Isinglass, Kisses of Ink, and Rainbow
My bedroom door was closed. I lay in bed, textbook propped up on my chest. Beside me my lamp
was a golden orb, illuminating my path into European history. Meanwhile, waves of music tossed about
in my room. Through my stereo, Idina Menzel’s deep, richly textured voice came alive. Harsh, crisp notes
erupted into a silver flood of melody. But it wasn’t long before the words and all those facts and dates had
melted into one hazy dream.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if right after dinner that night I hadn’t suddenly
gotten this craving to listen to the Broadway star’s voice. If I hadn’t skipped up to my room with barely a
glance at my brother in his, flicked up the volume switch, and kicked my door shut. Then maybe I could
have heard my brother on the other side of my wall. Rifling through his drawers, tossing his favorite jeans
and hoodies into his backpack. Gently tapping the back of that old tin Mackinac Island cup to make sure
every last penny fell out onto his bed. Then sorting through the thick wad of coins and paper clips and
hundred dollar bills. Or maybe I would have heard the proud ticking of that old wooden cuckoo clock he
made in sixth grade. Maybe he was even staring at its little pink eyeball, telling it to look out for us. Or
maybe I wouldn’t have heard anything. Just silence. Or the only thing to hear: his heart, drumming fast to
the beat of his fears. His soft breathing. Maybe after he wrote the note, he sat down, hugged his knees to
his chest, and cried a little. I don’t know. My door was closed. He’d probably closed his too.
Or if I hadn’t gone to bed so late. Maybe I would have woken up early to a sky splintered with
light, to a chorus of birds exchanging love songs, and then–caught the sound of his sneakers creaking on
the last step. Wings on my soles, I would have been out of bed in a heartbeat. I’d have beat him to the
front door. I could have stopped him. Or at least spoken to him.
Sometimes I take all the details I know and try to imagine him leaving, how exactly it happened.
One mile and a quarter to the train station. Car still in garage, bike still in shed. No taxi calls made. That
meant he walked–every step of the way. I bet once he started, he got to walking so quickly that he forgot
about the little hole in his left shoe. And how light and free he must have felt bursting out the front door,
with barely anything on him. Just his backpack, one or two sci-fi paperbacks, his blue fleece, and a neatly
packed stack of cash, probably folded perfectly in his little leather wallet. That was it. That and a sadness
so personal and deep he couldn’t share it with anyone.
Two and a half weeks later, Jeremy came back–but not really. Because even though he was here
with us again, it felt so much like he was still rocking back and forth on the train to D.C., or walking
down the sidewalk at night, staring at people’s faces aglow in the streetlight. He just wasn’t with us.
It was his voice. I’d never heard such a chill, mechanical tone in all my life. And never from his
lips. I actually trembled when he spoke. But my parents, they were so overjoyed to see him and hear him,
they just laughed and smiled and put their arms around him. But I couldn’t listen. That wasn’t a human
voice. And the way he looked away when I spoke to him. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. Maybe it was
shame, guilt for what he’d put us through–but also–he was thrashing about in this wild storm of darkness
and sadness I couldn’t enter. There was a barrier, I could feel it so horribly well that first we had dinner
together, the four of us. Wine glasses and plates shining, light everywhere. And yet this pale, mute, alienlike face that pierced right through the forced show of conversation. I’d never seen him so silent before,
so far away.
In the poem, “The Fish,” Elizabeth Bishop probes at the question of what it means to understand
another. To steal into their thoughts, to feel their pain. To see life as they do. Taking us behind her
speakers’ eyes, into the little fishing boat and the world that is hers, she carries us on a journey into the
heart of all understanding. We see the woman as she moves through various stages in her relationship
with the fish she catches, as her detachment evolves into admiration and eventually compassion. In all, we
see how it’s possible for one heart to come to understand the foreign beat of another. The poem reads like
this:
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:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost throughout age.
He was speckled and 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 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.
In the beginning of the poem, the speaker treats the fish as if he’s an object, looking at him with
detachment. She’s looking at him and yet it isn’t yet a deep, observational looking. She’s merely seeing
what’s there. A “tremendous fish” “half out of water.” That her hook is in his mouth still means very little
to her. That’s just the state of the object she’s caught. But she’s clearly curious about the fish as she
repeats, “He didn’t fight. He hadn’t fought at all.” Here she has this huge fish half out of water who isn’t
even fighting for its life, and that interests her. That’s when the poem takes off. She’s curious; she wants
to know more. And so she starts to look at him intensely, thoughtfully. But before that deep observing can
occur, she’s just seeing from far away.
