A Poem Served To Order
PHI BETA KAPPA, JUNE 26, 1873
THE Caliph ordered up his cook,
And, scowling with a fearful look
That meant,--We stand no gammon,--
'To-morrow, just at two,' he said,
'Hassan, our cook, will lose his head,
Or serve us up a salmon.'
'Great sire,' the trembling chef replied,
'Lord of the Earth and all beside,
Sun, Moon, and Stars, and so on
(Look in Eothen,-there you'll find
A list of titles. Never mind;
I have n't time to go on
'Great sire,' and so forth, thus he spoke,
'Your Highness must intend a joke;
It doesn't stand to reason
For one to order salmon brought,
Unless that fish is sometimes caught,
And also is in season.
'Our luck of late is shocking bad,
In fact, the latest catch we had
(We kept the matter shady),
But, hauling in our nets,--alack!
We found no salmon, but a sack
That held your honored Lady!'
'Allah is great!' the Caliph said,
'My poor Zuleika, you are dead,
I once took interest in you.'
'Perhaps, my Lord, you'd like to know
We cut the lines and let her go.'
'Allah be praised! Continue.'
'It is n't hard one's hook to bait,
And, squatting down, to watch and wait,
To see the cork go under;
At last suppose you've got your bite,
You twitch away with all your might,--
You've hooked an eel, by thunder!'
The Caliph patted Hassan's head
'Slave, thou hast spoken well,' he said,
'And won thy master's favor.
Yes; since what happened t' other morn
The salmon of the Golden Horn
Might have a doubtful flavor.
'That last remark about the eel
Has also justice that we feel
Quite to our satisfaction.
To-morrow we dispense with fish,
And, for the present, if you wish,
You'll keep your bulbous fraction.'
'Thanks! thanks!' the grateful chef replied,
His nutrient feature showing wide
The gleam of arches dental:
'To cut my head off wouldn't pay,
I find it useful every day,
As well as ornamental.'
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Brothers, I hope you will not fail
To see the moral of my tale
And kindly to receive it.
You know your anniversary pie
Must have its crust, though hard and dry,
And some prefer to leave it.
How oft before these youths were born
I've fished in Fancy's Golden Horn
For what the Muse might send me!
How gayly then I cast the line,
When all the morning sky was mine,
And Hope her flies would lend me!
And now I hear our despot's call,
And come, like Hassan, to the hall,--
If there's a slave, I am one,--
My bait no longer flies, but worms!
I 've caught--Lord bless me! how he squirms!
An eel, and not a salmon!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Me and Paddy Martin
At Yoker High, I caught the train and went to Craigendoran,
I loved to fish there off the beach but it was always pouring
We used to get there at low tide, to search for rags and lugs,
But cos we hadn’t checked the tides, we’d end up looking mugs.
Rods in hand, no bait to fish and soaked right to the skin,
It was up the chippy for a heat and get some food within.
We were hopeless at this game and never caught a salmon
So we’d head home, cold and wet and end up having gammon.
poem by Paul Colvin
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Those Wild Pink Salmon
Now, this ‘wild pink salmon’ thing…
are they just wild about pink
like that designer with the limp wrist
or wild like you wouldn't want
to share an estuary with them
or wild that they're not so good
at jumping up the waterfalls
or wild that they’re pink
when they’d like to be red
and so, wild that the other salmon are red
is it some muted colour-snobbery
like used to be in the Windies
between chocolate and coffee
and possibly I don’t know
between Red Indians and Pink Indians
whose mother got around a bit
though on the other hand
it could be boring on the reservation
being a Hiawatha brave or squaw
10 to 5 each day for the tourists
envying the other Indians
with a real job
like standing outside a cigar store
stained with nicotine
or even inside
is it like the Monty Python sketch
the pink salmon look up to the red salmon
but look down on the tame salmon
but then, are wild and tame
really opposites anyway
even if those are the correct terms individually
is it any consolation to wild pink salmon
that we think
they’re supposed to be salmon-pink anyway
so red salmon are the ones
to be red-faced
I mean how wild is wild
and how tame are farmed salmon
if at all
they could be wilder inside
about being hemmed in
when their wild brothers and sisters
are having a wild time
in the spawning grounds off Newfoundland
(though salmon won’t know it’s called that)
and so, excuse the phrase, see red?
