lake nokomis and back
The 8 mile run this week was much harder than last week’s. I am wiped out. Ran 6.5 miles without stopping, then walked for a few minutes before finishing up the run. Running all the way to lake nokomis and back seems farther than looping around the river.
10 Things I Noticed
- The buoys are still up at the big beach
- There is orange paint outlining the cracks in the path near nokomis avenue
- The creek is still very low
- Under the duck bridge, on the other side of the creek from the trail, a little kid was singing the melody of a rock song that I can’t quite remember
- It was windier at the lake and the water looked choppy
- The water was gushing at the 42nd street sewer pipe
- A giant monarch butterfly sign was on the fence at the lake nokomis rec center playground–left over from the festival this weekend
- The purple and yellow flowers near the parking lot of minnehaha falls are in full bloom
- So are the zinnias in the yard with the cat who thinks she’s queen of the block (and is)
- 4 IKEA kids plastic chairs left in the boulevard — at least 2 were powder blue
This list took me a while. It was hard to remember anything from the run because I’m so tired. Will I be up exhausted all day?
Still thinking about fish and the fish in me and my poem borrowing some lines from Anne Sexton. I started the run intent on these topics and managed to think a bit about Sexton’s line “the real fish did not mind” but soon forgot all about it as the run got harder.
From some tweets I read, I thought today was Mary Oliver’s birthday. Double-checked, it was on the 10th. Still, her recent birthday inspired me to find a fish poem by her to post here:
The Fish/ Mary Oliver
The first fish
I ever caught
would not lie down
quiet in the pail
but flailed and sucked
at the burning
amazement of the air
in the slow pouring off
of rainbows. Later
I opened his body and separated
the flesh from the bones
and ate him. Now the sea
is in me: I am the fish, the fish
glitters in me; we are
risen, tangled together, certain to fall
back to the sea. Out of pain,
and pain, and more pain
we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished
by the mystery.
So many poems about fish are about catching them or eating them. I want more poems that aren’t about fish as food.
I’m interested in contrasting Oliver’s idea about consuming the fish as a way to become one with it and the water with Sexton’s idea about the fish in us escaping. Fish going out instead of in. What does this mean? Not entirely sure yet, but I think it might help me figure out what to do with the next part of the poem and what I might be trying to say about “the fish in me” and its dis/connection from real fish.