The thing about my brother was that he was on the other side of this–barrier, this rock-solid wall.
None of us could break it; none of us could understand him. He knew pain I could never know. I knew
some from the formal typed letter he left behind. He’d left because school and the kids there. He wanted
just one friend, someone to eat lunch with. To go the movies with, so he didn’t have to go with his mom.
This really smart kid–way more intelligent than I could ever hope to be–and he didn’t have any
motivation to go to class. Because of the kids. He was miserable, and we’d only ever caught traces of it
before it was too late.
I knew sadness and loneliness–we all do–but not like his. I couldn’t feel the cut of pain in his
side and see how deep it ran. I could only guess and wonder what would have made school so awful that
he couldn’t go back that Monday. I couldn’t understand him, however much I wanted to. I saw this soul
in pain–this sad, quiet boy who just stared down and away when we spoke to him. I saw him, but I didn’t
know who he was. But then–that’s all I was doing, just seeing. Wondering about this kid in front of me,
this alien of a brother who kind of scared me. Just seeing, not yet looking. Not yet observing.
Eventually the speaker in “The Fish” starts to truly look at the fish and notices all these details
about him. It’s through all these details and observations that she’s able to learn more about the fish and
come to understand him, just as through Bishop’s vivid imagery, we are able to see inside the speaker’s
mind as she enters the fish’s world. One of the first things she notices is how his skin hangs “in strips like
ancient wallpaper” and then, how the shapes of his dark skin are “like full-blown roses stained and lost
through age.” Here Bishop presents us with these powerful images and similes so we can see the fish in
full crisp detail. We can see the “fine rosettes of lime” speckled on him, the “tiny white sea-lice” polkadotting his body. Even more, the speaker’s diction shows how she begins to feel for the fish, how this
observing is paving the way for compassion. She sees his gills going up and down, breathing in “the
terrible oxygen,” “terrible” because that’s how she sees it for him. For a fish gasping its last breaths of
toxic air. Terrible because she can feel its pain. Even though the woman says how “frightening” the gills
are because they “can cut so badly,” showing us her own fear, she can still feel the fish’s fears next to her
own.
Then she looks into his eyes, which to me, are the deepest place you can look in someone. She
notices how the eyes of the fish compare to her own, how they’re “shallower and yellowed,” and are like
“old scratched isinglass.” I love that phrase. I can just see the pure image of the irises harshened by the
idea of these lenses of old scratched isinglass. Overall there’s this sense that the eyes are worn and aged,
and with it, this growing awareness of how ancient and fragile the fish is. And then, she talks about how
the eyes shift a little, but not to return her stare. I think that’s so important, that the fish is not staring back
into her eyes; he doesn’t want to be understood. He’s not asking for this woman to see his thoughts and so
makes it that much more difficult for her to do so. Then the speaker admires his “sullen face” and the
“mechanism of his jaw.” Even though she’s staring at this face so unlike hers, with a sulky expression and
machine-like mouth, she admires it. She admires it because of these details, because this is the way the
fish is–with his yellow, isinglass eyes and impressive, powerful jaw. With every second, she’s noticing
another detail, making another fascinating observation and in doing so, she’s becoming familiar with the
fish. She’s looking–really looking–and seeing not what the fish is, but who he is, through everything she
learns about him.
Even more, it’s through Bishop’s detailed language that we are able to gain passageway into her
speaker’s thoughts. Through all the metaphors, similes, and striking imagery, we are able to see the fish
not necessarily as he is, but as the speaker sees him. To her, he's “battered and venerable and homely."
She sees the skin as like “ancient wallpaper” and the eyes as shallow and yellow. Overall, we get this
sense of a fish that is old and worn and yet somehow a creature to respect–who with his ragged skin and
“coarse flesh” is a survivor; an ancient martyr; a creature to be admired. But clearly it’s all the details in
the poem that give life to the speaker and for her, give life to the fish. Through the lush imagery, I become
the speaker. I am her, staring into the yellow depths of the fish’s eyes, staring closely at its weaponlike
lip. And I am her seeing life behind the fish’s own eyes, imagining breathing in the chill air as she comes
to understand him. For through detail–through images, we can come to learn and therefore understand.
The morning after my brother came back home I remember sitting on the couch with him and my
mom. They were talking about a movie, I think. I just remember staring at my brother, pretending I was
listening to their conversation. But in reality I was studying him–gazing at all his features, soaking up
every last bit of him. To make up for not looking all these years. For this past year, when he needed me to
most. All his features felt so vivid and crisp and I wanted to look at them forever, to hold them in my
eye’s firm grasp always. I remember staring at him at breakfast, trying to memorize the soft curve of his
cheek. Staring in awe at the light smudge of blue on his cheek–the little birthmark he’d always had to
violate his smooth skin. But I loved it.
