Angler's Wrath
Like a fish on the angler's hook
Wriggling to escape
The angler's wrath
The gentleman she once knew
In true form was a real swine
Undressing her with his eyes
Tears threatening
As she tries to unclasp his hand
From her wrist
Sensing his enjoyment of her discomfort
He tighten his grip
Much against her will
Her heart pounding with excitement
Damn his dark eyes reeling her in
Was the last she remember
As his lips gently finds hers
poem by Persian Khushi
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Related quotes
The Angler Rose, He Took His Rod
THE angler rose, he took his rod,
He kneeled and made his prayers to God.
The living God sat overhead:
The angler tripped, the eels were fed
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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The Angler Fish
If the male to the unbilical chord
Is tied, an angler fish inside a womb;
Caught between weakness and devouring strength,
The duty of manhood and pity's tomb;
Life within love's placenta, strewn at length
The Ocean bed, is but death's lovely ward.
Deep within her flesh, his soul ruminates
Swallowing the debris she has long cared,
Seeing with her eyes, sensing with the tips
Of feelers, her body's corpse long prepared,
Not knowing if it's he or she who dips
The line, to catch the fish, that time frustrates.
poem by David Levitas
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Fish the Fish
fish makes every fish catch, the tail that
smell like fish as the angler bait its fishing
rod bit each heart beat, the triumphant
heart break its brake the nylon cord that
hold the hook that synchronize the timing
swings of each hand lifting as it goes
catching the net as it swing in the thread
that fishes the fish
strength hold on, tie so quick on, leave no
loose every cost is to repulse, time is
sweeten in the fish in the table all are
refresh, every fisherman switch the light in
the kitchen the kittle, the cool plate and the
fire is burning on
sweet smells like a baby, in every nose so
shiny, in every dinning table everybody is
happy ready to take like party, now all
hands should hold, and bring every magical
strength enfold, the fish is in the running
water waiting for us to carry in every heart,
please prepare the place, the net is
empty …… come and fish the fish
poem by Antonio Liao
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An Angler
Now as an angler melancholy standing
Upon a green bank yielding room for landing,
A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook,
Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook:
Here pulls his line, there throws it in again,
Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain,
He long stands viewing of the curled stream;
At last a hungry pike, or well-grown bream
Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away,
He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway,
Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill,
Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill;
Then all his line he freely yieldeth him,
Whilst furiously all up and down doth swim
Th' insnared fish, here on the top doth scud,
There underneath the banks, then in the mud,
And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal,
That each one takes his hide, or starting hole:
By this the pike, clean wearied, underneath
A willow lies.
poem by William Browne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Gently
(words & music by wizell - lisbona)
Gently your eyes met mine
Tender, trusting, true
Gently your hand took mine
Thrilled me through and through
Gently, oh so gently
Gentle as the dawn
Gently, oh so gently
Our true love was born
Gently your lips kissed mine
As we strolled along
Gently your heart touched mine
Young and warm and strong
Gently the hour is near
When true loves have to part
Gently well meet again
One more kiss, sweetheart
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Once Knew A Woman
Well now I once knew a woman listen while I tell you all about her yeah
And the first time I seen her I knew I couldn't live without her
Well now she swore she'd love me all her life and I knew I'd do the same
God damn but I don't even remember her name I don't remember her name
Well now I once knew a woman and oh listen while I'm tellin' it to ya yeah
She had big brown eyes the kind that could look right through ya
Now that she looked in my soul with those big brown eyes
Got a feelin' like I never knew hey come to think of it those eyes were blue
I think those eyes were blue
Well now you end one love then onto another never thinkin' back at the past one
Never stop to think oh brother that the next one gonna be just like the last one
I once knew a woman listen while I tell you my story
She had a heart like the world her lips like a morning glory yeah
Well I knew at last I met my fate and I'm bound to settle down
Hey I wonder if she's still in town
Yeah I once knew a woman and listen while I tell you some more boys
Hey come to think of it I think I told bout her before boys
Well she is the one who gets my heart she sets my heart aflame
Yeah I still don't remember her name
Hmm come to think of it those eyes were blue or were they green
Hmm I wonder if she's still around hmm you know I'm really not to blame
Oh I still don't remember her name
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Broremann The Fisherman
Broremann the Angler
On the pier where fishing vessels were tied up my brother
sat fishing all the while seagulls kept swooping and shrieking,
he blissfully ignored them. He had no hook at the end of his
line and when asked why he said, I don´t like to hurt the fish.
