In case you haven’t seen it yet, I just wanted to share the first blog post review of my debut poetry collection, Solving the World’s Problems. It touches on many of the things I was trying to do with my collection, so that was gratifying. Click here to read the review.
For this week’s prompt, write a fishy poem. I’ll let you decide how to take that. Perhaps, the poem is about a fishy situation or action; perhaps, the poem is about a fishy smell; or perhaps, the poem is about an actual fish, whether fresh or salt water.
Here’s my attempt at a fishy poem:
“Shrimp”
-as told by Will Brewer, age 4
Sharks aren’t real, but they are.
But they don’t swim where people swim.
People swim here, and sharks swim there
down where the little fishies swim.
I’ve seen 7-foot shrimp before.
They swim down by the sharks, and they
eat the sharks like this, and they swim like this.
They don’t protect little kids, but
they do like little kids.
*****
Workshop your poetry online. Click here to learn more.
*****
Robert Lee Brewer
Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor for the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and a father of five kids, including a 4-year-old boy named Will, who likes to talk about the food that he eats as he’s eating it. He’s also the author of Solving the World’s Problems and responsible for editing books like Writer’s Market, Poet’s Market, and Guide to Self-Publishing. When he’s not learning about the secret life of food from his children or creating books, he blogs about poetry. Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.
*****
Find more poetic posts here:
- Thomas Lux: Poet Interview.
- 2013 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Guidelines.
- 2013 April PAD Challenge: Results.
I close my eyes, cover them with fingertips
And the oval fishbowl appears;
I am peering through murky water & bubbles.
My air? I can almost reach out to touch it
Before it rises and fades from sight.
I have lost my arms, my legs
And my eyes have shifted;
This is a not a pleasant transformation.
Even just breathing is now an unfamiliar process;
Taking in the chilled water, filling it pour
Through the operculum of gills –
I am sure I am not doing this right.
Ariel
Oct 19, 2013
I close my eyes, cover them with fingertips
and the oval fishbowl appears;
I am peering through murky water & bubbles.
My air? I can almost reach out to touch it
before it rises and fades from sight.
I have lost my arms, my legs
and my eyes have shifted;
this is a not a pleasant transformation.
Even just breathing is now an unfamiliar process;
taking in the chilled water, filling it pour
through the operculum of gills –
I am sure I am not doing this right.
Ariel
Oct 19, 2013
SURFACE TENSION
When a fish looks up,
Does he see the sky?
Or just the reflection
Of himself looking back?
When I look up
Do I see the sky?
Or just the reflection
Of God looking back?
Beautiful!
Thanks! It is my first posting of poetry. (Also posted on a previous prompt the same day.)
Jörmungandr & Thor
Loki’s tail-eater shrugs sinewy coils;
the fearful mighty mountains tremble.
Sunken scale-ship slips beneath battering seas.
In shifting ship-home the banished serpent roils
the waves awake, sends following swell-storms ashore.
Mjölnir’s handler dangles deep his dire ox-headed intent.
World-shaker spies the fated baited line.
Rising, the wave-raiser rides the linear trap.
Black flat orbs meet sky blue lightening-gaze.
Fates well set, but not well met, delays yet agreed.
Down-diving, dragging ox-head wrenched away.
Sings a Midgard madrigal of rightful revenge,
of World’s End to snake’s-bane by venom-death.
Wow!
Thanks. Tried to use kennings and alliteration like Old Norse forms; it’s about the Midgard Serpent and Thor encounter made famous in carvings 1400 years ago.
Fishy
Our culture is a fishy one,
a pungent assemblage
of blatant self-interest
and self-promotion,
stinking of me-ism,
reeking of greed,
a pirate ethos,
yo ho.
CATCH AND RELEASE
(a shadorma)
She was caught
hook, line and sinker.
She’d taken
the bait, and
swallowed it whole, not knowing
the pain of release.
2013-10-18
P. Wanken
Oh, wonderful. Nothing fishy here, I’ll bet.
a little delayed, but here it is.
Patience
Gold eyes stare at me intently
l cross the floor
tail twitching in time
with my footsteps
sweeping the floor
swish swish swish.
Ears point back
his face an exclamation point
as he decides I’ve forgotten.
But the drawer opens;
somehow he knows
I’m not after the ladle this time.
He mewls a sound
interrupted
by contented vibrations
as he wraps his tail
gently around my leg.
we walk side by side
to his usual place.
l pat his head
set the dish down
rewarding patience
with something fishy.
~ also blogged at http://heatherbutton.com/2013/10/18/patience-a-poem/
I think this is wonderful. It turns the prompt around, and also describes the cat’s behavior so well.
The Hungry Little Trout
Little trout, hope you’re hungry.