And his chocolate brown eyes. Serious now but sometimes when my mom made a joke every
now and then, they’d almost smile a little, giggle with a secret, and shards of silver would glimmer
within. And his shoulders. Such a tall, handsome boy with these round, delicate shoulders. He had grown
so much since we were little. And then the arch of his back, and way his shoulders dipped when he
walked. The way his black sweatshirt accented all his features. His cheeks, his dimples. Everything felt so
fragile. He here he was, this delicate creature--so innocent. Tall and grown but still a child with that low,
whisper of a voice. Already so bruised by the world. And I wanted to lean over and stroke his hair gently,
and tell him it would be all right, that I knew it just would somehow. And for some reason, I wanted to
touch his shoulder blade–just one of them and feel its round solidarity in my palm–just feel its warmth, to
know and memorize what his firm, delicate little shoulder felt like in my grasp. I wanted to memorize
every tiny detail about him.
All along as the speaker is looking at this fish, she’s learning more and more about him. With the
stream of details she takes in, the fish becomes more familiar, closer. But there’s only so much details can
do. Without some kind of connection, dazzling images can just dissolve. They need some kind of heartstring to fall loose from the reader’s heart, to wrap around the image, and then–the image can soar.
Details are wonderful, but so much less if one cannot connect to them.
It isn’t long before the speaker notices the “five big hooks/grown firmly in his mouth.” Just a
simple detail, hooks in a fish’s mouth until the woman makes them more. She sees them as being like
“medals with their ribbons/frayed and wavering,/a five-haired beard of wisdom/trailing from his aching
jaw.” These hooks are evidence of the fish’s scrapes with death, his near misses–they’re his tokens of
victory. And clearly she sees him as all the more sage-like for having endured so much. She sees the lines
as being this “beard of wisdom” because they’re dangling from his “aching jaw.” She sees him as a
creature who truly knows the delicious, precious taste of victory because of all he’s gone through.
And she too knows victory–her triumph for having caught such a wise old fish. When she says,
“And I stared and stared/and victory filled up the little rented boat,” the flood of victory is coming from
the fish and her–from all the triumphs she can see in his symbolic little beard of fish lines, and from her
own victory in catching him. Now her deep observing has led her to connection–to understanding.
Because detail alone is not enough. Dazzling phrases, lush imagery, they’re only so much in the end. But
one common link, one similarity can be the key. One observation, one phrase in a poem, and suddenly
everything is in that. And the connection is made. Understanding is reached. And suddenly everything–
everything–is rainbow. Hazy reds melting into swirls of fuzzy orange kissing scarlet and gold. Or:
“Everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!” A thousand bright colors in that one word. Because of the
connections that can be made with it. Because he who has seen a rainbow sees that thrilling rush of color
again the second he sees that printed word. And for the speaker, this rainbow exists because of the sense
of victory she feels she shares with the fish, and because of the elation she feels because of that
connection. And the compassion she finds in herself because of that connection; because of that
understanding. The ecstatic joy and thrill to know that she can care so much and see so deeply into
another creature’s eyes.
I watched Jeremy carefully from then on and learned to recognize what his features meant. I saw
the timidness and hostility of his actions. How he trailed behind when we walked down the street. His
frustration when we all ordered soda at the lunch table. The way his lips mumbled, “Water’s fine,
thanks.” It felt like everything he disapproved of in the world and in society and all the harsh pain and
rejection he’d ever faced was alive in that one, dead phrase.
But I still couldn’t understand him. I wanted to know why he held back from us, and why he’d
left. Why he left us, what happened to him. What those kids had done to him, if they’d teased him or
laughed at him. Or ignored him. I wanted to steal into his silent agony, to know when the lump lodged
itself in his throat. To know at what point he held back tears, whether in the lunch room or in our own
home. Seeing–observing him only got me so far. I was staring at him like a madwoman and he was the
fish, his eyes shifting a little, “but not to return my stare.”
One night we came back from dinner late. I watched as he immediately stole away into his room
and shut the door. Disappointment tore at me and I made my dejected way to the little corner in my room,
where I started writing. About an hour later, I came to my senses. This was exactly like the night he’d left.
Only my door had been shut then. Now mine was the one wide open and his, closed firmly. But I hadn't
been looking then, I'd turned away my eyes. Now my eyes were as wide open as could be because my
heart thundered with such a strong desire to understand him. I wouldn’t let him retreat into shadows
behind that door. He had to still be plagued with loneliness, and whenever I was lonely, it was simple: I
didn’t want to be alone.
