This week I have chosen “Heaven” by Rupert Brooke, which I happened across just after posting last week’s choice.

And there (they trust) there swimmeth One
Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent and kind;
Rupert Brooke (1887—1915)

Poem 335. Heaven

Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat’ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And, sure, the reverent eye must see
A Purpose in Liquidity.
We darkly know, by Faith we cry,
The future is not Wholly Dry.
Mud unto mud! – Death eddies near –
Not here the appointed End, not here!
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
Is wetter water, slimier slime!
And there (they trust) there swimmeth One
Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent and kind;
And under that Almighty Fin,
The littlest fish may enter in.
Oh! Never fly conceals a hook,
Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,
But more than mundane weeds are there,
And mud, celestially fair;
Fat caterpillars drift around,
And Paradisal grubs are found;
Unfading moths, immortal flies,
And the worm that never dies.
And in that Heaven of all their wish,
There shall be no more land, say fish.

Brooke is better known for his war poetry, particularly “The Soldier” but this is a different kettle of umm…fish?

The poem pictures fish ruminating on the afterlife and on the existence of some piscine deity, just as humans have always imagined a heaven where the virtuous might enjoy the fruits of their piety in the company of gods that are essentially versions of ourselves writ large.

The first four lines show us somnolent fish, torpid and full from engulfing the swarming flies above, mulling over the meaning of life, and their hopes and fears for the future—like humans after a banquet on a hot day, when their thoughts turn in the same direction.

Thoughts of the future inevitably lead to consideration of the afterlife—is there anything beyond their immediate existence? There must be some greater plan, a bigger pool in which one may swim eternally—if not, then how wearisome life would be: without a Heaven to aspire to, existence becomes meaningless.

Brooke’s satire becomes more apparent as he progresses with the same ideas that believers espouse: all our travails in the world must be reflected by some reward that is gained after death, like some kind of pension plan into which we pay our mundane toil in the hope of a big pay-out when our work ends.

Blind faith dictates that there must be a purpose to these fishy lives, an existence after death—it cannot all end in dust—“Mud unto Mud” they cry, Brooke intentionally twisting the words of the burial service, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” to evoke the same idea that although the corporeal body may become one with the Earth (or the Mud, in the piscine mind), the soul must transition to a more glorious actuality–“Not here the appointed End, not here!/But somewhere beyond Space and Time,/Is wetter water, slimier slime!”—where some kind of ancestor or creator of the fishes swims eternally.

The optimists cry that even the tiniest member of the race (i.e. the least physically imposing) may enter into this heaven, and there are no purported flies under the control of rapacious fishermen; there is an abundant supply of flies, fat grubs, caterpillars and moths to be consumed and this Heaven, like the Christian one, is never-ending and boundless: “There shall be no more land, say fish.”

There is a parallel here with sanctimonious persons who believe that they have a golden ticket for Paradise despite having done very little to earn it. Brooke mocks their spurious piety, suggesting that even fish can aspire to Heaven, though it’s a very different idea than ours.

I like it because it has a double meaning, which I always admire, and because it is so descriptive.

Squamous, Omnipotent and Kind

Poem 335. Heaven

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