Fishingcatchup

Wailing whaling ships.
So sure of the shore.
Tied up in ocean tide.
Baited with bated breath.
To reel in a real catch.
Waters mined without mind.
Dying creatures, dyeing seas red.
Mourning the morning dead.

With anointed nets unfurled.
Cast shimmering into shadowy waters.
Rippling waves of the surface disturb.
Snaring life from the pressures of the deep.
Hauling huge volumes of the vulnerable.
Struggling, gasping breaths emerging.
Caught, enclosed in fear and death.

The women who clean fish are all named Rose
or Grace. They wake up close to the water,
damp and dreamy beneath white sheets,
thinking of white beaches.

It is always humid where they work.
Under plastic aprons, their breasts
foam and bubble. They wear old clothes
because the smell will never go.

On the floor, chlorine.
On the window, dry streams left by gulls.
When tourists come to watch them
working over belts of cod and hake,
they don’t look up.

They stand above the gutter. When the belt starts
they pack the bodies in, ten per box,
their tales crisscrossed as if in sacrament.
The dead fish fall compliantly.

It is the iridescent scales that stick,
clinging to cheek and wrist,
lighting up hours later in a dark room.

The packers say they feel orange spawn
between their fingers, the smell of themselves
more like salt than peach.

big strong fury brown

fishing for salmon with paws~

prancing through flowers

He took me fishing.

Meaning,
I cast and fouled
my fishing reel
in rapid succession,
forgetting to thumb break,
creating snarled messes,
rending the whole thing
unusable.

He swapped
his gear for mine,
untangled the abortion
I’d created,
handed me back
an operational rod,
just as I messed up
again.

Rinse.
Repeat.

He never once
scowled or
raised his voice.

When we got back to the house,
Granny asked how fishing went.

Paw-paw smiled,
“Wonderfully.”

I imagine
The fish wonder.
“will that guy be back?”
A gnarled old pickerel
Comments: “yeah,
he’ll probably get me
on the same stupid mousey thing.”
“I know it’s comin’ but
I just can’t resist it.”
An old frog chimes in:
“Yeah, he got me with that once.”
“chewy, with a hint of garlic.”
A mud crusted Muskrat laughed.
“Man, I love it when he gets snagged
in the trees. Boy does he know
some very spicy words and phrases.”
“First time I ever saw a Beaver blush”
added an Egret.

They know I’m coming!!!
And I know they can’t resist
My “Mouse - E- Tongue” lure.
Let the games begin.

sky stunning sapphire,
sea enchanting emerald
sand spectacular turquoise
sailboats in a row…
waiting for fishermen to board
and take them to the deepest sea,
where they will triumphantly join
other boats which are already sailing!

sky magical mauve,
cerulean waves crashing on
sand amber jade.
the long poles on the boats
rusty from many years’ humidity
from the cold water, and fishes.
boats..waiting for their men to board..
breathtaking brides waiting for their
gorgeous grooms,
with love and anticipation.

chartreuse waves roaring and rolling
away from the beach, sailboats floating
far in the ocean..as if in a trance….
mythical, mystical... alluring...seductive,
the ones still waiting for their clan
to join them, in the celestial blue!

On the high seas
Boredom comes like a disease
Coast Guard radio blathers
Boringly broadcasts nothing but the weather

Manning the bridge
While skipper and crew sleeps
The waves and swells keep coming
Yet you never stop watching for them

You never 'afore had seen a wave
Bigger than a big building
Then rogue waves
Slam when the crew's not looking

Constant terror lingering
Shift change now Skipper's driving
We crew must all just trust in him
He's a surviving sailor so we all look up to him

The work is never finished
Twenty hours per whatever a day is
Blurring sleep with nightmares
Net the fish is all that matters

One time something bad happened
Skipper's brother is not talked about
We chose this life lot
Salty sailors once again venturing out

Arctic terns across the water glide
fishermen’s waste thrown over the side,
gulls by the hundred joining the feast
fishing cold waters fully fleeced.

Out with the nets to the sonars place
catching turbot, cod and plaice,
mackerel by the hundred, tuna and bass
couple of sharks and a ballan wrasse.

Fill up the fridges, pack them with ice
keeping them fresh we’ll get a good price,
empty the boat then drinking on shore
then into the rough sea to catch some more.

Two boys were fishing when they met a willing broad
The first boy quickly extended his fishing rod
And so, when he was done
She saw the other one
Who had already caught his allotment of cod.