See the worm twitching round,
Wiggle, nibble, now you’re twitching
flip-flopping across the ground.
This has the feel f a nursery rhyme. Love it.
Thank you!
Sing-songy and wonderful! I love it!
Glad that you liked it.
Fish Alert (part 2)
This dead meat
Wreaks havoc
on the olfactory
This ol’ factory
Put on strike
Don’t eat the meat!
Don’t eat the meat!
These ol’ nerves
Have been hacked
All systems shut down!
There’s been an attack!
Reboot!
Malicious code
Straight to the brain
Errant messages read:
Don’t eat the meat!
Don’t eat the meat!
This ol’ barrel-a-stomach
Sure as hell been stenched
Violated ma’ appetite
Turned wicked gut-wrenched
Not to mention
Soiled ma’ mind
With this kinda thing
This ol’ boy
Don’t eat no fish
Love it, though, perhaps oddly enough, it reminds me of the song, Save the Bones for Henry Jones.
Final Fishing Trip
Two things made him happiest
Wearing a uniform and fishing
When his uniform wearing days ended
He reveled in increased fishing time
Between fishing trips he enjoyed
Keeping his tackle in good repair
Checking the reels, and line, and hooks
Keeping them clean and ready
He anticipated each fishing trip like
A kid at Christmas, he’d wake before
Dawn, and head out early enough to see
The fiery sun ball rise over the bay
Then one beautiful morning
Before that sun came up
St. Peter came to get him –
To take him fishing in heaven
Wonderful, Peter being a fisher of men and all.
Fish Alert
Aerial disturbance, aisle number three.
Stark pungency
detected.
Break for
it!
An inverted Tetractys from
Five line poem with syllables of 10, 4, 3, 2, 1 total of 20
I should have known
When you were two hours late for supper,
I’d made your favorite;
Grilled fish and fries.
I should have known
When it grew cold on the table
Something was wrong.
I should’ve seen
When the black-and-white car
Pulled into our drive.
Slowly, defeated.
But I thought it was a mistake
Right up until
The cop wouldn’t look me in eye
I should’ve known something was fishy
But I still thought there’d been a mistake
Until he said, there’s been an accident.
We tried to save him
But we were too late.
Gasping for air
Like a fish out of water
I tried to tell him he was wrong
My husband’s coming home.
It wasn’t until I saw you.
I knew.
No more mornings fishing,
While I sunbathed on the deck.
No more fish hooks in my hair
When you forgot and hugged my neck.
Our paradise for two has become
A mausoleum of memories for one.
so beautiful and so sad
Very poignant, beautiful, and yes, sad. A beautiful, graphic picture of love, that is now no more.
This aches the heart, and the last line is stunning.
BEYOND THE SEA
Fish
smell bad.
Not their fault.
They can’t help it.
It might begin when they’re pulled from the sea
or wrapped in paper or put in a pan.
Healthy choice, but
I can’t get
past the
smell.
© Susan Schoeffield
Well, your title reminded me of one of my favorite songs, but the poem squelched that image and replaced it with an odor. Very effectively, I might add.
After Glow
I’ve lived nigh onto
a quarter
of my life
near the Hudson River.
And as any
fisherman (even
the rookiest)
will tell you,
there is this
strict rule of
‘catch and release’
on Everything you hook.
Not so much ’cause its
the law. Its more like
if you want to
glow in the dark.
Ellen Knight
10.17.13
write a “fishy” poem for PA
This makes me wonder if you mean the river Hudson or the estuary Hudson. Anyway, I get the point.
I’m not sure, now that you mention it. Which ever it is up in Albany. I know GE fouled it up pretty badly up there, and consequently downstream I would imagine.
Whale’s aren’t really fish but I tried
A Song Beneath the Waves
A glittering shard
of ocean shining
a song echoing
beneath transient waves
A blanket of water
for sharks and squid
for starfish
and the whale
A blue giant
singing
The loneliest
they say
a wet desert
for companionship
Constantly gliding
deep
deeper
deepest
You can see its silhouette
behind the glass of sea
It’s graceful shape
swimming
A low tone
reverting
empty
hollow
yet emotion
within its makeshift syllables
To swim with the whale
would be bliss
but I am no sea creature
I can only witness
it’s divinity
from dry surface
A glittering shard
of ocean shining
a song echoing
beneath transient waves
In my mind, this poem glides along with a slow majesty very reminiscent of a blue whale. You used “divinity” as part of your description, and it struck me that pondering a massive, majestic, and mysterious creature such as a great whale is akin to pondering a god, however described in various religions. You poem, in my view, works very well, especially in your identical stanzas at the beginning and end; another alpha and omega element, perhaps. I enjoyed reading this.
