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
(© T. Wignesan - Paris - 2012)
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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A Carp in the Donut-Shaped Lake
(To Akira Kurosawa)
Swimming in the donut-shaped lake,
The carp goes round and round,
While not in the ocean where waves break,
It is in way more it could want for surround,
While it is not such a make,
None can say it is no found,
For it emule with perfection the sake
Of an environment meant to be confound
For something bigger than lake,
As for here carp goes round and round,
And while at carp's mistake,
Carp finds itself around,
To what comes to partake
Ocean's characteristic abound,
And carp seems to forsake,
The reason to whom it is bound,
And takes for real the fake,
That lake is the ocean's ground,
For carp suffers the redound,
Of the donut-shape of the lake,
It learned to swim round and round,
In this ocean's astounding remake,
With no walls to put brake,
It reminds of ocean profound,
The donut-shaped lake,
Where carp goes round and round,
poem by Pedro Cescon
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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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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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Koi
Chinese Carp swimming
in prestigious ornamental tank
prestige purchased expensively
for luck for tradition for prestige.
If you were ravenously hungry
would you eat lucky carp?
Would starving poor people
among you eat it gladly?
Koi - a carp with red-gold or white coloring, kept as an aquarium or ornamental pond fish. Native to Japan and temperate regions of East Asia.
Latin name: Cyprinus carpio
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Fishing with My Father
I could fish for hours,
Lose myself in a marsh
Carried by giant carp,
A dragonfly hook its shadow on my eye
And guide me back to my surprised self.
Fishing in silence beside my father,
I would glance up at him
Catching the fishes that got away,
Years that were lost in him,
A sadness inseparable from living.
I caught once, his fish reflection
Sinking below the surface.
poem by Salvatore Ala
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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.
There are a couple of carp fishing books I've been reading. I'm very interested in that line of books, because I think they write very well, carp anglers, about the general environment.
quote by Tom Felton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fishing With The Angels
As you lay your head down to rest,
I prey the Angels are doing their best.
I'm sure they will encourage your catch,
But I know they couldnt meet your match.
Fish hard, fish deep...
Even though we weep.
Be it carp or pike... try with all your might.
Dave I know they will bite.
God rest your soul
With your fishing pole.
poem by Denise Frain
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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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Some things that can happen with a fish
A fish that drinks like a fish, that is a fish in excess
A fish that fishes in troubled waters, that is a fish taking advantage of another fish in trouble
A fish that fishes or cuts bait, well, to be or not to be, to retreat or to attack, that is the fishy question
A fish that is neither fish nor fowl, is a fish that is neither one nor the other, lacking some convictions
A fish out of water, is a fish feeling left out, no longer in his accustomed environment
Do you have other fish to fry for now?
Is there other matter requiring my attention?
Poor fish,
the lake is finally fished out from his fishy mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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31
A fish that drinks like a fish, that is a fish in excess
A fish that fishes in troubled waters, that is a fish taking advantage of another fish in trouble
A fish that fishes or cuts bait, well, to be or not to be, to retreat or to attack, that is the fishy question
A fish that is neither fish nor fowl, is a fish that is neither one nor the other, lacking some convictions
A fish out of water, is a fish feeling left out, no longer in his accustomed environment
Do you have other fish to fry for now?
Is there other matter requiring my attention?
Poor fish,
the lake is finally fished out from his fishy mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bearly a Cereal Killer
The killing fields,
not in Cambodia during the Kymar Rouge Regime,
Not in slaughter house five by Vonnegut,
But an animal that tended to have animal instincts,
appalling isn’t it?
The bear, who is bi-polar,
--no scratch that, single polar,
For the Antarctic continent lacks bears but is for the birds,
Knut, was cute, his diet, seafood he had to taste,
For awhile, but he began maliciously killing carp,
All the possible Gelfite Fish gone to waste.
Knut, the once-cute celebrity polar bear turned vicious killer, is at the center of a controversy over his brutal slaughter of ten carp at the Berlin Zoo. The massive polar bear, who has lived at the zoo since birth, apparently fished the carp out of the moat surrounding him and ripped them to shreds in front of several disgusted zoo patrons.
DE-DE-DE, you wonder if people know about nature.