and – the thought’s just struck me
like a slap around the gills
with a wet fish –
they probably don’t
read the label
there’s a message there
for all of us in this
colour-conscious age
poem by Michael Shepherd
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This Is No Fish Story
We had been up and down Redwood Creek
For what seemed to me to be all day
Watching my grandfather fish for salmon
We started at the mouth of the river
Hiked over sand rocks and slippery green moss
The only reason I was there was
The fried chicken and potato salad
My grandmother made the night before
Lunch seemed so far away
My grandfather was out of sight
He had worked his way upstream
When we heard him yell 'FISH ON! '
My grandmother who had been hanging back with me
Left me in the sand
I had to move fast to catch up
Moving around large pieces of driftwood
He had certainly hooked something
His rod bending if half then straightening
As he let line out
With the reel's drag on
I knew how to fish
I just didn't like to
I had no patience
I wasn't like bird hunting
If I got bored bird hunting
When I was by myself
With just my dog
I could take a shot anyway
Just for practice
To get the dog used to the noise
Because I had no patience
At the age of twelve
I had never seen so much line out before
He kept backing further up the wide beach
It looked to me as if the fish knew the way
And was headed back to the ocean
Hook in his mouth
My guess was he was no longer
In the mood for spawning
He had my grandfather on
Nothing personal on either side
My grandfather wanted to land the salmon
The salmon it appeared wanted
My grandfather in the water
This primal tug of war
Went on for some time
The salmon tried everything
It tried going behind submerged trees
It woud take a run
Straight at the beach
My grandfather reeling in the slack
As fast as he could
The salmon would then jump high
Doubling back away yanking on the line
Trying to dislodge the hook
Or snap the line (he'd been on before)
They were both getting tired
My grandfather timed the next
Pull on his fishing rod
With the jump of the salmon
Too close to shore this time
The beast was on the beach in front of me
My grandfather was still reeling in line
He knew it wasn't landed yet
He was hollering for my grandmother
To grab a piece of driftwood
To club the monster
Who was glaring at me with one eye
His other eye was in the sand
My grandfather's shinning metal lure
Stuck out of a bloody mouth
Gills were grasping for oxygen in dry air
I swear I saw in that eye the reflection
Of my grandmother running
A hunk of driftwood in hand
The eye saw it too
With one last flop like a large wrestler
Just before the count of three
He went up into the air
Snapped the line hit the water and was gone
I'm not sure what pound test the line was
Whatever it was it wasn't enough
My gandfather's favorite lure
With his hand-tied leader
Were following their catch
As fast as they could
Not knowing it was they
That had been caught
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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The Tale Of Meenkumar
Long long ago
Man used to live on the bank of the ocean
There were many lakes and rivers surrounding the ocean
The banks of the rivers and lakes were full of trees
Many forests were there
Those were deep forests
In the forests there were many wild animals
Man lived on the bank of the ocean
Because of the danger of the wild animals
Except farmers, fishermen, craftspeople abode there
Fishermen knew fishes were the saviors of their life
So they didn't catch fish every time
They didn't catch fish unless it was necessary
They didn't kill the fry and not even the pregnant fish
There was the Meen kingdom in the oceans
What is Meen?