A most vivid picture. Well done!
Fish Whisperer?
She
Whispers
“Grab it! Run!”
Off the boat’s stern.
Notably – she’s the one reeling them in.
This is a little delight; sounds like a little girl having fun, and a poet having fun writing a tetractys about it.
THE PARLIAMENT OF THE SEA CREATURES
‘Hear ye, hear ye,’
the trumpet fish waved his long snout
’The Boss is anxious to sort things out.
He’s calling a meeting of all you chaps
to right a few wrongs, so perhaps
you would kindly make your way
to the reef at eighteen degrees South
by one four eight East
on Sunday week at half past four. ’
At the appointed hour Poseidon thumps his trident.
You should have seen the throng:
of whales and sharks and lion fish
with cod and hake and herring;
anemones and sea slugs
sea cucumbers and angel fish,
coral, fighting shy of parrot fish -
it should have been a disaster
but I quelled them with one Godly look.
We’re here to talk, not nibble
you can quibble later. I’m having my say
and what I say goes.
We need to keep a balance
of species and varieties,
so you must control your appetites.
Give and be given, live and let live.
It’s those blasted humans
who’re spoiling the ocean for us -
whose greed and careless waste
cause pain, pollution and worse.
That’s what we’re here to discuss.
Mutter mutter, argy bargy,
piffle, waffle and baloney -
after hours of fruitless discussion,
the God’s expression stony,
he came to a momentous decision.
What I propose is to intervene
with the Gods of storms and weather,
but most of all with the human race
to work together,
clean up our act,
save us all this bother.
‘Twas soon agreed by one and all
that it was worth a try:
the case was taken to Zeus, my brother,
and won – unique in unanimity.
Entertaining, creative fun with a lesson. LOVE THIS!
This is an entertaining way of thinking about the mess people have made of the world and its seas. I also love it.
Wow! Much food for thought. Yes, we humans have made a mess of it; wouldn’t it be grand if the fish could clean up after us. Ha-ha. We need to learn and clean up our own mess. Beautiful!
WATCHING THE SCHOOLING TUNA
Fish
can swim
with great grace
that might inspire,
but I’m looking for one with lung power.
JAMES WALKS HIS BETA
All his father said upon learning
James was being given
a Siamese fighting fish
for his birthday was,
“Please – get one that looks
like most of them – not special -
easily replaceable, should he,
you know, not live all that long”
So, Nemo-Josh-Sam-Luke (named
after all the children in James’
mother’s day-home, plus the
fish from the movie) is a lovely
cerulean blue
A typical, run-of-the-mill beta,
happily swimming in circles
in his small square aquarium
The week after the fish joined
the household, James’ mother
was upstairs getting something
while the kids were watching
a movie downstairs
She thought they were well-
occupied as was usually the case
when they had a movie on
But she became aware of James
talking softly and strained to
listen…
“C’mon Nemo-Josh-Sam-Lukie…”
she heard, and then a clink
followed by grunting and some
slosh-slosh-slosh sounds
“I take you to see da movie
wid me…” slosh, slosh, slosh
As James’ mother made her way
quickly downstairs, she was
just in time to see two year old
James get settled on the couch
with his fish in the bowl
(and most of the water)
She settled in to watch the rest
of the movie and supervise
fish and child until the end
as James explained the salient
points of the film to his pet
It must have been taxing, this
being a movie guide to a fish:
James nodded off just as the
movie wound to a finish
and Mom was able to rescue
the Beta and return it to a shelf,
a higher shelf, no worse
for having been travelling.
It is a fish story unlike most
you hear, I believe.
This is a shaggy-fish story, to my way of thinking. Loved reading it.
Oh, how adorable!! I can totally see our little Sophie doing exactly this. James’ mommy deserves two thumbs up.
How cute and creative – or was it true? Lovely story.
Fishing
Attorneys go
on fishing expeditions
in court–no water,
no fish. Goldfish are
not made of gold.
If they were, they could
not navigate a bowl
or pond. But, if you hear
someone say, ‘He’s sleeping
with the fishes,’ you can
believe it.
Love this!
Ouch. Well done!
Fishing
You’re strung along
as we place a buffet
of bait and wait to gain
your trust. We search
ahead while you peer
back and the hook between
gleams sharp and empty.
Tantalizing. I’m mesmerized by that last line.
Exactly what I was thinking.
The One That Got Away
You were not a dream or fantasy,
to brag about with the guys, or to
imagine what could have been or
how great wall hangers should be.
We were Pisces in the night sky,
two fish tied tandem to the tether,
escaping their world and Typhoon
together, untill we had had enough.