Life is not orderly and cute,
such as especially Germans can attest to this,
From the chancellors and barons,
'There is speculation that hand-reared Knut killed the carp just for fun.' One German newspaper reported that Knut 'senselessly murdered the carp' before leaving their remains.
I find a paradox that so many were sickened at the thought of many carps being put down by a polar bears,
Yet not more than two generations has passed since millions were slaughtered, but no one knew or were following orders.
(4-13-2008)
poem by Joe Rosochacki
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Is it really like fishing?
They say there is many fish in the sea to choose from.
But have you ever gone fishing?
They say do not worry they are like fish you lose one then get a fresh one.
But have you actually gone fishing?
They say you can be picky when fishing your fish.
But have you been in the sea and fished?
They even say some actually smell like fish.
But have you really smelled a fish?
They say there is plenty of fish in the sea.
But have you actually gone and counted the fish in the sea?
They say once you catch that perfect fish, you are bound for a good life.
But have you caught that perfect fish they all speak of?
They say some fish can be beautiful.
But have you seen any beautiful fish?
How can one compare a fish?
They are not alike.
How can one say it is as easy as finding a fish?
It is not a simple task.
How can they say there are so many fish in the sea?
When there are so many fishers who have yet to catch.
Can you really compare life and love to a fish?
The answer is of course not.
You can’t.
Impossible.
Unreal.
Not imaginable.
Unbelievable.
Unrealistic.
A fairy tale.
poem by ReubenJames Rodriguez
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On Authors, Critics and Readers
Some leave behind a hard-won name
Others only fame
A few the sweat and tears of their passage
Snatched from the rigours of their age
Yet none the folly of the game
Fiction is licensed perjury
The coward's excuse for character
Courage revelation originality veracity
All conspire to make for a writer
All mirrors distort
Reviewers like haïr-dressers retort
And mistake the fall of water for the harp
A mere critic can only carp
If what you see is repugnant
close your ever envious eyes
and you'll even see in darkness
and the reason for your blindness
(© T. Wignesan, Paris - 2006. Pub. in T. Wignesan. Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman: on Tamils, Tamil Literature and Tamil Culture. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies,2006 & Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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I used to have some fish, some nice little carp, but they got too big for the tank. I don't have any pets now.
quote by Tom Felton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Part 7 of Trout Fishing in America
THE PUDDING MASTER OF
STANLEY BASIN
Tree, snow and rock beginnings, the mountain in back of the
lake promised us eternity, but the lake itself was filled with
thousands of silly minnows, swimming close to the shore
and busy putting in hours of Mack Sennett time.
The minnows were an Idaho tourist attraction. They
should have been made into a National Monument. Swimming
close to shore, like children they believed in their own im-
mortality .
A third-year student in engineering at the University of
Montana attempted to catch some of the minnows but he went
about it all wrong. So did the children who came on the
Fourth of July weekend.
The children waded out into the lake and tried to catch the
minnows with their hands. They also used milk cartons and
plastic bags. They presented the lake with hours of human
effort. Their total catch was one minnow. It jumped out of a
can full of water on their table and died under the table, gasp-
ing for watery breath while their mother fried eggs on the
Coleman stove.
The mother apologized. She was supposed to be watching
the fish --THIS IS MY EARTHLY FAILURE-- holding the
dead fish by the tail, the fish taking all the bows like a young
Jewish comedian talking about Adlai Stevenson.
The third-year student in engineering at the University of
Montana took a tin can and punched an elaborate design of
holes in the can, the design running around and around in
circles, like a dog with a fire hydrant in its mouth. Then he
attached some string to the can and put a huge salmon egg
and a piece of Swiss cheese in the can. After two hours of
intimate and universal failure he went back to Missoula,
Montana.
The woman who travels with me discovered the best way
to catch the minnows. She used a large pan that had in its
bottom the dregs of a distant vanilla pudding. She put the
pan in the shallow water along the shore and instantly, hun-
dreds of minnows gathered around. Then, mesmerized by
the vanilla pudding, they swam like a children's crusade
into the pan. She caught twenty fish with one dip. She put
the pan full of fish on the shore and the baby played with
the fish for an hour.
We watched the baby to make sure she was just leaning
on them a little. We didn't want her to kill any of them be-
cause she was too young.