But crafty little Broremann was not as innocent as you may
think, he didn´t like fish, all those horrible tiny bones,
his mother had sent him down to the pier to try catch some
fish for lunch. He liked sausages with mashed potatoes and
stewed peas, now he could go home tell his mother fish didn´t
bite today, but made sure to put the hook on the line so his
mother could see he was really trying. An old fisherman gave
him two sardines wrapped in a newspaper, but wouldn´t you
know it the pair of sardines somehow slipped out of the paper
and made their way back to the sea.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Fisherfolk
I like to look at fishermen
And oftentimes I wish
One would be lucky now and then
And catch a little fish.
I watch them statuesquely stand,
And at the water look;
But if they pull their float to land
It's just to bait a hook.
I ponder the psychology
That roots them in their place;
And wonder at the calm I see
In ever angler's face.
There is such patience in their eyes,
Beside the river's brink;
And waiting for a bite or rise
I do not think they think.
Or else they are just gentle men,
Who love--they know not why,
Greeen grace of trees or water when
It wimples to the sky . . .
Sweet simple souls! As vain I watch
My heart to you is kind:
Most precious prize of all you catch,
--Just Peace of Mind.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Patient Angler
The angler of fish has patience over the wine,
He drinks this liquid when the fish are to decline.
poem by Naveed Akram
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When I remember the fish
When I remember the fish,
The river longed me to go,
Wriggling and meandering, slippery in this
Imaginary waters of my world,
I become a fish.
When eye sea them eat the fish;
They cast their nets for a random catch, they
Drop their hooks for a strangling pull, then,
I become a fish no more.
When them fail to catch the fish;
As the fish wriggles an escape,
Then eye long to be like one as eye
Wonder whether or not am a fish.
©1998
poem by Akachukwu Chukwuemeka
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You kill the River not the Fish
waste dump makes us numb, plant grows
made us a calm, river flows lead us to glow in
the Lilies where they want go
beautiful fish as it swim, in the fresh water
it flaps; breathing as it dances, waiting to
see the angler hook, in a beautiful sway you
are always seen
gills so shinny, bone so flexible to cook, eyes
that looks like a golden moon in the gloomy
nights you will always stay
jump, jump and jump follow the rhythms of
the stream; almost going near to the sea, where
your heart sings and leads me to be happy
as the river goes out its way, turbid where
nobody wants to fish, everyday faces wants
to tease; it’s the clear water you always dump
makes me ugly, for each waste makes me
so funny
why are you not so sensitive to my calls, where
your eyes in fact is not big as me, you’ve made
me lost, nay! the food that is sweet and plenty,
serve and give the table now is empty
look at me now, my eyes is blind in your hands;
accept that you’re not so lucky for the
river now seems not for everybody; they’re all
dead and you come to me to beg
please listen first to my flee …..
poem by Antonio Liao
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The Gentleman's Tear
At the candle light
And the dark around
He is sitting there alone
There is another light
Glowing bright from his heart
So pure and bright
Just I wished if I knew
Why he was sitting there alone.
Oh, how a cute gentleman!
At the magic nihgt
Under the candle light
What he was thinking about
That good hearted gentleman!
What a Deep! Deep! thoughts
Just If It could be seen
At the dark of the night!