Everyone swore we were star crossed
and troubled, snared by the same treble
hook that tore into our throats as we cried
love; I would bleed again for just another day.
I think this is simply superb.
Superb indeed! Haunting, gripping, mesmerizing …
Wow – you never think of Pisces being separated – what an analogy
The Best Fish Story of All
Hard times and small catch wore him down,
his lament for a good catch on dry cracked lips.
Youth and vigor, and fisherman’s luck escaped
his clutches, but he must fish for it is who he is.
Santiago is a fisherman, and his identity
holds his world together. He knows nothing
else. Santiago will do what must be done.
Without his young friend and assistant,
the struggle for good luck and God’s
good will weighs against determination,
but he recalls the lions’ of Africa, and
their courage and grace buoy his spirits.
Setting out before dawn as usual,
Santiago, the fisherman, goes to work;
he goes to war against God’s elements.
The strike, when it comes, is quick, and
the marlin is wily and strong. Setting
the hook requires finesse, and knowledge
of whatever this fishy foe might try next.
Once hooked good and proper, the battle begins.
Patience, endurance, knowing his prey,
and all the skills learned in his profession,
for Santiago is an experienced fisherman,
gives him great advantage over the marlin,
whose only strength is in muscle and bone.
Its size and vigor may exceed all others, but
vigor alone cannot win in this contest.
Ultimate victory requires strength of will.
Strong back, strong shoulders, strong arms
need the support of young, sinewy hands.
Santiago’s hands are thick, bent, and knobbed.
After two days of fighting his hands are
numbed, crook’d, unresponsive; he almost
gives in to despair, but Santiago is a fisherman.
It’s what he knows. Nothing less
than death will end his fishing career.
Even victory is not triumphant against
God’s elemental firmament. Fish is prey
and prey is forever preyed upon. Sharks
tear the carcass too large to haul aboard.
His decimated prize amounts to nothing
as he drags his own carcass ashore. Sleep
calls him down past caring, until youth
calls him by name. His young assistant praises
his grace, his skill, his knowledge and good luck,
even though his luck did not hold. Ah, but
there is always the sea, and another day of fishing.
For Santiago is a fisherman, good enough reason
to go down to the sea.
All credit goes to Ernest Hemingway for penning the ultimate fishing story, “The Old Man and the Sea.”
Nope, not all the credit. This is wonderful work in its own right.
What an amazing capsulation of the story. Wow! Amazing!
Thank you Julieann and William. I think Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea was the third classic I ever read, after Dante’s Inferno and Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land.
Caught
I used to see the bruises on your arms,
that haunted flinching look you couldn’t hide
with twitchy smiles, makeup, and lowered lights.
I worried for your teeth, for facial scars.
I worried that your kids would be involved.
I worried when that bastard was on shore
and wondered in my heart how you could bear
to sleep with someone who would hurt you so,
to make a screaming life and raise his kids.
Then you called me, euphoric. “Do you know
how I found peace with him?” you ask me, glad.
“We fish together now, sit side by side
and let the fish draw near and take the bait.
No sudden movement and no scary noise,
for that would scare the fish.” You smile that smile.
You talk of how much trust a fish must have
to come in close to get a better look
to nibble at the line and miss the hook,
how some fish swish around for what seems hours
as if they half remember tales of boats
only to throw aside some fish’s tale
and hook themselves, since knowledge comes too late.
You said you watched them sometimes feeling sad,
half wanting to warn them to swim away,
but you could not surrender silence, peace,
above the water where you sat with him.
“He only needs a way to settle down,”
you told me, “like he can be at the lake.
I don’t know what exactly it will take
but fishing is a start. The kids are small.”
I meditate on images of you
peaceful, happy, and safe along a shore,
the sun just going down, pinking the world
your boy and girl are calling in the fish,
sprinkling bread crumbs on a glassy lake
where none are caught and none need be released.
Wow. Jane, that’s quite a read. Very poetic and deep.
There seems to be a lot of emotions behind it.
This is another instance of superb storytelling, in my view, and that last line zips it up resoundingly.
Oh, Jane … this brought tears to my eyes …
Thanks, Benjamin, Bill, and Marie. Stuff happens.
THE GOLDFISH
“The goldfish fell
asleep,” his mother said,
but the fish rose
to the surface and never sank.
It wouldn’t wake
no matter how he tapped the glass.
The bowl would shake,
but still it bobbled on its back.
The boy soon grew
impatient. He found new playmates.
A dog could speak
its mind if he became too tough,
a cat could scratch
his hands if they refused to budge,
but fish in bowls
had no refuge when games became too rough.
The mother flushed
the fish without an elegy.
The boy noticed
nothing missing on his dresser.
