Ballads from an Unlucky Fisherman
By
Lenny Everson
rev
1
Copyright Lenny Everson 2011
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****
Ode To Starving Fish
In waters deep as an abyss
On ledges, on rocks, on
shelves
In bays that are mud-lined and weedy
The fish are
starving themselves
The
ravenous pike’s got his jaws clamped
The bass have all gone to
bed
Rather than chance being caught by me
They’ve decided
they’d rather be dead
They
know I’m up there, the devils
They sense the stomp of my
feet
And rather than risk being taken
They refuse, completely,
to eat
O
fish, I ask, is it worth it?
To lie there growing so thin
I’m
not that super a fisher
I can’t pull many of you in
I
load my gear back in the trunk
For I can tell when I’m beat
Time
to go home to the wife and kid
So the fish can have something to
eat.
****
The Walleye Fisherman
He
thinks the rain is turning to snow
And he thinks the wind is
dropping a bit
But it’s an hour to dawn, so he can’t really
know
And his mind is thinking of the first good hit
His
rod is frozen to his glove
His stomach is empty in spite of the
beer
He’s abandoned the comforts normal men love
For opening
day, for one more year
The
river runs by, and night turns to day
And he catches a couple,
both pretty small
He loses three lures by the first small bay
But
he’s here just for the fun of it all
The
river gets crowded with boats and with men
He cusses the ones who
roar by too fast
And someone snags his line once again
When he
turns upstream for one more pass
When
he’s got his fourth and the wind’s getting strong
He decides
he should quit along about then
Go home to breakfast, to warmth
and a roof
And get up tomorrow to do it again.
****
Ain't Ice Fishing Grand
Out
across the bay there runs
Miles and miles of ice
The sun is
shining, the wind has dropped
Isn’t this ever so nice
So I
drives the car a long ways out
And park, and get out my gear
Set
out the auger and rig up my line
The very best time of the year
Till
the auger gets through and I find out
The ice is three inches
thick
And it occurs to me I might have to move
And maybe to do
it damn quick!
So I
load up my gear and start up the car
Noticing now the sound
The
crackling and groaning and rumbling
Coming from all around
Foot
on the gas, hand on the wheel
I’m driving straight towards
shore
Foot on the gas, and hand on the wheel
The rest of me
leans way out the door
And
as I drive up the bank to the road
Gratefully onto dry land
This
thought passes once through my mind
Blimey! Ain’t ice fishin’
grand!
****
Fishing For Walleye
These
are grey and ordinary waters
And there must be fish
These are
damp and ordinarily winds
There must be fish, below
The
hammering motor seldom coughs
Weeds are plentiful
The beer is
long gone
There
must be fish, but if there are
They all hate us
Or are starving
themselves for some reason
Known only to walleye
I
spent all week thinking of fishing
I spent the last hour thinking
of dry, dry land.
****
The Bass Man
The
day is slowly cooling
The mosquitoes are getting hot
When
everyone else is home in bed
The bass fisherman is not
Wherever
there’s a rock
That might possibly grab a lure
Or a log
that’s mean and snaggable
You’ll find him there for sure
He
won’t use a bait like a crayfish
He won’t use a worm like he
should
If a bass could possibly tell what it is
It’s
obviously not very good
So he
uses a popper that looks like
It comes from the backside or
Mars
Or a spinner with dime-store beadwork
Painted with gold
and blue bars
And
you’ll find him in places suitable
Only to mosquitoes and
gnats
Sharing his time with the leaches
The dragonflies, and
the bats
When
darkness is falling quickly
And the mosquitoes are beginning to
feed
A bass man’s out there somewhere
Saying unkind things to
a weed.
****
Fishing with Gord
Fishing
with Gord
Out on the lake
Is as much fun
As I can take
Sore
on my bottom
From the metal seat
And almost sure
Of frozen
feet
Maybe
the walleye
Bite in the fall
I believed that line
I believe
them all
The
hammering motor
Has scrambled my brain
I think I'll never
Do
this again
I've
done my duty
To this cold bay -
I've dragged most
Of the
weeds away
Fishing
with Gord
From then till five:
I've had so much fun
I'm
barely alive.
****
In The Rain
“Fish
bite better in the rain
So the experts say.”
