish.

So - it was awful. Daughter held herself together pretty well at the betta display, where fish were in two inches of water, some with a thick green algae grown over it, others lying listlessly in a bed of their own waste. So many beautiful bettas - and some that had lost all their colour. But then she saw the littlest fellow of them all, dead in his cup - and she burst out crying.

Nobody cries like Daughter. It's enough to break your heart. We chose a blue/turquoise half moon betta boy, though she considered some of the weaker ones. I told her no - this is her first betta, as Sid is my first one, and I want her to have as healthy a fish as we were likely to find there. So, the HM it was.

We both said some strong words to several staff members about the state of the bettas. I was so, so proud of Daughter for being mature about it, even though she was visibly upset. "The way you keep those fish back there in dirty water is just wrong," she said, through tears. "And some of them are dead."

I quietly mentioned that I had come there to purchase a pet, not adopt a neglected, sick animal and the betta's conditions were shameful. And if the fish were so badly off that it made my daughter cry, it ought to damn well tell them something.

Perhaps the fact that LFS was full of customers who were all witness to our dismay prompted a promise from the staff members that they "would see to it".

We left on a polite note. I will not tell Daughter what to believe in or what to stand up for, it's not my place to do that. But I hope she saw my point of view at least, as I can see hers.

She said she's going back in a week, to check on the bettas. And has sworn she'll call the RSPCA if thier condition has not improved.

That's my girl. :)

The HM boy is a little shell shocked (being literally DUMPED out of his dirty little cup into the take-home bag by the idiot tending the tropical tanks did not help :|..)

He's quite pale, and I'm worried the transition from neglect to a clean, warm tank was a bit much for him, though we did bob him for an hour and added a little Stress Guard to the tank water.

So now we have two bettas, and several important lessons learned, and a lovely new hobby to share.

But that tiny little colourless fellow who'd passed on well before we got there will stick in my mind for a long while, I think.
 
#11 ·
I would just like to say OMG! I love his name, Sid Fishus! That's genius and hysterical! I have a betta at my mom's house named Bruce Fishinson... lmao! welcome! I like to write poems too, though I've been more into stories lately.
 
#12 · (Edited)
Daughter's decided to join the forum, also! So if Newfish (whose name might change several times over the coming days) settles in well, I dare say there'll be pics of him.

He's currently huddled against the heater, I think he likes being warm) and isn't quite so pale as when I last checked.

Sid's last ich spot is being stubborn. But aside from that, he's doing swimmingly (yes, that was a fishpun). Putting on weight consistently, and challenging anyone who dares to wear pink in his presence.

That fish really has a problem with pink.. as well as cheese. :lol:

PS: Nice to meet you Mandice, and haha, yes, Daughter picked that name, she's a huge Pistols fan. I've been too busy and prose-minded to feel much like writing poetry lately, but I'm hoping to get in the flow soon. I'm attempting a bunch of very short sci-fi stories for a web zine, which is fun.
 
#13 ·
Dear Aus and Daughter! I love reading this thread. Please keep writing, I'm following along. My Betta in my pictures was Fishbert. (rip) I think the current in his 10 Gallon to himself from the HOB filter was just too much for him. He always seemed to be clinging to something rather than resting on something.
I love the poems too. (thank goodness for copy and paste huh?)
I'm sure you will sit down and write us a Betta poem one day!

I'm very proud of your daughter for taking a stand. Amazing the lessons we can learn from a tiny little life on a shelf in a cup! Bravo.
 
#14 · (Edited)
Thank you, Jakiebabie. I'm proud of her, too. :)

So sorry about Fishbert's passing. Do you think you'll get another betta? As to what we can learn from them - it really is amazing what positive change our Sid has created, just by being his fishy self.

I'm glad you're enjoying my rambling, lol. And the poems, too. I almost forgot today's poem! A prose-poem, since prose is the flavour of today, it seems. And yes, c&p is mighty handy, it spares my fingers a lot of grief.