Instead of making her furry sound, she adapted rapidly
to the difference between animals and fish, and was soon
making a silver sound.
She caught one of the fish with her hand and looked at it
for a while. We took the fish out of her hand and put it back
into the pan. After a while she was putting the fish back by
herself.
Then she grew tired of this. She tipped the pan over and
a dozen fish flopped out onto the shore. The children's game
and the banker's game, she picked up those silver things,
one at a time, and put them back in the pan. There was still
a little water in it. The fish liked this. You could tell.
When she got tired of the fish, we put them back in the
lake, and they were all quite alive, but nervous. I doubt if
they will ever want vanilla pudding again.
poem by Richard Brautigan
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Fish with no tail
as i gaze out of nature... i have seen a fish without a tail
impossible but its true, first things came up to my mind
is, ask whether its worth to give time to remember all
the scene or perhaps, just a memories of a simple
goodbye
as the fish swim, deep beneath the crystal blue water, i
couldn't remember the minutes, the hours past, nay i felt
that i haven't taken my meal, it seems all are just a blink
of a second in my eyes
it keeps on bubbling, even in a thousands seconds it
stay in the water, until i notice that the fish fail to surface
beneath the running water, for the absence of the tail
the body is nothing
all is just a mirror of a fish that, every movement of the
body, the twist of the tail has to follow, its a paradox to
believe that we see the tail of other fish, nay never we
saw that we don't have tail of our own
like the fish it swim, with no direction, only an inspiration
that we can do, yet as it goes there we go, tail that swim
in the water stream with no affection of what to do
now i see, how to swim, in water, lou! where i may go...in
the world of stream when everybody is frame......
poem by Antonio Liao
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Fish Deeper, says HE
Rainy days chill makes me lazy here in my cabin
Only croaks of frogs, I hear, singing with no rhythm,
Snails crawl on the ground; earthworms are visible in my garden
Used them as baits, to the river I went for some fishing.
Yet water running from slopes makes the river cold
No fish on surface, they swim deep and avoid,
I stayed hours while singing 'Raindrops Keeps Fallin' in my Head'
But nay, no fish eats my bait; can I just shoot them, instead?
Sam said true, 'Fish deep, fear not to plunge deep
Fulfillment is gained; why not face your fear,
Swim and play, water is enticing, dear
Water holds fun and lots from it to keep! '
I like to catch fish, though I cannot swim deep
Neither kill a fish, take off its intestines and gills,
Scaling it, cook and eat it in zest
I'd prefer catching fish and throw it back, I guess!
Hmn...I think I prefer it as a sport than feed
Yet I have naughty thoughts as I do the deed,
If my man was here, he may join me as we catch fish
Ha ha! Can we make love before we eat the main dish? (Wink)
poem by InNer WhisPers
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When He Goes Fishing In The Sea
during summer
his fishing time begins
a loner
he is always alone in his boat
and think as deep as the sea
he doesn't care how time runs
how he looks sometimes
his mind is focused on the fish
and his loneliness
he didn't know that someone out
there with a telescope
cares about his
butt
naked he swims in the sea
diving for fish
and cooking his catch right there
in the shore
at night building his own
bonfire
someone out there
sees his naked beauty
dreaming that someday
his loneliness shall also be
her own
someday, she knows this man
shall need a woman beside him
to make fire for him
to make a man out of his
butt.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fishees Underwater
Fish have many pretty colors, they live beneath the waves
Some fish seem to swim in schools while others live in caves
Some are short and some are small and some are stringy thin
Some of them are wide and tall and some just dig right in.
There's not much light beneath the waves of all our great big seas,
But all the fish don't seem to mind, they somehow still can see
Plants live down there, under water and make things seem so nice,
That all the fishes dance around and always check things twice.
Some fish swim deep down there, others they just won't
Some of them seem unafraid, but most of them just don't
Some fish have large shiny teeth, some have none at all
Some of them swim hastily, while others only crawl.
Of all the fish and animals my favorite is a star fish
If I find one on the beach, I stop and make a wish
I pick them up and throw them back, far out into the ocean
And hope they learn to not return, or repeat that silly notion.
poem by Daniel Lloyd Kennedy
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