That’s what I
told my wife
Very early today
And
here I sit in a long-driving rain
Knowing darn well that I
lied
But the cold and the rain and the slow-moving wind
Are
correcting something inside
The
far-away trees and the rain’s steady hiss
Are gently unwinding
my mind
And the thoughts and truths of a nine-to-five world
Slip
farther and farther behind
The
drone of the motor keeps cold, wet Gord
From saying the same
things as my wife
So he sits in silence, unable to halt
My
steady recovery from life
And
sometime today I stop being part
Of some glass and aluminum
square
And start to be part of water and land
Of rain and the
cold summer air
And I
know what I’ll say when I finally get home
With just enough fish
for the cat
“Well.., fish usually bite better when it’s
raining
Everybody knows that’.
****
Tackle Box
Every
tackle box I’ve ever owned
Has come with a specialized
latch
Designed to be unforgiving
If I haven’t made sure of
the catch
I
recall the way the boat bumped ashore
On a black and starless
night
How glad we were of the three bass we’d caught
And
wished we’d remembered a light
Because
I set one foot into the mud
That locals call a shore
And
reached for the bait and my tackle box
And tried for one thing
more….
Three
treble hooks caught in the zip of my fly
A jitterbug snagged into
my knee
Ten plastic worms slithered into the mud
As if they
were glad to be free
My
bootlaces caught me a Daredevle or two
Four Rapalas grabbed onto
the net
And what happened to my favorite ten-dollar lure
I
certainly haven’t learned yet
My
floating lures mostly floated away
The sinkers sank into the
mud
And a bass came and ate an old popper
I’d always thought
was a dud
My
split-shots rolled down the length of the boat
And into each
cranny and crack
Where they rattle and grind for the life of the
boat
(I never got half of them back).
I
found a Wabler when Gord stepped on it
After he’d tripped on my
knife
And the way the spinner clung to his thumb
He’ll
remember the rest of his life
I’d
still have that tackle box today
If I hadn’t thrown it quite so
far
For it got rather damaged when it finally came down
On the
roof of my bother-in-law’s car
Now I
carry my tackle in an old duffel bag
And everyone thinks I’m a
nut
But at least it’s open when I want it open
And otherwise
the damn thing stays SHUT!
****
Afloat
The
attraction of mankind to water
Is wondrous to see
There are
many places to fish in a boat
But darn few places to pee
Houses,
cottages even cities
Line every possible shore
So what do you
do when you bladder
Just doesn’t care any more?
I’ve
heard the people tell me
Fishing’s a peaceful delight —
Does
no one else drink anything
Till after ten at night?
Two
little girls with hula-hoops
The minister having his tea
Are
the closest of all people
In the hours that I need to pee
The
minister of transport
Is a very compassionate man
That’s why
he makes sure
Each boat has a bailing can
So.
at last when it seems
That you’re totally afloat
Only that
bucket keeps you
From falling out of the boat.
Now,
I’m very fond of fishing
And I don’t mind the human race
But
I DO wish we wouldn’t gather
All in the same darn place!
****
The Pike Fisherman
The
man who fishes for pike, now
Is a special kind of a breed
He’s
developed a love of the sunlight
And very large masses of weed
Not
for him the rainstorm
Not for him the night
He chases his pike
when the day’s at its best
When there’s warmth, and plenty of
light
When
the water has barely a ripple
When the sun is bright in the
sky
He’ll explore the edges of covers and bays
Letting hours
and forests drift by
And
he can’t envy those who fish in the dark
Or the rain, for
walleye or bass
Or those who scuttle along overgrown
creeks
Dredging for those trout that might pass
And
if he gets five pike in a day
Or If he never gets one
He’s
been part of water and sky
He’s had his day In the sun.
****
Bass Day
The
lawn needs cutting
The garden's lost in weeds
The wife's got a
three-page itemized
List of her needs
The
roof leaks a bit
In a hard-driving rain
The dog's got loose
And
is gone again
I
ought to work
I sure ought to stay
But what can I do…?
It's
a bass-fishing day
Let
the lawn grow deep
Let the darn dog stray
I know where I'll
be
On this bass-fishing day
So
here I sit
Out in the bay
Deep in the middle
Of a perfect
bass day
So
who's complaining?
I'm not so dumb
I man needs something
To
get away from!
****
Renting The Ice Fishing Hut
Five
bucks an hour, you say
To rent that ice fishing shack
Does It
come with a keg of draft beer
And a lavatory out in the back?
No?
Are the seats as hard as I think
Does the inside smell of old
fish
And cigarettes and pee and beer, sir
Do you imagine that’s
what I wish?
Is
it true someone caught one today here?