The cat had found
a new place to sleep as well as refuge
from the nosy dog.
What a great slice-of-life vignette.
“Something Fishy”
Rainbow colors swirl
Babbling brook keeps their secret
Appetites sated
Boffo!
Go Fish
Do you have any 2s,
you ask, and I check
because maybe that
will work. Maybe if
I don’t show you all
my cards, we can just
couple a couple, and
the rest will all fall
into place, like some
magic slush pile. But
then I realize that my
7s are missing, and
I’ve been all out of
10s for quite some
time and it’s been
awhile since I’ve even
seen a 1. It was there
last time I looked…and
then before I know it I’ve
played my whole hand
and
I’m hopelessly hooked.
.
Go fish is just as compelling to me as an adult as it was as a child. Thank you for this. Now I remember why I liked being around kids so much before…I got older.
Great, ending and all.
Wow.
WOW.
How you can manage such a totally different take on the prompt, write so simply, and hook with SO MUCH MEANING just astounds me. But that you do this over and over and over, week after week, month after month, hear upon year upon year … WOW.
Fun, fun, fun.
de … to quote you, “i’m hopelessly hooked.” this is so gorgeous. one of the mantras i’ve made up for myself recently is to “say big things with simple words.”
this poem does that. so well.
Swimming in the sea as a child
I was enchanted and somehow repelled
by the water: glassy smooth, inevitable.
I could see the impurities, though
not in a disturbing way, but in a way
that made me understand,
this was living water.
The salty taste taken by mistake
when gulping for air after an
insistent wave made me feel
both infected and accepted.
Tidepools and their infinite mystery:
what will happen if we poke that
squishy thing, or try to catch
the sea star or baby octopus.
Lingering far too long
until we had to hurry back to shore
lest we be caught by the tide.
Walking on the beach
was a fascination because
one never knew what would
wash up; shells, shark eggs,
kelp in various measured lengths,
sticky tar that accumulated on
our feet, pieces of jellyfish,
smoothed stones, some with
holes already pre-drilled,
and beautiful sea glass, a jeweled
treasure beautiful enough to keep
forever. Where the pieces went
were a mystery, but by the end of
the summer, they were all gone with
the holed stones and dried bits of kelp
as well as the fishy smelling paper bag
we’d kept under the bed.
Driftwood was a favorite
because we learned early on
that driftwood fires burn in colors,
as if they’ve soaked up the colorful
second life of an undersea fantasy
in their post-tree career.
They stored their story as minerals,
making the wood into brittle, smoothed
and randomly shaped pieces that were just
what was wanted of a cool night.
Being that close to so much life
is an emotional thing for a shy kid,
a thinking child who immersed herself
overlong in books and fairy tales.
Trying to express the appreciation
for the life of the sea, the great
immensity of life as a whole and
as the little bits we spied from here
on land, and not finding any words.
The best response I ever got to my
rumination was something like,
“Ya know, fish pee in the water, haw haw.”
Not what I was looking for,
and fragile feelers swept back,
internalizing frustration with my
inability to share the welled-up
emotion. I had to wait to be taken
seriously, when as an adult I
shared the introspection that has always
been part of me, and people
have no idea what I mean,
shake their heads, and remark about
the fish again.
Haw haw.
Diana Terrill Clark
I think this is an exquisite tour of recollections and an insight to the poet’s imagination. Wonderful series of vignettes.
Does a fish need a bicycle?
Only once she knows which way she
wants to go, and how to get there by her
own worn self. Only if she wants to feel
the wind in her sails and the sun on her
scales, fins finally fanned, heart racing
chasing a truth that swimming can no
longer bring. Only when her heart and
mind are for once on the same dry page
and far behind are her drowning days
and she owns her own ocean. And then,
only a sturdy, stable model with a
strong seat, quiet beat, willing wings.
.
Whoops. Have I doomed us to eternal bold?
Oh, good. Just me. Sorry, gang. Was supposed to only be bold in the title, obviously.
The type may be bold, but I think this poem is quietly powerful and insightful.
FISH
Behind houses, a reedy pond beckons.
A little boy begs his father, take me
fishing. Just me. Leave my sister home.
The sister gazes out across the pond,
its water secrets of moon and mud,
dabbling-ducks, frogs, and dragonflies.
They go back home. But the pond
longs for a boy sleek as underwater
fishes, gilled to swim more deeply.
While sister dreams and father dozes,
the pond calls a boy for its own.
Really beautiful. I love the sense of calling and caller here.
Amen to that.
somewhat eerie, but lovely.
Putrid Memory
When
I smell
her perfume
there is no joy,
like a rotting fish can spoil a sea breeze.
I SO know this feeling. Well done.