It is a kind of fish
They used to rule the kingdom of the oceans
One day, one Meen prince came out of the palace because of forgetfulness of mind
He was roaming and came at a place full of mosses and rocks
There were many big and small fishes
One big Salmon fish was delighted to see the beauty of the Meen prince
He felt greed to eat him
Meen prince escaped when he saw the salmon swimming towards him
Meen prince hid himself under the rocks
Salmon knew that Meen cannot stay for a long time there
When he would come, he would catch him and eat
It would be a wonderful dinner for him
Meen prince passed the night by hiding under the rocky place
Early in the morning, fishermen came to catch fish
Meen prince saw a child fisherman
He requested him to save his life
Finally the fishermen encircled the Salmon fish and caught it
Meen thanked the child fisherman and luckily returned to the palace
This was the tale of Meenkumar....
poem by Z.I. Mahmud
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As the evening sun faded from a salmon color to a sort of flint gray, I thought back to the salmon I caught that morning, and how gray he was, and how I named him Flint.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dedicated Fishermen
The lads, Sid, Fred, Frank and Len,
Are four dedicated fishermen,
Telling stories of their latest bite,
They'd sometimes talk right through the night,
About the 'big one' that got away,
Which was to everybody's great dismay.
These gentlemen, would then debate,
About different hooks and various bait.
They'd talk of hours spent on sandbanks,
How the lastest catch, had been or course, Frank's,
Searching for cod, sea bass and salmon,
Whilst eating sandwiches filled with gammon,
And drinking cups of tomato soup,
They'd sit there with a 'shoulder' stoop,
And contemplating about the weather,
Their spirits would feel as light as a feather.
The day could be long, but there was always the sun,
And peace and quiet, when 'all's said and done',
Along with a container of cockles and shrimps, they
Would definitely catch some fish by the end of the day.
So Fred, Len, Frank and Sid, sat on
And quietly mused till the light was gone,
Then trudged off to the pub, cos their throats had dried.
But they'll be fishing again with the next high tide!
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Otters
I'LL be an otter, and I'll let you swim
A mate beside me; we will venture down
A deep, full river when the sky above
Is shut of the sun; spoilers are we;
Thick-coated; no dog's tooth can bite at our veins
With ears and eyes of poachers; deep-earthed ones
Turned hunters: let him slip past,
The little vole, my teeth are on an edge
For the King-fish of the River!
I hold him up
The glittering salmon that smells of the sea:
I hold him up and whistle!
Now we go
Back to our earth; we will tear and eat
Sea-smelling salmon: you will tell the cubs
I am the Booty-brmger: I am the Lord
Of the River the deep, dark, full, and flowing River!
poem by Padraic Colum
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Fish And Shadow
The salmon-trout drifts in the stream,
The soul of the salmon-trout floats over the stream
Like a little wafer of light.
The salmon moves in the sun-shot, bright shallow sea. . . .
As light as the shadow of the fish
that falls through the water,
She came into the large room by the stair,
Yawning a little she came with the sleep still upon her.
'I am just from bed. The sleep is still in my eyes.
'Come. I have had a long dream.'
And I: That wood?
'And two springs have passed us.'
'Not so far, no, not so far now,
There is a place but no one else knows it
A field in a valley . . .
Qu'ieu sui avinen,
Ieu lo sai,'
She must speak of the time
Of Arnaut de Mareuil, I thought, 'qu'ieu sui avinen.’
Light as the shadow of the fish
That falls through the pale green water.
poem by Ezra Pound
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At The Fishing Village
life is simple here
and i learn a lot
first, i put the bait
on the hook,
got an earth
worm
wriggling
attractive inside
the green
water
i throw the line
a fish
catches
the bait and
it is caught
i cook what i catch
and have
my own fill
i get what i
deserve.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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0222 Return to the Golden Age
We are like salmon, swimming back upstream:
leaping against waterfalls that thwart,
cut and bruised; but strong; our only dream
return to source; no thought save source of thought;
and in that fight, our iron age turns to bronze,
and we to heroes, in a war of soul,
as nature seeks the nature it had once;
though wholly lost, remembering the whole.
We silver salmon, sparkling as the sun
shines on our fierce and loving enterprise:
to rear our children where the world is one;
the source remembered, nature's greatest prize.
The golden age is ageless in its gleam
and we, like salmon, swimming back upstream.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Pancakes and With Baked Salmon
I do have this 'thing'
For my own homemade pancakes.
