Related quotes: I know that the Apies...

In The Murk

I know that the Apies River
have a high sewerage content
and there they were
sitting beneath a willow tree
fishing kurper and carp
and from the brown black water,
deep slime and mud,
where you couldn't see anything
in the thick murk
they pulled out
big healthy fishes
that twisted, frisked
trying to get away.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes

The River

I see a couple of leaves
spinning around in the river
in a small whirlpool
circling back,
around and around.

A canoe glides past
with its occupant waving,
dressed in brilliant orange,
and it sails on
without loosing motion.

Tranquillity washes over me
where I am fishing
next to the fluid continuity
that looks the same,
but very subtle the hue changes
like the colour of the sky.

My eyes are on the policemen
of the fishing lines,
but I watch the vibrant river
rushing past, the deep blue sky
and some finches sitting twittering
on their nests in a willow tree.

I am here to catch some equilibrium,
to get balance in a busy life,
to hear the river’s voice,
for a time to let nature
talk to me and to experience
sun, wind, sky and breeze.

I think of you and I
and how suddenly passion
like the river gets an own power,
goes to a new high water mark

and although your body
is so familiar in aspects of shape,
texture and structure
there’s always something new.

You leave me breathless
and like the water
make me rise
in power and strength
and bring serenity to me.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Willow Tree

Let me be your weeping willow tree
Surround you with my long limbs
My dear, let me grow in the shade
In the sands by the bank of your river
Let I drink from your streams
The cool breeze fill my leaves
We will sing together
Water over the pebbles
And Ill be by your side forever
I wish I was a weeping willow tree
I wish I was a weeping willow tree
I wish I was a weeping willow tree
Sweet river caress how softly
Stir my searching roots
Shading the sun in the summers heat
Let I cool you
We have been dancing so long
In the winters freeze and the summers drought
We survive
We belong
Let us sing together
Water over the pebbles
And Ill be by your side forever
I wish I was your weeping willow tree
I wish I was a weeping willow tree
I wish I was a weeping willow tree
Let us sing together
Water over the pebbles
And Ill be by your side forever
Let us sing together
Water over the pebbles
And Ill be by your side forever
We can sing together
Water over the pebbles
And Ill be by your side forever
Let me be
Your willow tree
Your willow tree

song performed by by G. Love & Special Sauce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fishing For Carp (Hybridanelle)

Fishing for carp, with a six-pack cooling in the river
and the ringhals till now with eyes brown and unaware
something makes a sound, a movement making you shiver

when on your right a banded spitting cobra appears
with the woman leaving to prepare sausage
when it immediately rears

and girly is ready with the food, ready to deliver
and it gives her a great scare.
Fishing for carp, with a six-pack cooling in the river

and in your mind you are crunching gears
and you wish for her to be anywhere, but right there,
with the woman leaving to prepare sausage

and you are angry at the old deceiver
while she brings a tray full of goodies with loving care,
something makes a sound, a movement making you shiver

luckily she freezes behind you somewhere
and the snake only half alert senses something testing the air
and you wish for her to be anywhere, but right there,

and a nearby tree looks like a quiver
and you are looking for a kind of snare.
Fishing for carp, with a six-pack cooling in the river

and this is now a dangerous affair
and using the rod in your hands you slam with all your might,
and the snake only half alert senses something testing the air

slamming down on the snake like with golf driver
and this is it, you have had your share of luck, but still you dare,
something makes a sound, a movement making you shiver

she screams in fright, while you slam to your right
with your rod whistling
and using the rod in your hands you slam with all your might,

and the water shines like silver
and you cuddle her and there's a smile that you share.
Fishing for carp, with a six-pack cooling in the river
something makes a sound, a movement making you shiver

and you think: not again that spitting thing with its deadly sting,
when on your right a banded spitting cobra appears,
with your rod whistling
when it immediately rears.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Fishing for carp