Oooh, harsh truth hurts. Of course, mine is never like that. Ha – at least, I hope its market success means it doesn’t stink.
Artificial perfumes can be really offensive. You have caught that well.
TIPPING THE SCALES
They tell you that fish
breathe in air,
so why do they die
on the shores?
-JR Simmang
Nicely short and to the point. I like it.
Thanks Cin.
There’s another I should think to add:
CURVED GLASS
Here, the walls bend inward and shadows
cast on curves. I wonder how doors close
when they must open so strangely… Lately,
I find solace when the black cat goes.
- JR Simmang
I’m getting a “warp and weave” feeling from both of these, especially the latter as it stretches my imagination.
These are the kind of musings I love to ponder, and see if they will fit in a poem. They are fun to write, though not always easy. I like both very much.
A Seafarer Returns (Limerick)
By Madeleine Begun Kane
A fellow returned from the sea
And was greeted by tears from mate Leigh.
“I missed you,” she moaned.
“I sure wish you had phoned,
Cuz your absence seemed fishy to me.”
Madeleine Begun Kane
Cute, very cute. I love limericks and you did this one well. The point is well taken.
I love this. It brings to my mind the second verse of All er Nuthin‘, from Oklahoma!
TO AND FRO
Pa liked to stand on the bank,
jus’ before the water broke
over his shoes.
He walked it like a
tight-rope walker,
shufflin’ his feet like one
misstep would send him
fallin’ down, down, down,
into the open arms of the
ground.
‘Course, he never fell,
and if he din’t get a bite in
a hour or two,
he’d pick another spot jus’
a little ways down.
When I turned 13, round the time
the leaves started turning
and peenchin’ themselves off
the branches,
he woke me at quarter ’til dawn,
his big finger coverin’ his lips,
shushin’ me ‘fore I even got a chance
to say good mornin’.
He shoved my clothes at me,
tossed my boots onto the bed,
threw my hat at my head,
and placed the rod next to my door
delicately, like it were coated
in my dreams I had yet to wake from.
We got in the truck,
crept outta the driveway,
and stopped a mile from the hole.
The sun was jus’ startin’ to creep over the
hills. Nothin’ was awake, ‘cept us
boys, and the world belonged
to us.
In the silence of the mornin’
he taught me his shuffle,
navigatin’ the fine thread of
water like a weaver.
And that’s what pa was,
a weaver, his fat fingers
caressing the thread,
spinnin’ it out and into the loom,
breathin’ in the freshness of the
world, still virginal, still pure,
still untouched.
In the dark, we felt our way
around the lake, letting the
gentle waves guide our feet.
He told me not to get too close,
I’d know when the soil started
suckin’ on my boots that I was about
to cross that line into their world.
And, they can’t share their world
with us, and vice versa.
When the sun started comin’ up,
I noticed that even the dead trees,
still hangin’ on to their roots like memories,
looked alive in their reflections.
Pa’s right, nothin’ dies down there.
Ev’ry once in a while, we’d get a bite,
a little fishy swimmin’ along its
usual path, entranced by a dangling
bit of food.
And, I gotta say, if I was walkin’ along,
seein’ some food dangling magically
from the sky,
I jus’ might take a bite too.
-JR Simmang
Beautiful picture. It is so easy to see and to relate to. You’ve done a masterful job.
“Masterful” is the right word, indeed.
I just love this memory. Love it.
What a wonderful tribute to the bond between a father and son. And to fishing at daylight. Simply wonderful,
Great poem, Will!
Here is mine:
Eighteen Feet
Oh, sea monster found
off the coast of Catalina,
your weighty carcass carried
by sea sand and waves
the way it did when you were
swimming. Sixteen
people hoisted you out, clutching
at eely skin, your power
plucked away by seedy depths
of death’s grasp, planting
gripping nightmares of sea
creatures in all who dare dip
with risk of mystifying
creatures, set to visit
during closed-eyed midnight
dips, shock us back to the reality
we are not the lone
commanding inhabitants
of this great planet.
http://whatnotshop.blogspot.com/2013/10/eighteen-feet-sea-monsters-do-exist.html#.Ul7UzVBQGSp
A Loch-ness monster, anyone? Described beautifully.
Thank you, Julieann!
I read that article today, wondering if my life would have included carrying sea monsters as this biologist’s did, if I had followed my original plan and been an oceanographer.
Well done, Linda.
It still could if you happen to be at the beach at the right time!
Thank you.
The oarfish found off Catalina Island! I love this reminder that its origins are steeped in deep mystery, only recently filmed in its habitat. When I saw the video of one floating in the deep, I had no idea they were that huge. Excellent poem.
