Image courtesy of the commons collection of the Internet Archive of Book Images.

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The Old White Bastard Fries Up One of William Beebe’s Bathysphere Finds!

As a stand-in model poses for a cartoonist,
he dangles the deep sea creature
by one of its rubbery whisker-like appendages.

It drips fishjuice mixed with lemon into the pan
he prepped with oil, baby fennel leaves,
and ripped pieces of imported kelp.

He will eat it with sea-grapes for breakfast,
just so seasoned. Consume its uniqueness,
make it something ordinary to swallow.

He licks his dry lips. No time to fetch the Vaseline,
this creature’s grease must suffice. The flesh screams
and whistles on the heated non-stick.

 

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Noon at Tom Moore’s Jungle

after Neville Dawes

They say we have no rivers on our island. The canal don’t count,
but they still speak too soon : or have you never seen a rivulet
gush in or out from underneath our island with the changing tide
or – starting off small, maybe – filigree winding lines through pink sand
back into the sea. But these don’t make rivers, you say? Well, maybe –
but still the water moves deep through our rock and too bad if it’s salt
half the time the rock’s struck: the echo still answers back, wets us both.

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Chris Astwood is a Bermudian poet. He was one of a handful of poets invited to perform in the 2009 Bermuda Festival of the Performing Arts. His poems have been printed in magazines such as UM-UM, Catch, Iota, The Caribbean Writer, Other Poetry, and Mimesis.