Arctic terns across the water glide
fishermen’s waste thrown over the side,
gulls by the hundred joining the feast
fishing cold waters fully fleeced.

Out with the nets to the sonars place
catching turbot, cod and plaice,
mackerel by the hundred, tuna and bass
couple of sharks and a ballan wrasse.

Fill up the fridges, pack them with ice
keeping them fresh we’ll get a good price,
empty the boat then drinking on shore
then into the rough sea to catch some more

wiggling ripples
lure a bass to shore~
Daddy whistles

Casting nets into the sea
On the shores of Galilee
Heard the call to "Follow me"
They left their nets immediately

Simon, known as Peter too
And his brother named Andrew
Sons of Thunder, James and John,
Left Zebedee and quickly joined on

No more were there nets to mend
That life was now at an end
All was dropped right there and then
Jesus declared them fishers of men

Water-flesh gleamed like mica:
orange fins, red flankspots, a char
shy as ginseng, found only
in spring-flow gaps, the thin clear
of faraway creeks no map
could name. My cousin showed me
those hidden places. I loved
how we found them, the way we
followed no trail, just stream-sound
tangled in rhododendron,
to where slow water opened
a hole to slip a line in,
and lift as from a well bright
shadows of another world,
held in my hand, their color
already starting to fade.

Frosty morning dew, a shiver,
Mist covers a surface of glass,
Tules swaying to and fro,
Wading boots wet from the grass.

Chartreuse with silver titanium blades,
Salt and pepper skirt with trailer of pork,
Surface breaks, predator stalks prey,
Favorite pond, overcast day, east fork.

Auto-cast Quantum, twelve pound test,
Spinner bait cast precisely, start retrieve,
Worked all week, gonna play today,
Gone fishin.

"We're wakin up early tomorrow mornin,
stakin claim before others get to stirrin".

That age old warning,
precursor to early mornings,
spent on calm waters fishing.

Fog still rolls in from the tree covered hills,
like smelling salts against fisher folk skin.

Roads lie empty,
the smell of coffee fills,
the cab of our truck as we chat.

Recalling days fishing gone by,
father and son bond on the ride.

Lessons long learned,
the scars recording them,
shown as wisdom is passed on.

Crickets call out our arrival reedside,
as the empty waters welcome us home.

crescent, snow-capped peaks
rising against the sky,

blue meets white, green collides
with shadows of gray, touching blue,

glimmering diamonds on water,
trout nipping flies on sly,

kayak sliding westward, sunset
a breathtakingly burnt-orange hue.

many bites

little angler

mosquitoes

be patient

little angler

overcast

You know, what they always say,
"Once you can ride a bike, you never forget."
I wish you could say that about fishing.

I have fished all my life, and indeed,
some things I have mastered such as:
tying a snap swivel to the string,
attaching a hook with a leader, snapping
on weight, and securing a bobber.

Invariably, the fishing trip begins
with hiking to a good spot,
preferably in the shade, and
near a deep hole that comes
naturally with a log on which
to sit or prop the poles.

Instructed by my dad, I fish with two poles,
with each having a different depth.
Typically, the good spots are surrounded
by bushes and trees, making casting
the line challenging.

Keeping the lines and hooks from tangling
takes constant effort, and often
two fish are biting at once.
As if they know what they are doing,
the fish cross the lines.

Today, I managed to get the stars aligned
and caught six nice fish for dinner tonight.
I escaped without bug bites and poison ivy
and will surely enjoy the catch of the day.

When I stand on a riverbank, not as an angler, I am enchanted.

Enchanted by the flow of the water, and the reflections of clouds.

Enchanted by the bank-side vegetation, and the nodding flowers.

By the birdlife as it clacks and quacks, peeps and sings, and flashes by in iridescent feathers.

And by the smells of crushed river mint, and water parsley and fragrant flowers.

Yet, not as an angler, I am soon bored, and turn away, not knowing what else there is to see.

A fleeting few moments that refresh the soul.

But when I come to the water as an angler, I come not to see, though see I do, but to engage the water as a creature of the river, and to learn, and to play a part.

As a mock predator, my senses are sharpened and my observation made far keener than any casual onlooker.

I see beneath the surface, just a little with my eyes, more so, much more so, with my mind.

Building a picture of that unseen land from small clues of swirling water and growing w**d, and from the knowledge that I have learned of the habits of the creatures there.

