At some point during high school my friends came under the impression that I was obsessed with smelt. We were (and are) strange people so it didn't strike me as unusual at the time. They would kid me about it. I have no idea why. It is a mystery just like how I got my nickname. To this day I have never fished for smelt, eaten smelt, or seen a smelt in person. I don't even say, "Whoever smelt it, dealt it." I decided not to fight this weird label and instead embraced it. I pretended that smelt were the greatest creatures on the planet. In my creative writing class I even did a series of smelt poetry. I can only remember one:Oh little smelt
You swim so sweetly
Little do you know
You will soon be meatly
Am I the next Emily Dickinson or what?
6 comments:
What.
I always loved the use of 'meatly'.
Not really a word, but it definitely fits the rhythm of the poem.
I didn't know you're a poet, though I'm not surprised. Expect an invitation soon...
As it turns out, I am deeply connected with smelt and monkey balls myself - the coat of arms on my mother's side proudly displays smelt on the shield because my descendants were fisherman from an island off the south of France. Also, I love masago sushi (smelt eggs). And my hockey team is called the Ice Monkeys so anytime someone makes a good play, it's referred to as "monkey balls!" Any chance that's where your nickname came from?
Kristi: Mom's family is actually from a fishing village on the Seine on the northern shore of France. You're to be excused from knowing, since you never lived in Chicago, that the smelt is a northern fish.
Chris: When the uncle that was researching our coat of arms started to explain to me what a smelt was, I stopped him and said "I live in Chicago, dude, I'm familiar with smelt."
My boss there used to do the whole "smelt run" thing. Eat 'em whole. Crunchy goodness, apparently.
I find your poem sentimental and lacking pathos. No offense or anything.
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