FISH TANK
by Rochelle Ratner

It just seems perverse to her, to have this fish tank dead center in the ophthalmologist’s waiting room. To have people sit trapped and facing those small moving forms, their reflections captured in the glass at different angles. Black and white against green foliage and rich brown coral, small stripes, wide stripes, hints of red, not to mention pebbles. Deep unmoving and unflinching eyes. Relentless sound of gurgling. New shapes appearing out of nowhere. One with long, thin whiskers that she didn’t see before.
 
#15 ·
Well Fishbert's 10 Gallon is now home to about 60 itty itty bitty 5 day old Swordtail babies, Mom & Dad are in my 75 Gallon. Moved Mom over last week and next morning TaDa!! There is a local fish club who holds an annual auction April 15th so they will be 2 months old then and taken there. Or the LFS will take them. (and pays $). I know I will get another Betta some day. If you look at my Aquarium pics I once had a single Betta and a single goldfish together in the old tank... the pic with the dog. 45 Gal tall. Betta LOVED it!!

You know that this is an addiction right? :rofl:
 
#16 ·
JB, I like swordtails, and awh babies! As for fishy addictions - I'm beginning to understand how it happens. Especially with bettas, they have huge personalities for such tiny critters.

I think Sid's stubborn ich spot may have finally fallen off. It's hard to tell, because he won't stay still long enough for me to get a good look. :| Silly fish. Either way, I'm still not happy with the lump he's got there, though it doesn't seem to be bothering him at all.

In newer news, it appears that Mr. Fishus is bored with being a red fish, and has decided to turn blue.



He's definitely a different shade than he was last week. That black spot on his fin has been there since we got him, and is just a part of his colouring. He's still a bit too skinnybums for my liking, but isn't quite as pathetic now he's gained a tiny bit of weight.

Here he is, about to sit on his 'sofa' of whatever moss that is. He really likes that plant, and often takes a little rest on it.





And with Daughter's permission, here's some shots of her first tank and the new betta, "Demyx". I love the decor she chose and Gary the Snail' is a nice touch.





Here's the new boy on the way home from the LFS:



And in his new environment, looking a bit stressed out:



Finally, here's Daughter helping Tomtom feel less put out by all these new (and edible!) rivals for her affection - by dressing him up as a betta. :lol:

 
#17 · (Edited)
Little Demyx is settling in, slowly. He's a bit of a scaredy-fish compared to Sid, who'll just about headbutt the wall of his tank trying to 'talk' to people walking by.

I think Demyx is only young, though there's no way to be sure, but he's so little and immature-looking and shy that I think of him that way.

Daughter's spending a lot of time just sitting quietly by the tank doing her art (she did a betta picture!), getting him used to human contact. I'm less worried now, but really looking forward to putting him in a larger tank. I have the feeling a bigger one right now would just freak him out even more. He's barely coping with the 1.5g and spends most of time squashed between the heater and a plant, out of view.

Daughter is learning patience. :D

I was thinking, oh he's such a good example of the whole 'bettas like small spaces' thing. But if I'd been raised in a cupboard since birth, I'd probably be freaked by sudden larger spaces too. Let's just see how he adapts to a gradual increase in tank size, and whether he's a super happy fishy by the time he gets his 5g Kritter Keeper.

Sid's ich is clearing up nicely. Another big water change and thorough gravel-vac today. No medication for two days, then the last dose on day 6, and we'll see how he goes. Stupid ich. On the bright side, Sid is a much healthier, happier fish. Though I've had to warn Daughter not to get sucked in by his 'poor starving fishy' routine, or we'll have to rename him Hoggy McNomnom and prepare for a bad case of bloat.
 
#18 ·
In my various internet wanderings, in search of information on bettas, I've stumbled on some sites devoted to fish fighting, as well as its history and significance.

Before I start rambling on about that, I'd just like to make clear that I do not personally support the practice of fish fighting. I guess this rant is more about hypocrisy and taking a step back to consider context.