Not for a few moments, or for many minutes, but for hours on end, I will delight in what nature has to reveal.

Even when fingers burn cold, or cold wind driven rain whips against my face, I will stay and see and listen and enjoy.

‘You don’t have to be an angler to enjoy going to the river’, they say.

And by saying that betray a lack of understanding, not only of an anglers’ passion, but of what is missing from their lives.

As they miss the sound of a gnawing vole, the sight of a chub rising to a struggling fly, the companionship of a robber robin, and a sunburst through an evening mist.

Because they paused, and then passed by.

And having missed all of this, I could never explain to them the thrill of a dipping float, nor holding in my hands a piece of gold alive, and watching it return with a casual grace back to that half mysterious place below where their vision ceases, and an angler’s vision goes.

Give me a rod of split bamboo,
a rainy day and a fly or two,
a mountain stream where the eddies play,
and mists hang low o'er the winding way,

Give me a haunt by the furling brook,
A hidden spot in a mossy nook,
No sound save hum of the drowsy bee,
or lone bird's tap on the hollow tree.

The world may roll with it's busy throng,
And phantom scenes on it's way along,
It's stocks may rise, or it's stocks may fall,
Ah! What care I for it's baubles all?

I cast my fly o'er the troubled rill,
Luring the beauties by magic skill,
With mind at rest and a heart at ease,
And drink delight at the balmy breeze.

A l***y trout to my glad surprise,
Speckled and bright on the crest arise,
Then splash and plunge in a dazzling whirl,
Hope springs anew as the wavelets curl.

Gracefully swinging from left to right,
Action so gentle- motion so slight,.
Tempting, enticing, on craft intent,
Till yielding tip by the game is bent

Drawing in slowly, then letting go
Under the ripples where mosses grow
Doubting my fortune, lost in a dream,
Blessing the land of forest and stream.

I remember fondly the summer when I was nine
Catching minnows in the creek was my favorite pastime
Except I called then pin fish, I had quirky names for things
As well as bizarre behaviour, year before, obsessed with swings

Decked out in my rubber boots with a bucket in each hand
My desire to capture them day after day, I did not understand
For hours upon hours I catch as many I could, then set them free
To the top of the hill I trudge to a natural spring nestled under a tree

After taking a drink from the purest water I ever sprung from this earth
I overturn the bucket, maybe in my young mind, I was giving them rebirth
For these little minnows, it must have been a harrowing event
Or an adventure of a lifetime, for to harm was never my intent

Then off to home I go to have a bowl of long strokes aka chicken noodle soup
Giving my pin fish time to travel down hill and once again regroup
The next day I would wake up eager and a pin fishing I would go
I bet those minnows were happy when them I finally did outgrow

A fishing boat left the port of Kinsale
The rain was lashing and blowing a gale
Fishing grounds were in sight
Then they had a great fright
Along side swam a giant killer whale.

A fish pong round the boat was so smelly
"Hold your noses "cried out Captain Kelly
Whale then bit off a chunk
Fishing boat and crew sunk
They all ended up in the whales belly.

A long way back from the sea, within
the hills that rise behind the village, fish
encounter the first of many barriers they must unpuzzle
in order to reach the pools in which they spawn.

The white bear is attuned to this season.
It duly ambles to its favoured spot
along its side of the river, awaiting fish.

Upon the river’s other side two girls
stand with their thumbs tucked
under the soft straps of their waxy leather packs.

They watch the bear, perched on its jut of rock,
how its eyes skim the movement of water:
a sleepy back and forth to its doggish head,
the same way an angler flicks his silvery thread
in loopy waves across a river’s top
before he is sure there are fish to be enticed.

To see fish jump is to see for a moment
the foamed-white fall of water opened up.

An oval split of black appears at the junction
where river below receives river above,
as though the flow had been relaxed, just enough
for the tumble of water to thin, the resultant fissure
revealing the shadow of rock behind; the small split
ripping briefly up the wet curtain, before the current
returns to full strength and the split closes up;
a black shadow of fish subsumed again by white.

Sometimes one of these splits shoots up
and over the lip of the fall, the smooth black
of its oblong so sharp in its cutting it opens
the base of white sky, for a moment,
before it’s re-swallowed by river.

Another, in pushing the void of its apex
at speed from the whiteness,
is je**ed from its flight,
and in leaving its path prematurely
ceases at once to be shape—becomes fish.