Fishing for carp, probably kurper or yellow-fish
with the woman leaving to prepare sausage
frying it near to the car on a Cadac frying pan,
(you know how it is)

with a six-pack cooling in the river
and then a sound, a movement making you shiver
when on your right a banded spitting cobra appears
and girly is ready with the food, ready to deliver

a tray full of goodies that she made with loving care
and you wish for her to be anywhere
but right there, but luckily she notices the snake
freezes behind you somewhere

and the ringhals till now with eyes brown and unaware
only half awake senses something testing the air
with forked tongue and rears up ready to strike or spit
and this is it, you have had your share of luck, but still you dare

and using the rod in your hands you slam with all your might,
you slam to your right
striking the spitting hissing thing and it is flying
and it misses sweetie by a mile and luckily it is the last sight

that you have of it, while she screams in fright
and curses the day, morning sun and night
as a rattled girl sometimes does
and you assure her that every thing is well, is all right

and then unexpectedly you have a bite,
the policeman jumps and you are in for a fight
while the mother of all fishes
struggles to be free and you smite

the other rod, hooking it well and good
and the rites of fishing is well understood
and girly is handy with the catching net,
smiles in a better mood.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Willow Tree

I am a Willow Tree, that sways gently in the wind
I am a Willow Tree, who has no limits.

I am a Willow Tree, who has long and beautiful branches
I am a Willow Tree, who provides shade and comfort.

I am a Willow Tree, who can be placed anywhere
I am a Willow Tree, I whisper in the wind.

I am a Willow Tree, you think I'm very free
I am a Willow Tree, don't ever want to be me.

poem by Lucy Gocher
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Water Of Love

High and dry in the long hot day
Lost and lonely in every way
Got the flats all around me sky up above
I need a little water of love
Ive been too long lonely and my heart feels pain
Crying out for some soothing rain
I believe I have taken enough
I need a little water of love
Water of love deep in the ground
No water here to be found
Some day baby when the river runs free
Itll carry that water of love to me
Theres a bird up in a tree sitting up high
Waiting for me to die
If I dont get some water soon
Ill be dead and gone in the afternoon
Once I had a woman I could call my own
Once I had a woman now my woman is gone
Once there was a river now theres a stone
You know its evil when youre living alone

song performed by by Dire Straits
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Which Tree Am I?

Which tree, Which tree, Which tree Am I?
Do gaunt limbs swing high upon my trunk-
Etching signals in the sky?

Maybe my roots are solid and firm,
Grounded in being, strong and thick,
Passing soil and grub worm?

Specifically-
Am I, perhaps, an evergreen?
Warm and welcoming- Sheltering,
Birds within my canopy?

Or-
Do I sag, like a willow,
Showcasing agony with each wind,
Whispering melancholic mellows?

Which tree, Which tree, Which tree, Am I?
Oak, Redwood, Willow…. Bonsai?

poem by Lazarus Knix
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Down in the deep water..

Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where I ponder my life
Just how did I get to this

Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where the waterfall of dreams
Sweeps away what’s left to the abyss

Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where time stands still
just only forever.

Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where I buried all
That was ever my childhood

Where I let it go,
Where it bends and meanders,
Twisting along as the years went past.
Seemingly calm, but screaming beneath the surface
Were its hidden whirlpools, a sweeping current

Down in the deep water,
I left the edge of the river,
As I looked down
For my soul at the bottom.

Deep in the deep water
Swept away by the river

I drowned in life,

......Sinking forever.

poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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Fishing on a small lake

You had just left me
and I had relocated from Bellville
near Cape Town
to Centurion at Pretoria
and had travelled by airplane
and there was storm damage
to the roads
and I was still waiting
on my removal to arrive

and apart from going to work
I had a lot of time on my hands
and thoughts in my mind,
since I have lost
the only fish that really mattered
and I didn’t really know how.

My rods and reels and fishing tackle
from when I was a boy
was at my mother’s
where I now lived,
and the lake on the other side
of Centurion mall
caught my eye,
while I drove
over the bridge.

On the weekend
loneliness really caught up with me
and my mother
helped me prepare the bait
like she did
when I was a child.

It was nothing fancy,
just custard powder, baking meal
and honey
or baking meal and curry
or a fresh white bread and honey
that I used that summer.

At the lake some black kids
were selling tins with earthworms
to anglers,
but I wasn’t interested
as catfish goes for earthworms as well
and I wanted to catch blue kurper
or carp or maybe yellow-fish.

It was at about eleven o’clock
and some of the other anglers
had already being fishing
since six
and didn’t have luck,
but assured me
that the lake had
big kurper, carp and catfish.

They were very well equipped
with radio controlled bait boats
to take their lines in
and all kinds of modern gizmos.