And with baked salmon!
What a treat to eat.
You are not going to get any that I make!
But here is the recipe.
You can do it just like me.
First beat an egg in a mixing bowl,
Add a tablespoon of baking powder.
A third teaspoon of salt
A full teaspoon of sugar.
And about a third cup of vegetable oil.
Beat that all together.
Now you want to add the flour.
About a cup...maybe more...
If you're serving more than two people.
I choose to use evaporated milk.
At least a cup.
Whip all this stuff up.
Heat that frying pan or griddle.
Medium to hot.
Add some olive oil if you got it.
Vegetable oil will do.
With a slice of butter added too!
OH! I almost forgot the salmon!
I use salmon steaks.
Preheat the oven 350 degrees.
After rinsing the salmon...
Rub with apple vinegar.
Salt and pepper if you please.
Lay on tin foil since this is what I use.
Add butter and a bit of oil!
Enclosed that salmon within the foil.
Baked twenty minutes.
That's all it takes!
ENJOY!
Use syrup on the pancakes.
Perhaps a little Vadalia Onion Dressing,
On the salmon.
And if you don't like this...
You definitely will love,
My brown sugar/mustard roasted chicken.
But I'm not sharing that right now!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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River-Mates
I’LL be an otter, and I’ll let you swim
A mate beside me; we will venture down
A deep, dark river, when the sky above
Is shut of the sun; spoilers are we,
Thick-coated; no dog’s tooth can bite at our veins
With eyes and ears of poachers; deep-earthed ones
Turned hunters; let him slip past
The little vole; my teeth are on an edge
For the King-fish of the River!
I hold him up
The glittering salmon that smells of the sea;
I hold him high and whistle!
Now we go
Back to our earths; we will tear and eat
Sea-smelling salmon; you will tell the cubs
I am the Booty-bringer, I am the Lord
Of the River; the deep, dark, full and flowing River.
poem by Padraic Colum
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On the hook of truth only small carp will bite; in the net of falsehood the big salmon are caught.
Bear
Bear..
stone clad shores
welt beneath your warmth
fir lined trees
stand silent in your presence
misted waters raise to greet a vibrant sky in jubilation
as salmon fight ferocious rapids
you
intent
listen and watch
baited breath
silent
your cumbersome claw hovers as a wieghtless mosquito
dancing hithertoo
for that oh so perfect
catch
titanium
spray
avoi ds your touch
end the salmon's day
poem by Karen Sinclair
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Isaac Newton
Isaac Newton
For years he fished in the nearby lake,
but the fish would never take his bait.
So he baited his hook with crusty-bread,
but even that didn’t turn their head.
He changed the bait to a lump of cheese
and thought this would tempt and tease,
but alas no bites from dusk till dawn,
so he changed the bait to boiled corn.
With no success with boiled wheat
Newton would not accept defeat.
So he put a juicy worm upon the hook,
but even this got no second look.
He cast aside his tackle and thoughts of fish,
and became a mathematician and physicist.
One sunny morning beneath an apple tree
he sat reading a book of philosophy.
From the lake a fish leaped high above his head,
but an apple fell down and hit him instead.