Of course, my kneejerk reaction is - "fish fighting?! how cruel and barbaric!" But standing back a bit from it, I could equally say that the poor pig I partially ate with apple sauce last week probably did not enjoy being raised in a pen hardly bigger than its own body. And the chickens who provide me with my yummy breaded nuggets really are not meant to live in massive sheds with no natural light, debeaked and stuffed with growth hormones. The bed I bought a couple of years ago, made from Malaysian timber, probably cost the lives of more than a few native animals in its growth and harvesting.,

I can't be such a freakin' hypocrite as to not consider that the evils of the culture that I live in just MIGHT be as bad - if not vastly worse - than the practises of the 'players' and breeders of the betta fighting rings. I can moan on about the terrible nasty gamblers and their poor mauled fish. But is that a blood diamond on my finger? How can I be sure? Is that plantation pine holding up my fish tank? Are those sweat-shop manufactured shoes I'm wearing - do I even bother to ask whether any imported product I buy involved child exploitation? Motes and beams, et cetera.

I also think there is a vast difference between the traditional betta fighters and the sheer neglect and cruelty exhibited by western retail outlets.

The betta breeder's entire reputation and that of his family name (and even his province) comes from providing the betting ring's 'players' with strong, healthy, aggressive fish carefully bred from bloodlines built up over years, even generations. He might also make a nice profit selling his many culls and 'fancy fish' to the affluent western pet market. This is where the money comes from to feed, clothe and educate his kids. This is how his family survives in a country with many fewer opportunities for earning than my own.

His business is also a tradition, a part of the Thai culture going back at least several hundreds of years, an intrinsic part of his nation's identity. Again, I'm not saying I approve or advocate the fighting of fish. But I'm less inclined, after doing this research, to be hating on the Thai fish farmer and his kids, or the gamblers who keep him in business.

We in the west do not hold these traditions. The keeping of bettas is not a part of our cultural history and holds no historical significance for us at all. The deaths of thousands of fish in Western homes and pet stores due to neglect bred by sheer and pervasive ignorance of the species' basic needs is not the same thing as the tradition of fighting bettas in Thailand.

Just like an animal hoarder and his filthy, cruel backyard puppy mill is not the same as the third generation breeder of champion poodles. Never mind the fate of the poodle culls, right? The odd pup with seven toes? It's not the same.

Or is it?

And here's today's fish-related poem:


Fish
by D. H. Lawrence

Fish, oh Fish,
So little matters!

Whether the waters rise and cover the earth
Or whether the waters wilt in the hollow places,
All one to you.

Aqueous, subaqueous,
Submerged
And wave-thrilled.

As the waters roll
Roll you.
The waters wash,
You wash in oneness
And never emerge.

Never know,
Never grasp.

Your life a sluice of sensation along your sides,
A flush at the flails of your fins, down the whorl of your
tail.
And water wetly on fire in the grates of your gills;
Fixed water-eyes.

Even snakes lie together.

But oh, fish, that rock in water.
You lie only with the waters;
One touch.

No fingers, no hands and feet, no lips;
No tender muzzles,
No wistful bellies,
No loins of desire,
None.

You and the naked element.
Sway-wave.
Curvetting bits of tin in the evening light.

Who is it ejects his sperm to the naked flood?
In the wave-mother?
Who swims enwombed ?
Who lies with the waters of his silent passion, womb-
element?
—Fish in the waters under the earth.

What price his bread upon the waters?

Himself all silvery himself
In the element
No more.

Nothing more.

Himself,
And the element.
Food, of course!
Water-eager eyes,
Mouth-gate open
And strong spine urging, driving;
And desirous belly gulping.

Fear also!
He knows fear!
Water-eyes craning,
A rush that almost screams,
Almost fish-voice
As the pike comes…
Then gay fear, that turns the tail sprightly, from a shadow.

Food, and fear, and joie de vivre.
Without love.

The other way about:
Joie de vivre, and fear, and food,
All without love.

Quelle joie de vivre
Dans I’eau!
Slowly to gape through the waters,
Alone with the element;
To sink, and rise, and go to sleep with the waters;
To speak endless inaudible wavelets into the wave;
To breathe from the flood at the gills,
Fish-blood slowly running next to the flood, extracting fish-
fire;
To have the element under one, like a lover;
And to spring away with a curvetting click in the air,
Provocative.
Dropping back with a slap on the face of the flood.
And merging oneself!