Another one (this one measuring 14 feet) was found on Friday.
http://www.presstelegram.com/environment-and-nature/20131019/another-giant-oarfish-found-this-time-in-oceanside
Thank you!
A great finish. Thought provoking. The more we learn, we realize how little we know.
Thank you, Clae.
Thanks so much for this wonderful poem, and the link to the story.
Thank you, William.
On Fairy Tales
A man of skill
Great wit and will
Once wrote a tail
Of gill and scale
A mermaid pale
With fin and tail
Whose love could reach
Beyond the beach
Bargain made- feet for her voice
Walked on knives by her own choice
For a prince whose love she lacked
For his heart she is thrown back
To die alone
As salted foam
From sea to air
Love and despair
This story changed
Still stays the same
Salt, angel or bride
An end we decide
A fun read!
You’ve captured the sorrowful intensity of Hans Christian Anderson’s original story. <3 Well done.
Thanks so much. I hoped it wasn’t too much of a stretch from ‘fishy” to mermaid.
The Skeltonics and short lines give this piece a bit of urgency, and add to the power of this little piece, or so it seems to me. Loved reading it.
thanks!
Keepers
So sporting of you,
your philosophy of catch
and release—remove the hook
with care and set him free
back to his old school.
Don’t blame me if,
instead, I gather my catch
like charms on a bracelet,
metal clip in the mouth,
out the gill, submerge
until I head home,
to clean the mess—
a perfect collective noun—
scraping the sequined scales,
beheading, cleaning
the cavity of heart, eggs,
float bladder,
leaving nothing but meat
clean and white
against the fragile bone
of bream, crappie, maybe
a small-mouthed bass
suitable for rolling in meal,
deep-frying in hot oil
in black cast-iron, dinner
fine enough for a king,
eaten with the memory
fresh of the weight
on my line, the bobber
tugged down before
the final fight.
Wonderful.
My favorite moment: “Don’t blame me if,
instead, I gather my catch
like charms on a bracelet,
metal clip in the mouth,”
I’m going to read this to my sister tonight.
Lots of pepper in that cornmeal?
The perfect ending to a beautiful day. Catch and release – no; supper – yes! Wonderfully put.
Delicious.
Mmm. This poem is a tasty morsel.
This little story might as well be a photo montage, so clear are its images. Wonderful work, again.
Angling for a Notion
I wonder, sometimes,
in the murky depths below;
where thoughts dwell unseen,
if hook, jig, or bait will suit
to cull those that got away.
Nice one! I love that last line especially.
I recommend a shrimp net. Thanks, Amy. You’re always insightful.
This so well expresses how I’ve felt at thoughts gone away or awry. Great work, in my opinion.
Brilliant
Fishing with Father
Deep emerald wilderness
Shadows of Dad, long legs
stretched toward the fire
Beckoning of bacon
from a dawn campfire
In the sunrise, speckles
dance across water
Flashing silver minnows
squiggly worms in rich loam
bamboo pole, bobbers and hooks
skiff lapped by sloshing waves
mysteries beneath translucent
reflections of a jade-green
forest beneath cerulean sky
I’ve never experienced it just so, but your picture brings to mind so many fishing trips with Dad. Memories not to be forgotten. You have painted a wonderful picture.
This is another poem, like Nancy’s above, that is so clearly drawn, it might as well be a series of photographs. I especially like “jade-green forest beneath cerulean sky”. Wonderful.
Falling in Love with a Fish
On rainy days I pretend I have gills
and scales on my hips
seashells against my heart.
Maybe I sing or use my tail
to spin circles around the man
with black boots and a dark smile.
He comes every morning with hook
and line smelling of eels and barnacles
and salt cuts on hardened palms.
Sometimes mother trades him:
hemmed pants for strippers
or spot fish, a haircut if he’s got
clams. In the sun it’s easy to see
his rough throat and my own;
the struggle to breathe on cold
mornings. Light has a way of
revealing humanity as it is, weak
and steady and ready to barter.
But when it rains, when water
catches in trees and gutter –
pools like mirrors against dirt –
everything changes. The world
is just some wet shadow and a man
can’t hide what he used to be:
a fish or better yet a frog
hopping from one bent leg to
the other, begging the mermaid
in front of him to pick him up
and kiss him on the throat.
Perhaps we owe the fisherman
grace or at the very least a meal
before the storm. Mother will feed him
and keep her eyes on his wet boots.
I pity those sore feet and curled toes.
If I smile at him, it’s only because of this:
Mermaids have always turned fishermen into fish.
Aaww . . . I so adore this! Wonderful. It makes me want to be a mermaid.
Thank you !
Wonderful, dreamy mermaid voice. I love it.