Its sideways thrash about the claws
that have punctured its course, that have drawn it
clear from its universe of water.

The bear,
undoing its white
from the white of the fall,
steps back.

The fish: transferred from paw to jaw,
still flexing its singular muscle:
a sickle, inverting itself up/down
around the central fixture of firm-set teeth.

To one of the girls this is new. It enthrals her
to watch as the bear tears live strips of pink flesh
from the still-squirming fish, the surprise of its insides
let out: all that soft glossy muscle: fine-linered in red,
little rills of bright blood
washed away by stray river splashes.

The blood
of the fish
becoming
the blood
of the bear.

She wants to know how many fish must be eaten
before a whole bear can be made; what proportion
of fish are destined to end up as people; or if
there are some that will never be other than fish.

On the opposite side of the river
the white bear moves, reasserts
its grand proximity. The girl
halts her questions, steps back.

But bears have no need to cross over the river.

Except when winter comes late
and they wake without food,
test their weight upon bridges of ice
that grew up while they slept.

They are fermin the fower winds:
Five grey- stemmed daffodils
on the hill abuin Eynhallow
that whirlmagig air intil pouer.

Aa Simmerdim on Flotta –
a thrummlin column o virr:
the fleerin ee o Sauron lowps
and rages in its touer.

Fishermen wi lap tops,
tractors steert by Sat Nav,
Progress chaps our door unbiddan
tae win us ower.

Sunlicht asklent a green wave
maun be wrocht as an equation:
the Physic mind is mappamouned
whaur aa is swack and sure.

The makar speirs the silence,
raiks the taigle o time-wrack
for signs and kennings, patterns
thrang in his hairst o hours.

The solar wind pents miracles
yet a muckler ane by faur,
we’re a mystery o pairticles
ablaw the cosmic glower.

For aye we’re raxin scaffolding
o sense on circled yirth
whiles Magnus sails his saundstane ark
abuin our clash and stouer.

On that sinuous passage from infancy
and youth’s buoyancy through middle
life to advanced years, the one certainty
is a gathering of momentum consistent
with time’s flow – something scarcely
uppermost in my mind as the trout
I’m playing draws me downstream
till rocked by the tidal undertow I fight
to retain my balance: hard to know
where the river ends and the sea begins.

A king fisher swooped down
into the silent waters at the noon
a flash of amber and blue
bobbed up sloshing- whoo
a silver fish dangling from its beak
like an ornate pendant, from that creek

Where the mountains crumbled
and yellow desert began,
when the sun began to smoulder
in a vault of indigo,
I left the metalled road
and found a perfect circle
of still and silent water,
fifty yards by fifty,
with hard treeless banks
un-marked by any prints.

Call it a pool of tears
wept by dogs or kangaroos,
or dead transported men.
I considered it a dewpond
but no dew anywhere
ever fell that swarthy colour,
or seemed so like the lid
of a tunnel piercing through
the planet’s fiery heart
to the other side and England.

Providence any how
had made me think ahead
and without a moment’s pause
I was parked up on the bank,
had my rod and spinner ready,
and was flicking out a cast
to find what rose to me.

Nothing rose, of course.
A kookaburra guffawed
a mile off in the bush
and a million years ago;
a snack of tiny flies
sizzled round my lips;
and as the dying sun
sank deeper in its vault
a gang of eucalypts
in tattered party dresses
seemed to shuffle closer
and show their interest
in hearing how my line
whispered on the water
(now uniformly solid
ancient beaten bronze),
how the reel’s neat click
made the spinner plonk down,
how the ratchet whirred
as I reeled in slow enough
to conjure up the monster
that surely slept below.

As I reeled in slow enough
then suddenly too slow,
and the whirling hooks caught hold
of something obstinate.
Not flesh or fish-mouth though.
Too much dead weight for that.
A stone age log perhaps.
A mass at any rate
that would not change its mind
and snapped the flimsy line
which blew back in my face
as light as human hair.

If not myself at least
the pond lay peaceful then,
with sun now turned to dust
and a moon-ghost in its place
as much like company
as anything complete.

Why not, I thought,
why not
despite the loss to me
continue standing here
and still cast out my line,
my frail and useless lash,
with no better reason now
than watch the thing lie down
then lift and lie again,
until such time arrives
as the dark that swallows up
the sky has swallowed me.