To be a fish !

So utterly without misgiving
To be a fish
In the waters.

Loveless, and so lively!
Born before God was love,
Or life knew loving.
Beautifully beforehand with it all.

Admitted, they swarm in companies,
Fishes.
They drive in shoals.
But soundless, and out of contact.
They exchange no word, no spasm, not even anger.
Not one touch.
Many suspended together, forever apart.
Each one alone with the waters, upon one wave with the rest.

A magnetism in the water between them only.

I saw a water-serpent swim across the Anapo,
And I said to my heart, look, look at him!
With his head up, steering like a bird!
He’s a rare one, but he belongs…


But sitting in a boat on the Zeller lake
And watching the fishes in the breathing waters
Lift and swim and go their way— I said to my heart, who are these?
And my heart couldn’t own them…
A slim young pike, with smart fins
And grey-striped suit, a young cub of a pike
Slouching along away below, half out of sight,
Like a lout on an obscure pavement…

Aha, there’s somebody in the know!

But watching closer
That motionless deadly motion,
That unnatural barrel body, that long ghoul nose,…
I left off hailing him.

I had made a mistake, I didn’t know him,
This grey, monotonous soul in the water,
This intense individual in shadow,
Fish-alive.

I didn’t know his God,
I didn’t know his God.

Which is perhaps the last admission that life has to wring
out of us.

I saw, dimly,
Once a big pike rush.
And small fish fly like splinters.
And I said to my heart, there are limits
To you, my heart;
And to the one God.
Fish are beyond me.


Other Gods
Beyond my range… gods beyond my God. .
They are beyond me, are fishes.
I stand at the pale of my being
And look beyond, and see
Fish, in the outerwards,
As one stands on a bank and looks in.
I have waited with a long rod
And suddenly pulled a gold-and-greenish, lucent fish from
below,
And had him fly like a halo round my head,
Lunging in the air on the line.

Unhooked his gorping, water-horny mouth.
And seen his horror-tilted eye,
His red-gold, water-precious, mirror-flat bright eye;
And felt him beat in my hand, with his mucous, leaping
life-throb.

And my heart accused itself
Thinking: I am not the measure of creation.
This is beyond me, this fish.
His God stands outside my God.


And the goId-and-green pure lacquer-mucus comes off in my
hand.
And the red-gold mirror-eye stares and dies,
And the water-suave contour dims.

But not before I have had to know
He was born in front of my sunrise.
Before my day.

He outstarts me.
And I, a many-fingered horror of daylight to him,
Have made him die.

Fishes,
With their gold, red eyes, and green-pure gleam, and
under-gold.
And their pre-world loneliness,
And more-than-lovelessness.
And white meat;
They move in other circles.

Outsiders.
Water-wayfarers.
Things of one element.
Aqueous,
Each by itself.

Cats, and the Neapolitans,
Sulphur sun-beasts.
Thirst for fish as for more-than-water;
Water-alive
To quench their over-sulphureous lusts.

But I, I only wonder
And don’t know.
I don’t know fishes.

In the beginning
Jesus was called The Fish.
And in the end.
 
#19 ·
Betta update:

Sid's clear of all visible ich and is in the last stages of treatment. I am fervently hoping that this is the end of the blasted thing. He's getting more blue by the day, with his fins having thin strips of electric blue in them now, and lots of bright blue scales on his body. He likes to watch my housemate do his Hapkido exercises, and also likes nipping Daughter, who finds this both hilarious and a little disturbing.

She wonders what sort of toothy monster a betta might seem to a gnat, or a gnat-sized girl. :D

Demyx is enjoying not having the filter running - it freaks him out even on the very lowest setting. So he's in for frequent water changes until the larger tank happens. He seems happy enough, though, his colour's returned and he floofs merrily around the tank a bit more often. Daughter's thrilled - he even greets her now, like Sid does.
 