I think this is a superb piece of work. It feels like surrealism grounded in reality, if that makes any sense.
More than Five Senses
These weak human eyes perceive
fewer colors than dogs or chickens,
and yet we see injustice clearly.
Our weak human ears cannot hear
extreme tones like dogs and elephants,
and yet we hear bigotry in speeches.
The weak human nose misses aromas
that our pets take for granted,
and yet we know the stink of lies.
We cannot feel the precursors of
earthquakes days early, like catfish,
and yet we are sensitive to rejection.
In fact, tasty treats mean more to catfish
with over one hundred thousand receptors,
and yet humans know the taste of freedom.
Yes, humans are weak, underdeveloped; we’re
perhaps deprived without discerning senses,
and we lack sensitivity to the physical world
and yet…
We feel the pain of our brothers and sisters,
the weak, the poor, and the hungry,
and their cries for freedom ring in our ears.
A most beautiful analogy. Much, much food for thought.
Oh, yes. This is the sort of thing that ought to be posted at the United Nations building.
Oh my gosh, thank you!
Accounting Class
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uF8XCKow7_4
It would be fishy if a student in my class
Didn’t give me any sass
Shut me out with shiny green headphones
Hide against the wall, buried in those hooded domes
Didn’t dress like an undertaker’s cat
Or wear a zebra suit, with hat
It would be an oddity of the ages
If they weren’t pretending to be mages
Eating the latest designer popcorn
Or surfing the web for the latest teen porn
Arguing the physics of Star Wars stasis
I know the bottoms of their feet better than their faces
I’d be shocked if they came one day
And said we will pay attention to what you have to say
We know accounting is important
Did somebody get a personality transplant?
We know we need it to get by
Can you help me tie my tie?
I love this, especially in the context of your linked video.
Upon a fishy threshold
As far as I can see
I came upon a fishers hook
Located next to me
I looked around the river
No people here or there
The hook just made me quiver
It showed me that I cared
So as I thought about it
Fishing crossing my mind
But I will leave the poor fish alone
Well maybe just this time…….
The moral of my poem
As pretentious as it may seem
I’ll never turn down a chance to fish
So this poem was just a dream
Fun to read; fun to ponder.
GROWTH
When swimming
along with the crowd,
some bold fish
have wishes
of leaving the school behind
for the deep blue sea.
So true, so true!
Yes! It makes me think of Nemo.
Always wondering if it was worth it…
Fantastic shadorma, William.
Hear, hear!
Fish
Blank eyes
Kissy lips
Slippery skin
Dad and me in a rowboat casting lines
with these silly creatures and lunch in mind
Oh, I got one!
Reel it in
Laughter
Fish
Something’s Fishy
Something’s fishy
when government employees
are furloughed
and yet
Congress
continues to get paid
for doing nothing.
JW Laviguer
You. Nice echo of Mark Twain’s comment here….
Pardon: “you” was supposed to be “yup.” That’s what you get when dyslexia and two-fingered typing come together.
LOL a’huntin’ and a’pickin’, are we?
and…..posting too fast….s/b huntin’ and peckin’….was thinking of pickin’ and grinnin’ while typing that LOL
I always thought dyslexia would benefit a poet because of the tendency to use juxtaposition.
Personally, I think that kind of poetry, like Cummings’ work, is wonderful.
Besides, I post too fast all the time. You’re not alone.
Too true.
Accurate and succinct, leaving me on the shore, gasping for air.
Robert, Just to follow up on the blog post review: I’ve had your book for several weeks now. I’ve gone back to it often, and often, I find something new, even from poems I’ve read many times. Congratulations again.
Thanks for sharing that, William! My favorite books are ones I can return to and find something new with each reading–so that’s what I was hoping to do with this collection. Your comment means a lot to me.
Robert, your “Shrimp” poem reminded me of a little ditty my Mom taught me when I was two or three. I’ll make my own poem later, but wanted to share this one now.
Fishy, fishy in the brook
Daddy catch you on a hook
Mommy fry you in a pan
Julie eat you like a man
That’s too cute, Julieann. Thanks for sharing. Apparently, poeming runs in your family.
Thank you.
Footnote to a snapshot
The book of my father’s divided in three:
family, work. Fishing.
He was born in late August, in Tennessee a time of drought,
so he may not have been born fishing.
He tied his life up neat and proper. Made Thanksgiving dinner,
rested Friday, died fishing.
When the weather starts to cool again and fog settles on the water,
I think of fishing.
Wonderful!
I love this. I’ve been sorting through old pictures for a project and realize I have pictures of my grandfather, two great grandfathers, and my great grandmother fishing. No wonder I loved it too.
Absolutely beautiful!
So very much life contained in these few words.