FISH
---Ivy

I bought fish from the morning market. I don't even like fish. I don't know why, but I bought it anyway. It has been cold fog earlier in the morning. You can see it's melting and has left water drops on the top of the grass, like some kind of night living sprites. Some night living sprites who don't want to leave the earth. My foot prints stay all along on the footpath because the fog. "It's cold, isn't it?" I say, "Cold like an old fish". I turn around. Who am I talking to and when did I walk out of the market?

The glare of the sun reflecting on the glass wall of a new building blinds me for a moment. My eyes are blurred with thousands of white spots and I'm almost in tears. This town has changed into something strange. I mean if you stay here as long as I did, you'll find nothing stays the way it was. The market is still there, but they sell fresh vegetables and fruits everyday, fresh as if they just picked from the garden by some teenage girls. The girls must have been singing and giggling to each other when they hold a handful. I don't like apples, they hurt my teeth. "Quit smoking!" she always murmured, “Smoking gives you bad teeth”. I didn't listen to her; I mean how many men would really listen to their wives, right? Besides, it didn't make any sense. She's just saying it. Women! You'd spend you life with her and still won't understand a single bit of them. And there wouldn't be much time for you to figure it out anyway.

Besides vegetables and fruits, it's the fish. I always think a city is better with beaches or rivers, you know, some water. But my town doesn't. We used to have fish with a big block of ice. The fish had been frozen after being killed. They were laid in a row in the block of ice and their eyes were wide open, terribly wide. That's why I don't like fish, their eyes made me think too much. Not only were they within ice, also the price was out of control. We'd squish our budget from everywhere, cheap cigarettes or out of style clothes, just for a fish meal at the end of the month. That's a harsh time, with five children and little money, fish used to be the only luxury and I don't even like it.

There used to be a central park in the middle of the town. Now, shopping malls and high buildings stand alongside of the road and the park has shrunk into a tiny little children's playground. I feel tired. The plastic bag becomes heavier. It's only one fish, but the fish seller put some water in the bag and said the water will keep the fish alive for awhile. I don't know whether he means "alive for awhile" is good for the taste or just for fun. It's cruel for the fish though. Just alive! I saw it almost die, and it already turned half way upside down. I believe the seller is right; the water did keep it alive. I can still feel the slow and silent move of the fish. The bag is very heavy. I find a silver metal chair and sit on it. It's cold even though the sunlight has warmed it, I can tell the coldness from its heart. In fact, I think the whole town became some kind of cold blooded monster. No one smiled, and no one looked at each other when they passed by. She's different. "Nice day!" she would say. She's always over dramatic. It's not always nice day; sometimes it's almost opposite nice. I guess I'll never understand her, perhaps because her family. I'd never guess a girl from such a nice family would ever lay her eyes on me. I mean, who am I? But it must be easy this way. I mean she couldn't even take the death of a pet cat. Live alone is must be harder for her anyway.

The town becomes noisy with car horns. I look up. A young lady talks to her mobile phone and walks towards my chair. Who's she talking to? The sunlight glows her pure green dress; I remember many, many years ago another girl wearing the same colour with the same smile: "Your town doesn't have sea, wow, I can't live without sea. I love fish. How can I live one day without fish?"

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter.
-----John Keats


You said write a poem of praise,
Praise to the things of this world, things like
An ancient urn that
Silently intones a timeless philosophy,
But outside my window, the wooden fence over the river
Sings a sad melody.

I pass the pen from left hand to the right, right back to the left.
The last piece of light from the top of the old oak
Like a red wine stain. I can't help it when
The Merlot spills on my paper
Blossoming like the blood
Of a young poet for his lost lover.

The wind blows a gap of silver light through the cloud,
The night is a muted drama
and I watch it taking the stage in my garden.
The full moon is a painting,
Its waning is a poem.

Read the site below. It's a model for mapping personality awareness.

I'm not saying that it's fun, but it is interesting.

Visit the site and make you point:
http://kevan.org/johari?name=TClown