There is poetic beauty and truth in our worlds of water

I am going to share a childhood memory.

This one belongs to Jessica Fordham Kidd. And, yes, it’s more than just a memory.

Kidd has planted her flag as a lifelong Alabamian. With the English department at the University of Alabama, she is Associate Director of the “First-Year Writing Program.” She also is a published writer and poet. “Bad Jamie,” a collection of her poetry, was published in 2020 (Anhinga Press).

I reached out to her after reading her poem titled “Biggest Fish I Will Ever See” and she shared this bit of background:

“This poem was inspired by a childhood memory of seeing the remains of a giant catfish nailed to a tree (part of the process of cleaning the fish, I suppose) and then not being able to get that image out of my mind. The fish seemed so majestic and otherworldly; it didn’t seem like something a person had the right to kill.”

That image of a huge, dead fish hanging from a tree also lingers with me. As does a bigger message I pulled from this poem:

“Biggest fish I will ever see, / men caught you / and hung your death / on a tree by the river. / That night I slept in a huge bed / on a screen porch. / I heard your skull talking, / and in their skulls / the men heard you too. / No one knows exactly what you said / and continue to say. / Your bones are long gone. / The nail that held you / remains to be swallowed up / by years of bark. / It is all just water. / I believe that’s what I heard– / It is all just water– / the reason it feels so good / to swim in dark rivers. / Why men eat fish that felt that good. / Why people put their wet mouths together. / The reason I know what you said / even though my ears are full of air.”

“It is all just water.” That line could mean many things. Up to the reader, I guess. That’s the beauty of poetry. It sparks the imagination and invites interpretation, personal meaning and discovery.

For me those words triggered a flash card moment of science trivia. (Note: Much of our body is water. The average percentage can vary from 45% to 75%.)

And were does all that water go when lives end and bodies settle into dust or ash?

Water doesn’t really vanish, right? It changes into many forms (amazing also) but can return as ... water. In many ways we live in our own “sea” of water … water in transition.

The poem shows how our lives are connected to water, surrounded by water.

But … perhaps “water” is only a metaphor for something much larger that connects all creatures. Again, the beauty of poetry.

So it might be sad to see the bones of a dead fish on a tree, but also know the essence of that fish is back where it belongs.

And perhaps our story, our journey, could end with the same epitaph.

“It’s all just water.”

• Lonny Cain, retired managing editor of The Times in Ottawa, also was a reporter for The Herald-News in Joliet in the 1970s. His PaperWork email is lonnyjcain@gmail.com. Or mail The Times, 110 W. Jefferson St., Ottawa, IL 61350.