He looked up for the fish and it fell onto his lap,
so he ate the apple and put the fish back.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Sealed By A Kiss 'Ode To Liz
Chances forsaken by the chance that I will miss
Signed verdict caste fate sealed with a kiss
Futures danced on the head of a needle
For I sir knight courting so feeble
Vivacious vixen adorned in black clothing
Dancing on air while she is walking
Beautiful Looks desiring first date
Promptly showing not too late
Ladders carried working so hard
Words spoken to the knight of Covington yard
Fine like wine to dine so exciting
Golden Germanic Goddess to me inspiring
Like broiled salmon with fixings and more
Interest peaked galore to explore
Lips so sweet with a tint of pink
Fermented tonic bottled I did drink
Bass line’s thumping while bodies bubbling
Waistline touching, bumping, and grinding
On the floor the youths were whining
Music serenade eardrums I was finding
Ever-closer moments at a touch
Held tightly I hoped you don’t mind much
As the music plaid on into the night
Comforted I by the aura in low light
As minstrels plaid reggae music sweet
Melodies moved your dancing feet
Stature tall golden maiden to capture
Caught up in the moment seasoned rapture
The rains came off went the star
Drenched I walked you to your car
Conversations great and all new
Steamed windows definitely you I would do
Called I found that things may not be so right
Kisses taken way into the night
As much as I may have had a wish
Angler in my boat without a fish
A chance came for me to miss
My fate was doomed by a single kiss
The plot changed added a twist
Sorry I did not make your list
Back to Covington yard goes the knight
Dawning came the morning comforting sight
Peddling poem wares now in Coventry
The swami told me now no chemistry
How do now tell I thought
Thinking everything jelled what I sought
In your flame I was caught
For you love I would have fought
By your glow I’m haunted
Sorry I wasn’t everything you wanted
For your love I would’ve been a glut
A shame I just didn’t make the cut
Write you now to try to regain your heart
Things now I know not too smart
It would have been great for all you know
For you’ve made my eyes a glow
I would never feed you a line
I love your smile your lisp divine
With you I saw not a question sign
How I want to make you mine
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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Well of Moonlight
This moon,
This moon,
This moon is not real:
There is another moon up
On a hill,
And my that moonlight
I draw water from the well.
Now my sister is getting married,
While I am waiting,
Waiting,
Wondering if I should stand sometime
Beside her stone
Beneath the well;
In autumn, or in summer,
I cannot tell.
My scars are salmon,
Salmon underneath the stars
And the pallid aspens, like sisters
All up and down the hill,
They stand so very, very still
Just down the draw
Where the moon spills its light
Like water down into the well;
And onto the stone
Where beneath my sister lies yet married,
So very, very, very still.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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One Day We Went Fishing at 3am
One day we drove to the Zion power plant
To go salmon fishing at 3 am
I had accompanied you on many trips
Once you dragged out a large cat fish
On this trip the wind blew
As we strode down power plant pier
You brought the fishing pole and box
But we clearly forgot boots and rain gear
The grey water splashed against the cement pylons
As you casted and casted looking for fish
After two hours time the first glimmers of light
Broke through the grey of that early spring morning
Walking back slightly defeated
We noticed a Mexican man casting
Wading in the swirling water
He pulled out a giant spring salmon
poem by Stephanie Eve Kane Arado
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Fishing at 3am
One day we drove to the Zion power plant
To go salmon fishing at 3 am
I had accompanied you on many trips
Once you dragged out a large cat fish
On this trip the wind blew
As we strode down power plant pier
You brought the fishing pole and box
But we clearly forgot boots and rain gear
The grey water splashed against the cement pylons
As you casted and casted looking for fish
After two hours time the first glimmers of light
Broke through the grey of that early spring morning
Walking back slightly defeated
We noticed a Mexican man casting
Wading in the swirling water
He pulled out a giant spring salmon
poem by Stephanie Eve Kane Arado
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Fish Song
Sat here by this stony brook until the grey day turned to dust
When up swam a fish with a childrens book thought that I was lost.
He was on his way to the salmon hop, thats where they go to breed
Saw me sitting on this log and thought Id like to read.
The night was cloudy but the moon he found a hole
Said that he felt bad for me cause I had no place to go
Why arent you at the harvest ball with some sweet young gal
You just sit like a bump on the log and call that fish your pal.
Well, I told him I was an orphan lived here all alone
But many people have often tried to catch and take me home
They never caught me!
Thought that I was a hiding, call this log my home
But the fish and the moon and a sweet young gal
All want me for their own.
The night was cloudy but the moon he found a hole
Said that he felt bad for me cause I had no place to go
So I met that gal at the harvest ball, she took me to her room
While I slept in childrens dreams, the fish ran away with the moon.
The fish ran away with the moon
The fish ran away with the moon.
song performed by by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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