I settled under a tree
next to the small red hanging bridge
with which visitors crossed the lake
and used two rods
and equipped two hooks on each line.

alternating between the custard
and the curry baits
and thought that I would have
some time to reflect on live,
but I didn’t even get time to wait.

Almost as soon as the sinker
struck the water
I had a bite,
and were catching two fish
at a time.

The biggest kurpers
that I have ever caught
were filling the keep net,
along with some rather large carp.

I came for solitude
and got everything but it
and was too busy
enjoying the experience
to notice
the three or four families
with children
who gathered on the bridge
to watch me.

Some of the other anglers
came over for a chat,
all of them believing
that I was using
some special secret
kind of bait.

I had brought more than enough bait
and gave them some
and that day all of them caught fish
and a little while later
to my astonishment
one even caught a huge catfish.

It wasn’t long before
I had friends right round that lake,
anglers brought me cider,
beer and whiskey,

and an angler
and his beautiful daughter
moved their lines
to right next to mine
and they roasted
chops and sausage
on a Cadac gas frying pan

and I got chops, sausage
and putu porridge
and many more bites
than I had bargained for.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Matlapanen

Makoros glide swift
On the Thamalakane,
The fishing boys
Cast lines again,
Where the bream lie deep
In the peat brown pool,
By the old bridge
At Matlapanen.

Under gum poles span
Smooth water slides free,
And strong circling eddies snatch
The gnarled trunk
Of a long dead tree,
Past stooped women
Gathering thatch.

The river mist coils
In the searing dawn,
Writhing, ethereal fingers
Dew diamond bright,
The light strikes strong
From arched islands,
Black stones and timbers.

There bulks the wild fig
Thick rooted and high,
Where the night rustling
Fruit bat feeds,
Where the hippo’s bark
Echoes to the darkling sky,
While a thousand moons
Dance in the reeds.

Through Delta to Dau,
Throbs river pulse beat,
Flooding bank and
Wild forest root,
Languorous cattle now
Graze belly deep,
Where dust once
Scuffed underfoot.

East down Boteti
By silent Matopi,
South on Nghabe
Past Toteng,
The dream that returns
Is the Thamalakane,
By the old bridge
At Matlepanen.

poem by Stanley Goodlad Hall
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Fishing On The Susquehanna In July

I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.

Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure -- if it is a pleasure --
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one --
a painting of a woman on the wall,

a bowl of tangerines on the table --
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,

rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.

But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia,

when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend

under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandana

sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.

That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.

Then I blinked and moved on
to other American scenes
of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,

even one of a brown hare
who seemed so wired with alertness
I imagined him springing right out of the frame.

poem by Billy Collins
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Electric Eel Song

Ay! me one child Ay-eeee!
Ay! me one daughter
Take out you’ foot
From the black river water
Haul out you’ hand
Out the slow river water
Stay ‘pon the bank
Of the cold river water
Ay! me one daughter
Ay! me one child! Ay-eeee!

Electric eel
Is the eel in the river
Shadow ‘pon the bottom
Is the eel in the river
Something like you’ hand
Is the eel in the river
Swimming like you’ foot
Is the eel in the river

Ay! me one child Ay-eeee!
Ay! me one daughter
Foot after foot
Though the black river water
She can’t touch the bottom
Out the slow river water
Shirt like umbrella
In the cold river water
Ay! me one daughter
Ay! me one child! Ay-eeee!

Electric eel
Is the eel in the river
Cutlass shape
Is the eel in the river
Black blade or brown
Is the eel in the river
Dozing so quiet
Is the eel in the river

Ay! me one child Ay-eeee!
Ay! me one daughter
Slap of a tail
Through the black river water
Shiver like ague
Out the slow river water
As if she take cramp
Of the cold river water
Ay! me one daughter
Ay! me one child! Ay-eeee!