What was thinking about
While he was touching the candle light
O, my God what was going on
How can be this true
At the darkness night
Under the candle light
Two drops of tears slipped from those charming eyes
I saw his face
The tears were rolling down
What could be the reason to make those eyes cry?
At the darkness nihgt
Under the candle light
Just I wanted if my wish would become true
Just I wished if I could be his light.
And wipe away the gloom
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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Spiritual Pull
I've noticed how you use your spirit
when pretty girls pass by.
You pretend not to notice them,
leaving your spirit to give the eye.
They can't help but to engage conversation,
you're like an angler with a baited hook.
I don't know how you trained your spirit,
but you should write 'A Guide To Your Spirit' book.
All types of people enjoy talking with you,
I can see the sparkle in their eyes,
and you respond in such an unassuming way,
I wish my spirit could magnetise.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Britannia's Pastorals
Now as an angler melancholy standing
Upon a green bank yielding room for landing,
A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook,
Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook:
Here pulls his line, there throws it in again,
Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain,
He long stands viewing of the curled stream;
At last a hungry pike, or well-grown bream
Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away,
He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway,
Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill,
Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill;
Then all his line he freely yieldeth him,
Whilst furiously all up and down doth swim
Th' insnared fish, here on the top doth scud,
There underneath the banks, then in the mud,
And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal,
That each one takes his hide, or starting hole:
By this the pike, clean wearied, underneath
A willow lies, and pants (if fishes breathe)
Wherewith the angler gently pulls him to him,
And lest his haste might happen to undo him,
Lays down his rod, then takes his line in hand,
And by degrees getting the fish to land,
Walks to another pool: at length is winner
Of such a dish as serves him for his dinner:
So when the climber half the way had got,
Musing he stood, and busily 'gan plot
How (since the mount did always steeper tend)
He might with steps secure his journey end.
At last (as wand'ring boys to gather nuts)
A hooked pole he from a hazel cuts;
Now throws it here, then there to take some hold,
But bootless and in vain, the rocky mould
Admits no cranny where his hazel hook
Might promise him a step, till in a nook
Somewhat above his reach he hath espied
A little oak, and having often tried
To catch a bough with standing on his toe,
Or leaping up, yet not prevailing so,
He rolls a stone towards the little tree,
Then gets upon it, fastens warily
His pole unto a bough, and at his drawing
The early-rising crow with clam'rous cawing,
Leaving the green bough, flies about the rock,
Whilst twenty twenty couples to him flock:
And now within his reach the thin leaves wave,
With one hand only then he holds his stave,
And with the other grasping first the leaves,
A pretty bough he in his fist receives;
Then to his girdle making fast the hook,
His other hand another bough hath took;
His first, a third, and that, another gives,
To bring him to the place where his root lives.
Then, as a nimble squirrel from the wood,
Ranging the hedges for his filberd-food,
Sits peartly on a bough his brown nuts cracking,
And from the shell the sweet white kernel taking,
Till with their crooks and bags a sort of boys,
To share with him, come with so great a noise,
That he is forc'd to leave a nut nigh broke,
And for his life leap to a neighbour oak,
Thence to a beech, thence to a row of ashes;
Whilst through the quagmires, and red water plashes,
The boys run dabbling thorough thick and thin;
One tears his hose, another breaks his shin,
This, torn and tatter'd, hath with much ado
Got by the briars; and that hath lost his shoe;
This drops his band; that headlong falls for haste;
Another cries behind for being last;
With sticks and stones, and many a sounding holloa,
The little fool, with no small sport, they follow,
Whilst he, from tree to tree, from spray to spray,
Gets to the wood, and hides him in his dray:
Such shift made Riot ere he could get up,
And so from bough to bough he won the top,
Though hindrances, for ever coming there,
Were often thrust upon him by Despair.
poem by William Browne
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Tomorrow Is Such A Long Time
If today were not an endless highway
If tonight were not a crooked trail
If tomorrow werent such a long time
Then lonesome would mean nothing to me at all
And only if my own true love were waiting for me
And if I could hear her heart softly pounding
If only she was lying by me
Then Id lie in my bed once again
I cant see my reflection in the water
Cant speak the sounds that show no pain
I cant hear the echo of my footsteps
Cant remember the sound of my own name
And only if my own true love were waiting for me
And if I could hear he heart softly pounding
If only she was lying by me
Then Id lie in my bed once again
Theres beauty in the silver, singing river
Theres beauty in the sunrise in the sky
None of these and nothing else can touch the beauty
That I remember in my true loves eyes
And only if my own true love were waiting for me
And if I could hear he heart softly pounding
If only she was lying by me
And she could lie in my bed once again
song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Man, A Torch
Blown up with painful care and hard to light,
A glimmering torch blown in a moment out,
Suspended by a web, an angler's bait,
Floating at stake along the stream of chance,
Snatch'd from its hook by the fish of poverty,
A silent cavern is his last abode;
The king's repository veil'd with gloom,
The umbrage of a thousand oziers bowed,
The couch of hallowed bones, the grave's asylum,
The brave's retreat and end of ev'ry care.
poem by George Moses Horton
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At Love's Beginning.
I might not have it then — I might not, yet
She was so near to me, could I forget
She might be nearer? There was in her eyes —
What shall I say? — a hint of the sunrise
Of her heart's day: would it then break on me
In my life's glory, or should I but see
The malediction of that morning pour
Disaster on my heart for evermore?
I did not know, and all I was became
A hush, a wonder. I scarce breathed her name,
Scarce dared to read her eyes too deeply, lest
Wrath in their tenderness should be exprest;
When suddenly love's lightning ran a streak
Up the white throat into the pallid cheek;
Her eyes took wonder too — and even thus
What we to either were, revealed to us,
Rose like God's heaven, at once, in such a way
For aye; and her eyes fell as mine took sway
Upon the moment when she knew it all,
And knew in knowing it beyond recall
Was the confession which her heart had made
With eyes, not lips, ere lips to mine were laid —
That mystic moment, when all she was drew
Out of herself, as all that I was too,
Emptied of self, then found itself in her.
poem by Robert Crawford
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I can't remember
I can’t remember the day
I can’t remember the night
I just see in your eyes
I just remember the feeling
What you feel you can’t forget
I can’t remember the light
I can’t remember the dark
I can’t remember the heart
I just live the today
Because it can’t be erased
Don’t let me here alone
Help me to remember what I forgot
I’m waiting for someone
Because alone, I cannot
If the rain come here
Help me to remember the tears
If the sun doesn’t shine
Don’t help me to remember the fears
If in the night there are stars
Remember me about the hope
If the sunset would be long
Help me to my eyes I get close
Because I would remember our love.
poem by Ianne de Angel
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Most Anglers are Very Humane
The kind-hearted angler was sadly pursuing
His calling unhallowed of choking the fishes;
He bitterly wept, for of course he was doing
An action most strongly opposed to his wishes!
His vertabra shook as he musingly planned
How kindly to threadle the worm he'd begun--it
Was plain had the reptile possessed a right hand
The penitent angler would gladly have wrung it!
He cast in his float filled with tearful emotion
And murmured "How fearful, how terrible this is!"
And just at that moment, amid some commotion,
He jerked out a panting and rather small piscis!
"Unfortunate fishlet, what dread impulse brought you
To meddle with bait which I carelessly threw in?
My dear little swimmer, I'm sorry I caught you,
So please don't blame me for contriving your ruin!"
"O barbel and salmon-trout, tench, dace and gugdeon,
O ev'ry fat jack and each eel (not a conger)
Why, why will you grieve me and stir up my dudgeon?
Go, die on his hooks who has eyes that are stronger!"
But, however, whilst moaning he pulled out a score,
And continued his wonderful luck till at last--it
Was plain that his soft heart could bear it no more,
Too deep were his groans, and--too full was his basket!
poem by Norman Rowland Gale
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