A seven-inch perch you
say
But you think the salmon are running
Or maybe its whitefish
today
Yes
I see the ones in your pictures
Tacked up on that old board
Maybe
I’ll be as lucky as those guys
Standing by their model A Ford
Say
are there pike in these waters?
They run in a monstrous pack
And
last week some people complained of
The numbers they’d had to
throw back?
Since
it took thirty dollars in gas
Just •to get to this bay
And
since I’ve planned for a month now...
I’d be happy to take it
today.
****
Ginsberg Goes Fishing
I
have seen the souls of men brightened by merely the thought of going
fishing
Huddled in cubicles and on shop floors and stopped in
their tracks on four lanes of gorgon-headed traffic, their hearts
shrivel and the mind wanders the edge of sanity.
But for the
glowing, burning ember kept alive by the thought and dream of going
fishing.
Some lived out their lives, some lived them on water
above the mystery of where are the fish are there fish why aren’t
there fish and ah, was that a bite?
And down down in the
crawlspace deeps in the gloom where sunlight fades to dun and dark or
in the weed-waving shallows where circle shadows of lily-pads are
broken by sunlight, broken by wave
Swim the pikes and trouts and
eels, the catfishes , skulpins, suckers, mooneyes, mudminnows,
smelts, gars, and bowfins, the salmons and sticklebacks, basses and
sunfishes and perches and walleyes and giant muskellunges eye to eye
with the placid primitive sturgeon twice their size.
I have seen
these men wading in stores and caught by Mepps and Daredevle and
Little Cleo, by jig and Jitterbug, hook, line and sinker, by
spinnerbaits and spoons, steel line and monofilament and come back to
their senses still stuck in traffic at the Eglinton exit
And the
radio saying the freeway’s busy today buy it’s like being a busy
sardine in a can
But what keeps the soul from crawling out the
window and running screaming from car-roof to car-roof is that ember,
that goddamn-it-the-weekend’s-coming and the fish are waiting,
quiet, in the bay.
****
Shakespeare Goes Fishing
Let
nothing stop a true man in the taking of fish –
Hauling slimy
creatures out of grim greenish water
(Too befouled to drink) is
his one wish;
To yell, to pull, to net, and finally to slaughter.
Let
not the cost of lures and motors and boat
Turn a man in pursuit of
a fish, in chase of dreams
For his heart’s in the tackle box and
his soul’s afloat
With one on the line, nothing matters, it
seems.
A
man’s not a fisherman if he lets work interfere
Or house-chores,
jury duty, earthquake or war
The choice of a line, and maybe a
beer:
By God! A fisherman knows what life is for.
A
true man’s unstoppable when he’s out fishing
The rest –
losers and dickheads, wasting life wishing.
****
Robert Frost Goes Fishing
Two
walleye lures lay there within
My nifty plastic tackle box
And
tonight a contest I’d sworn to win
Before the boats had left
their docks.
A choice as evening gloom rolled in.
Should
I go with silver spinner -
Or maybe the plastic worm and jig?
Ah, the silver’s brought home many a dinner
And this river’s
full of rock and twig…
So silver’s sure to make me the winner!
Back
by ten: the rules were clear
Bring the biggest fish you’d
caught
Declare a winner, drink some beer
Describe the one
you’d “almost got”
While others pretend not to hear
The
boats move slow, the time goes by
My silver lure catches only
weed.
Did I choose wrong? I question my
Decision as my hopes
recede.
I question fate, I ask the fishes why
And I
alone fishless among these gents
For they chose jigs to use this
night
And comment on my intelligence
I chose the lure less used
all right -
And that has made all the *&^)(&%$##$!@()*&&$&%^$&*
&#@#(&)(@#&)#$%^
***(&^()&*+*%^&$%*&%*&%&
*%&*%*&%&*%&*%&*%&%&*%&*%
difference!”
****
Kilmer Contemplates a Fish
I
think that I could never wish
To do a better thing than fish
I’m
sure that I could never find
A finer way to lose my mind
Than
poking through my tackle trays
Wondering what still works these
days
Always
hoping I can guess
What’ll make a fishy brain say, “Yes!”
But
sure that I will never know
What’s really happening below
Poems
are made by nuts like me
But fishing’s a crazy sanity.
*** End ***
Lenny Everson [lennypoet@hotmail.ca] is, indeed, a man whose friends break into laughter when he mentions going fishing. Most just choose another place or day to fish; nothing's biting but mosquitoes when Lenny's out on the water.