Electric eel
Is the eel in the river
No blood, just a thrill
Is the eel in the river
Lightning bold
Is the eel in the river
And she Drown now, she chilly
Is the eel in the river

Ay! me one daughter
Ay! me one child! Ay-eeee!

poem by Slade Hopkinson
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Sitting By The Riverside

Just sitting down by the riverside,
Spreading my arms to the open wide.
Now I am free and the worlds at my feet.
I can close my eyes.
Oh love, keep me warm, keep me satisfied.
Please keep me calm, keep me pacified.
Now Im content and my life is complete.
I can close my eyes.
Sitting by the riverside with you.
I love sitting down by the riverside,
Watching the water go flowing by.
Oh, golly gee, it is heaven to be
Like a willow tree.
Spend my time just drinking wine while looking at the view.

song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Summer And Winter

It was a bright and cheerful afternoon,
Towards the end of the sunny month of June,
When the north wind congregates in crowds
The floating mountains of the silver clouds
From the horizon—and the stainless sky
Opens beyond them like eternity.
All things rejoiced beneath the sun; the weeds,
The river, and the corn-fields, and the reeds;
The willow leaves that glanced in the light breeze,
And the firm foliage of the larger trees.

It was a winter such as when birds die
In the deep forests; and the fishes lie
Stiffened in the translucent ice, which makes
Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes
A wrinkled clod as hard as brick; and when,
Among their children, comfortable men
Gather about great fires, and yet feel cold:
Alas, then, for the homeless beggar old!

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Siluroid

I am the prize catch
I live in an artificial lake
fed by a nappe phréatique
I was put there to keep
lesser fish: carp
from taking up too much space
I live to be caught
and caught again
and be let loose as rain
I protest only to attract attention
Twenty minutes to make things look good
for the fresh-water sportsman

I know now well how to play the game

My almost fanless tail
A slithering mermaid mass from my puffed-up head
where overcoat-button eyes
sunk on either side
of my gaping gasping mouth
shell-fish fins for hands
Seven beige whiskers under my gawking chin
make me the butt
of dare-devil diving click-clucking coots
Even the slender-necked darting grebe ignores me
I stay low when the wild geese gather
with their young:
duckling swan barnacle
I make no sound to call my own
Only the crunch of carp
between two rows of filed-down molars

It is not my duty to swagger around
even under my metallic raincoat camouflage
I hide where the yarrow stalks grow thick and deep
or where the weeping willows dip their loaded plaits

Every Sunday I await the sporting hameçon
The tear makes the wear more ludique
Only the side of my underlip looks like a harelip

It doesn't much matter
for the fun-loving trotters and rovers
like to marvel with pride at my side
in the fishing-club picture of the week

Meantime I gorge myself with carp
That's why I hardly ever wish to carp

Note: The Siluroid, one of the largest fresh-water fishes, sometimes two metres and a half in length and weighing anything between a hundred and a hundred and fifty kilos.

poem by T. Wignesan
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Eurydice; Where Art Thou? ; A Song

(tuned down 1 full step)

(Em, A7)

(Verse I)

At the Standing Stones, at Willow Grove
Voices call beneath the roots below
Banks of Tartarus River running high(Styx, Styx)
Orpheus laments his death born bride

(chorus) (G, D, Em)

Eurydice; Where art thou?
Below the Upper Air I harken deathly cries
Eurydice; Where canst thee be?
I tarry here as Orpheus at the Willow Tree

(Em, A7)

At the Willow Tree…………………..At the Willow Tree of Love

(Verse II)

The Willows weep lamenting as do I
As The Dark Lord takes below his Death Muse bride
An aspect of myself The Hades be
Yet tears impede my view I can not see

(chorus)
(riff)

(Verse III)

My sorrowed cries indite the midnight air
As I discard my flesh and nothing care
Lilith takes my hand in Hers so slow
An’ through the Willow Root we tae to lands below

(chorus)

(Verse IV)

The Dark Lord meets me on the battlefield
No quarter shall be granted, neither side shalt yield
On the Shortest Day this victory shall be mine
Yet, Eurydice won’t return till Vernal Tide

(chorus)

Em, A7)

At the Willow Tree…………………..At the Willow Tree of Love

Steve Trimmer

poem by Steve Trimmer
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Only Dreaming

I was quietly walking by the river
when a crocodile ran out on me.
It knocked me over with its tail,
and ate my foot before I got free.

I didn’t get far before it caught me
and bit off my legs below the knees.
Still I tried my best to crawl away,
but it chewed off my arm with ease.

I was feeling rather down hearted,
as it twisted off my other arm.
It backed up and pulled me into the river
where it was impossible to stay calm.

With determination I fought in the water,
as it twisted me around and around,
but then I felt my body and head separate,
so I guess I must’ve drowned.

poem by Orlando Belo
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Song from Aella

O SING unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holyday,
Like a running river be: