The Drunken Fisherman
Wallowing in this bloody sty,
I cast for fish that pleased my eye
(Truly Jehovah's bow suspends
No pots of gold to weight its ends);
Only the blood-mouthed rainbow trout
Rose to my bait. They flopped about
My canvas creel until the moth
Corrupted its unstable cloth.
A calendar to tell the day;
A handkerchief to wave away
The gnats; a couch unstuffed with storm
Pouching a bottle in one arm;
A whiskey bottle full of worms;
And bedroom slacks: are these fit terms
To mete the worm whose molten rage
Boils in the belly of old age?
Once fishing was a rabbit's foot--
O wind blow cold, O wind blow hot,
Let suns stay in or suns step out:
Life danced a jig on the sperm-whale's spout--
The fisher's fluent and obscene
Catches kept his conscience clean.
Children, the raging memory drools
Over the glory of past pools.
Now the hot river, ebbing, hauls
Its bloody waters into holes;
A grain of sand inside my shoe
Mimics the moon that might undo
Man and Creation too; remorse,
Stinking, has puddled up its source;
Here tantrums thrash to a whale's rage.
This is the pot-hole of old age.
Is there no way to cast my hook
Out of this dynamited brook?
The Fisher's sons must cast about
When shallow waters peter out.
I will catch Christ with a greased worm,
And when the Prince of Darkness stalks
My bloodstream to its Stygian term . . .
On water the Man-Fisher walks.
poem by Robert Lowell
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Related quotes
A Fisher Of Men Jesus Said To Be
In the name of my Lord and Saviour
Jesus Christ I offer any passerby who thirsts
the living waters the bread of Christ
wide I cast my nets as a fisher of men
I walk the lake shore I walk the rivers
oceans storms of seas bear witness
fishing foreign shores for shipwrecked souls
even long line will I fisher of men use cast
behind fishing for any lost souls to bite hooks
offer hope eternal piercing into lost life souls.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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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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Going Fishing
Going fishing for some poems
I haven’t caught before
Sailing in the ocean
Far from the sandy shore
Going to take the works of Shakespeare
Use his words as living bait
Going to cast them far and wide
And in the moonlight wait
I may catch a slippery conger
I’ve heard they send out shocks
Best I wear some gloves
And a pair of rubber socks
It may be the whale who saved Jonah from the deep
I’ll thank him for his mercy and let his life him keep
I’ll tell him to read the Tempest where forgiveness rules the sea
Then I’ll row home in happiness and ever more shall be.
But what if I catch a shark who tears bodies limb from limb
I’ll say go seek the whale and find forgiveness there within
I’ll fish right through the darkness till the western skies are bright
I’ll throw back the empty poems and just keep the one’s with light
You may think I'm cuckoo crazy fishing for poems in the sea
But where on earth do they come from? it’s not inside of me
I’ve looked inside my ears and deep down inside my throat
They seem to come from somewhere, and it’s not inside my coat.
poem by Wojja Fink
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Past Life?
He placed some juicy worms of rhyme
on steel hooks that dangled from poetic lines,
they wriggled and danced most playfully
with the promise of a satisfactory tea.
The hungry fish came near
quelling doubts and ignoring fear
and in an instant, with a click,
chewed that worm and bit
the dangled hook within.
The fisherman he reeled the line
and raised the rod, in time,
he drew that fish ever closer, near
to the shallow edge of fear,
where waters slow, and where that fish
would not ever choose to go.
Hoisted high with view so new
through the air that fish he flew
then grabbed, unhooked, he met the eyes
of the one that fished
upon the river bank of bliss;
the one that dangled juicy worms of rhyme
from the ends of poetic lines;
and there that fish he knew as true
that dangling worms of rhyme
sharp and penetrating hooks could hide
so when next he clicked his jaws
he would be wary of some disguise
and try to see what lies inside.
The fisherman threw him back
into the waters which sped past the bank
the fish swam on until reaching sea
and with a novel thought had he.
When this life of swimming ends
I will return, and learn to fashion lines of words
that entice with rhymes like wriggling worms
and as someone bites, Ill make them fly so high
and in that most unfamiliar state,
look them deep in their souls eye
and make them wary of disguise,
so that they may always try
to see what truly lies inside.
poem by David Taylor
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The Fisherman's Tomb
Over the fisher Pelagon Meniscus his father set
The oar worn by the wave, the trap, and the fishing net;--
For all men, and for ever, memorials there to be
Of the luckless life of the fisher, the labourer of the sea.
Fishing in the Wei River
In waters still as a burnished mirror's face,
In the depths of Wei, carp and grayling swim.
Idly I come with my bamboo fishing-rod
And hang my hook by the banks of Wei stream.
A gentle wind blows on my fishing-gear
Softly shaking my ten feet of line.
Though my body sits waiting for fish to come,
My heart has wandered to the Land of Nothingness.
Long ago a white-headed man
Also fished at the same river's side;
A hooker of men, not a hooker of fish,
At seventy years, he caught Wen Wang.
But I, when I come to cast my hook in the stream,
Have no thought either of fish or men.
Lacking the skill to capture either prey,
I can only bask in the autumn water's light.
When I tire of this, my fishing also stops;
I go to my home and drink my cup of wine.
Gone Fishin
When good ole spring comes rollin’ round
And the trout are in the brook,
A longing comes over me with a bound
To cast my feathered hook.
Then I get all my tackle out
My rods and reels and roundabouts
To go fishing for those trout
That I’ve read so much about.
There’s monsters here the circulars say
But every cursed day
That I go fishing out that way
Those monsters all go in to stay.
I never saw the sun once
During all my stay
But I’ll go home and tell everyone
‘Bout the big ones that got away.
poem by George Hunter
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Bottle-nosed whale of river Thames
Bottle-nosed whale of river Thames
It seems at last you have found fame
In your pitiful plight
Spectators can't wait to catch a glimpse
Of your pitiful sight
But bottle-nosed whale is trapped
Lying low as his last energy is sapped
Frightened by surrounding noises
Disturbed by speculating voices
After swimming miles and miles upstream
Curosity has rewarded him with only broken dreams
Unlike a cat, you have but only one life it seems
Bottle-nosed whale of river Thames
I feel for you all the same
Hope you have found your peace at last
Copyright 2005 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Home Of The Whale
(owen hand)
Caroline lavelle
Oh my love he works upon the sea
On the waves that blow wild and free
He splices the ropes and he sets the sail
While southwards he roams to the home of the whale
And he neer thinks of me far behind
Or the torments that rage in my mind
He is mine for only part of the year
Then Im left all alone with only my tears
All ye ladies that smell of white rose
Thank ye for your perfume to wear on my gold
Thank ye all the wives and the babies that yearn
For the man neer returns from hunting the sperm [whale]
Oh my love he works upon the sea
On the waves that blow wild and free
He splices the ropes and he sets the sail
While southwards he roams to the home of the whale
song performed by by Massive Attack
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Vision In The Sky
As seas thrash out storms
And the winds carry leaves
New composition forms
As our dream perceives
Amongst waters blue
Unicorns run free
Leaving traces of you
In thoughts sent to me
An overcast sky
Clouds shatter the display
A vast intent supply
As the slow shores sway
The rapids in my heart
Sing a ballad so unique
A masterpice of art
As light rays cast oblique
Upon the canvas of desire
Your painting appears
Allows my heart to retire
Reducing me to tears
In the cloud lies a vision
Of a fotune yet untold
Cast in raging indecision
For my world to behold
The whispers of the wind
That flicker through my hair
Speak how love is sinned
If my love ceases declare
This is the storm inside of me
Thrashing through my veins
I am that raging sea
Compelled by my restrains
Calm exterior, undisturbed
Unto the naked eye
Till this storm is curbed
I'll believe that vision in the sky...
poem by Sara Stowell
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Sea Salt
On sea...
Fisher man's fishing...
Kattmaran...
Catching fishes...
Jump the net's
Fisherman's life
Did not jump
All are under
The sea with net...
Fisher man's fissing
Fishes was
Tasted for food...
Poeople's eat...
Fisher man's life
Is only for sea salt
Tasty...
why...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Marc Greets Things in the Morning
Hi boy with the bike on the vase on the bloom
ploom ploom
hi chair by the table
hi bread on the table
hi fisher-of-fish with the pipe
and
hi fisher-of -fish with cap
cap and pipe
of the fisher-of-fish
H i i i —i fish
hi little fish
hi tiny fishy-fine of mine
poem by Paul van Ostaijen
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The Vassal
WIND of the North, O far, wild wind
Born of a far, lone sea--
When suns are soft and breezes kind
Why are you kin to me?
Uncounted years above the sea,
Rock-fortressed from its rage,
The fishermen, your fathers, kept
A barren heritage--
Grim as the sea they forced to pay
The sea-toll of their wage.
And lo! The fate which made you hers
And gave you of her best
And set you in a sunny place,
Down-sloping to the West,
Forgot to change your fisher's heart
Serf to the sea's unrest!
Wind of the North! O bitter wind,
I hear the wild seas fret--
In the dim spaces of the mind
They claim me vassal yet!
poem by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
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Whales Weep Not!
They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains
the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.
All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge
on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs.
The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers
there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of the sea!
And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages
on the depths of the seven seas,
and through the salt they reel with drunk delight
and in the tropics tremble they with love
and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods.
Then the great bull lies up against his bride
in the blue deep of the sea
as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life:
and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale blood
the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and comes to rest
in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whale's fathomless body.
And over the bridge of the whale's strong phallus, linking the wonder of whales
the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and forth,
keep passing archangels of bliss
from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim
that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the sea
great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies.
And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-tender young
and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of the beginning and the end.
And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring
when danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless flood
and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat
encircling their huddled monsters of love.
and all this happiness in the sea, in the salt
where God is also love, but without words:
and Aphrodite is the wife of whales
most happy, happy she!
and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin
she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea
she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males
and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Slow Rivers (feat. Elton John)
The weather man, he looks confused.
Shakes his fist at the sky like you used to do.
But you don't remember things like that, do you?
The balance was uneven but i'm breaking through.
Slow rivers run cold,
Shallow waters never sank so low.
I thought i'd drown and you'd never know,
You're a slow river and you run so cold.
The winter here don't belive in god,
The bitter wind just bites through me like a wild dog.
I still see in your eyes tonight like headlights through the fog,
But one foot in your door, oh that's all i ever got.
Slow rivers run cold,
Shallow waters never sank so low.
I thought i'd drown and you'd never know,
You're a slow river and you run so cold.
Chances are you'll reappear.
Swim my way in a flood of tears,
No place to hide your conscience
So you're a sinking ship with no place to go.
Slow rivers run cold,
Shallow waters never sank so low.
I thought i'd drown and you'd never know,
You're a slow river and you run so cold.
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lassitude
I laid me down beside the sea,
Endless in blue monotony;
The clouds were anchored in the sky.
Sometimes a sail went idling by.
Upon the shingles on the beach
Grey linen was spread out to bleach,
And gently with a gentle swell
The languid ripples rose and fell.
A fisher-boy, in level line,
Cast stone by stone into the brine:
Methought I too might do as he,
And cast my sorrows on the sea.
The old, old sorrows in a heap
Dropped heavily into the deep;
But with its sorrow on that day
My heart itself was cast away.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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My First Fishing Trip
Went with dad to Port Isabel to learn to fish,
‘Cause to catch a fish I told him that I did wish.
So to Purdy’s Court fishing pier,
We went with all our fishing-gear.
Yes, that fishing trip with dad I’ll always cherish!
There we were, him giving me casting instruction,
Then he baited my hook with a live crustacean,
I cast out high in the sky.
To catch a big fish to fry,
But instead, caught a sea gull - as consolation!
poem by Bobby Beddoe
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Empty Day
take back your smile,
the fish has died in my hands;
nowhere you have touched me
deep in the brutal corona of a black moon -
my sun spots were waning:
a hole in the wind, chased
adulthood of man for a frozen
infantile mutancy
something stopped you
to discover yourself in the rage:
what was it? I am refusing to believe
something between the unbuttoned
golden flesh of a mummy,
the old version dies hard, fear escapes
from amygdalae,
in mourning, comes the rainbow
of pain, the rain lashing on window
i am melting inside a cast
poem by Satish Verma
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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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Gone Into The Wind
Gone into the wind, broken back and an overflowing cup.
Creatures filling up there cars, and monsters under my bed
A lost imagination gripping to life on the rail.
Cold wind blows, and leaves me here.
No where to go, but to the bottle
Soaking in a vast amount of liquor
Which ever way is the quicker,
How far to the river, can I go on foot.
Or will the wind blow me back in a narcotic dream
Filled with women and beer,
I just wanna be alone for awhile.
Until the wind comes back to bother me.
Gone into the wind. I came back from it again.
poem by Blaine McCanless
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