#20 ·
Sid's dorsal fin is about 1/4 electric blue today. There's also new blue 'threads' in his tail that I swear weren't there two days ago.

The rest of his fins are the same deep red, but his body scales all have a blue sheen now and even his face is taking a blue cast. I wonder if it's something I'm feeding him, or the change in water quality. In any case, it's amazing to watch him slowly change colour.
 
#22 · (Edited)
Today's poem isn't really a 'fish poem', but it uses fish as a metaphor so precisely and beautifully that I count it as one.

I used to tell myself that I didn't like Sylvia Plath's poems. She's too self-involved, I said, too emotional, histrionic, cryptic. And that I disliked her work because a million overly emotional and self-obsessed wanna-be poetesses worship it, and - ick. I'm nobody's art-sheep. I disliked her, I said, on principle.

Years later, and in hindsight, I can admit that I couldn't stand to read Plath because she was a genius - an educated and hard-working poet, a genius with sonics and syllabics, structure and pacing, and especially imagery. Every one of her poems is the result of careful deliberation, demonstrating the perfection of her art.

And I will never, in a million years, ever write as well as Sylvia Plath. :|

(I still can't stand mopey lit majors who worship Plath's tragedy as much as, if not more than, her poetry. Perhaps it's more appropriate to dislike them on principle). :-?

Here's the poem:



Mirror
by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful ‚
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
 
#23 ·
Wow. Having never heard of Sylvia Plath, that was my very first experience of/with her work.... I am very intrigued to read more. Thank you for that experience. I'm enjoying all of the poems by the way!

How are the boys?
 
#24 · (Edited)
Hiya JB, here's a link to a pile of Plath poems: http://www.angelfire.com/tn/plath/

My absolute favourites are the one I posted above, Tulips, The Moon and the Yew Tree and Blackberrying.

And Sid is awesome! He's a ninja fish. :) So funny, the way he slinks around his tank, springing out at imaginary enemies. His tank isn't large but I've made a real effort to make it interesting for him - he has a little 'jungle' of moss to wriggle in, and his awesome cave which he likes as well. I'm finding he's very fond of floating wisteria and weaves in and out of it - like a ninja!

Demyx is less stressy now, getting used to human contact and water changes. He has a lot of those, as he's in the unfiltered 1.5 g still, but 2x partial and 1x full water change a week is keeping him clean. His fins are just a tiny bit raggedy - they were that way when we bought him - and I figure a little AQ salt in his water might fix that. It's not fin rot thank goodness, just some minor tearing. He also like the floating wisteria and seems a bit more relaxed now it's been added.

How's your swordtail babies?

I'll probably never breed fish, as I don't think I'm up to all the extra care they'd need and larger tanks, etc., so I'll just enjoy everyone's pics and stories. Baby fish are so darned cute!

Oh - just wanted to add, I really enjoyed the pics of your 75g tank, it's quite beautiful, and that pirate wreck ornament totally impressed Daughter, lol. Nicely done!
 
#26 ·
So. I went to check on Daughter's fish. There's no fish.

He's vanished. I am freaking out. I check on, around and behind the table he's on. No fish.

The mothership did not take this fish home. He has to be somewhere. I am eyeing the sofa. Could he jump that far? Through a closed lid, fer chrissake?

One of the features of the IQ3 cube is that the filter pump is housed in a compartment at the back. Having no filter on this tank presently, that space is just filled with water.There's a tiny hole right on the water line, where the pump hose used to feed through to the tank.

Yep. We are on the same page, here.

Demyx wiggled through this gap (thank begorrah he's tiny) and is now merrily floofing around the pump compartment, wondering what all the fuss is and where his nice new water lettuce went.

Which means I need to find a way to get him out without hurting him, which will likely mean dismantling the tank, then find a way to block the hole and put the tank back together.

Wait.

"I" need to do these things? This isn't MY fish! *eyeballs the teenager..*
 
This is an older thread, you may not receive a response, and could be reviving an old thread. Please consider creating a new thread.
Top