So I went over and knocked on his door. I heard a low grumble and waited a second and then
opened it. He was sitting at his desk, leaning over a piece of paper, a fountain pen snug in his palm. I
made my way over to his bed and sat on it, looking over at his picture. He didn’t say anything, just looked
at me. So I just stared down at his picture. It was wonderful. A brilliant fusion of lines and zig-zags and
precise little squares to make out a finely drawn landscape of the city. I asked him if it was Chicago and
he nodded. Then I asked him more about it.
Surprisingly, he answered me, and when he spoke, his voice had a little pride in it. And he looked
right at me with those soft brown eyes as he explained how all the buildings had to be drawn just a certain
way so you could feel the three-dimensional perspective of it all. The sweet little way he said the word,
"perspective," so softly, making a loving gesture to the horizon line in his picture. I looked some more,
studying the smooth way the ink lines seemed to travel perfectly along the ruffled page, producing these
amazing buildings and windows and sidewalks. I was standing right there, in his city.
That’s when I noticed the little dark smudge of ink on his hand. On his thumb, right below his
nail, just a little dark tint from his pen. It wouldn’t have meant anything to me if I hadn’t noticed a few
seconds earlier, the little stain of ink on my palm–from when I’d been writing earlier. A little cloud of ink
of my skin--just like him.
And there it was. This detail--this tiny bit about him that just let me connect. Just as the woman
sees the fish lines as ribbons of victory and connects to him through her sense of triumph. Maybe Jeremy
couldn’t tell me what pained him, what made his heart ache. But I’d seen how he escaped, through his
drawing. Just as I escaped through writing. Here we were, both of us, with our little ink stains, our
reminders of the escape we needed and loved. And maybe I couldn’t understand any more past that–
maybe I won’t be able to for a while, and I just have to wait for him to come to me. But that didn’t take
away from the connection I felt then, sitting cozily on his bed, looking alternately at the city on his desk,
and the pen’s kiss on his hand, smiling to myself. For that moment, I saw all I needed to. I saw myself in
him and I saw him as he truly was. Everything truly was glittering rainbow.
What I think is so important is that it was a piercing detail that caught my eye and pulled me
closer to my brother, allowing me to connect with him and understand him. A detail. For when details are
sharp enough to stir emotions, and connections and meanings can be made, they have reached their
greatest potential. We were a smudged duo, two little fools who’d dirtied our hands doing the work we
loved and escaping through it. And if that doesn’t say what I mean, then I don’t know what does. Can
you not see so clearly the dark ink stains so lovingly tattooed on our hands?
Overall, details can transport and they fly me away. That’s how poetry reaches me–through
detail, because for me, the connection is deeper that way. That way, I can see everything. I am the
character. The poetry that speaks the greatest to me is that which is layered with detail, that which glistens
with a thick, heavy texture–glowing adjectives and scintillating images, metaphors that burn through the
page and flood my mind, my heart. And through them, I can even steal others away. With the written
word, I can do what I never could dream of with the spoken. I can manipulate and control and I can be so
truthful. I can bring others to my world.
Details are the gateway to another’s thoughts. And by slipping through the gates and imagining
how life feels from behind the fingertips of another, we are able to see life as they see it and therefore
understand them. That’s how the speaker in the poem is able to move from detachment to admiration to
understanding. And from that understanding comes compassion. Because she relate. And through
connection the physical barrier between skin and skin is dissolved. And that's how Bishop is able to
transport us behind her speaker's eyes. It's how I was able to see just a little from behind my brother's
eyes. Through detail and the connection it brought me, I was able to understand this part of my brother-this world he escaped to through his art because it was the same world I escaped to through writing.
Details are the wings that drop us like teardrops into another’s heart. Down we fall, such a
dizzying, long way until at last we plunge into the soul of another--into the rippling tides of their mind.
Whether it be the mind of a wise aching fish or a wise aching brother. Or the poet. Or the storyteller
herself. But we're all the wiser from the journey. Because--details transport. And through them, we learn
and see. We step through every solid element there is until we find ourselves swimming in our
imaginations and in the soft, precious images of another’s mind, another’s soul–but every bit as solid and
truthful as the facts. Because we’re not outsiders anymore, we're part of it--feeling it all. Their pain, their
triumph. Attaining the deepest kind of understanding there is. We are in their world, and part of
everything that makes it theirs–the light tint of blue on the brother’s cheek, the ink-smudged hands, the
old scratched isinglass eyes, and the rainbow, rainbow, rainbow.