Gone Fishing: PhotoPlay and Prompt

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Gone Fishing PhotoPlay

Some days, the hobby of fishing could be considered less a sport and more of a discipline of quiet contemplation. So relax and unwind a bit with us. The fish don’t seem to be in a hurry.

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here is a poem from Prasanta we enjoyed:

Watching waves crest and sink
Surfing down summer’s summit
They cast time-worn nets
Catch fleeting dreams before they slip and enfold
into deep waters–
Before they meld into sandy shore
Pulling out enough for the current day
They sift through the granular bucket-list
Of final plans
Before gasping for air.

—by Prasanta Verma

PhotoPlay Prompt: Capture a photograph of someone (or something) fishing. Whether they’re searching for actual fish is entirely up to you. Slow down and take your time. Don’t alert anyone to your presence. Wait patiently while you “fish” for the perfect shot.

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NOTE TO POETS: Looking for your Monday poetry prompt? On Photo Play weeks, it’s right here. Find inspiration from the photo in the post and respond with a poem. Leave your poem in the comment box. We’ll be reading. :)

Photo by Spyros Papaspyropoulos. Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Heather Eure.

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Comments

  4. Fishing in an Ocean

    They’ve named the syndrome for its two poles
    one that swings wild with laughter,
    casting lines against the sky,
    letting tethers flutter
    like Chinese
    kites in the
    high summer
    sun.

    The other
    holds the
    weight
    that breaks
    the surface,
    stirs the silt,
    trawls for bioluminescence . . .
    or any signs of life . . .

    I keep casting questions
    at the waves,
    hoping an aquatic-
    shaped ally,
    capable of underwater-
    breath, will let me
    watch
    its fins spin,
    reminding me that
    we are both alive,

    but all I end up pulling
    from the salt-inoculating-tide
    is a wear-pocked shell.

    I let my mind slide
    into its core.

    I don’t wonder at his last thoughts,
    or pretend I understand.
    I’m caught in the incalculable,
    in the undertow of loss,
    and the nothing we could do to stop it.

    I wish I had less inspiration for this one. I’ve lost dear friends due to the overwhelming sadness of the depressive end of bipolar disease. Robin Williams death hit us all hard and brought back the grief of those other losses for me.

    Reply

  5. Laurie, this is both heartbreaking and beautiful.
    I find these lines especially poignant:
    “but all I end up pulling
    from the salt-inoculating-tide
    is a wear-pocked shell”
    I have no words. I’m sorry for all of this pain in your life.

    Reply

    • Thank you, Prasanta. As for the pain, it’s not worse for me than it is for most other people, and it’s far less than it is for some. Expressing it in writing helps me, so did the walk in the woods I just took. There’s something therapeutic about berry picking. 🙂

      Reply

  6. Scales
    -for Uncle Jack

    A small boy, between firelight and water,
    fishes the night, a dark river bearing
    yet another version of the moon.
    Near a whiskey creek the river feeds,
    his uncle sleeps beside the boy; he dreams
    of railroads, the airy flush of the ring-neck,
    the spring of a white tail buck,
    the ending reflex. Of the boy, of himself
    he does not dream with questions,
    the feel of entrails, skins
    drawn back, the snap of bones,
    and death’s cataracts. His
    remembering is past these things,
    lodged now in the curl of his fingers.

    This is an ancient scene: a baited line
    drawn through the reflected moon
    anchored just offshore,
    a pale mote in the still of the boy’s eye,
    not a memory for the mind, but a fusion
    in his veins with the river’s long and terrible wind;
    something long lived in the blood, a fish,
    for when the whiskey creek is dry,
    and pheasants sleep undisturbed by dreams―
    the invisible armor of scales,
    a cool gaze in the white-hot center of desire,
    a ceaseless faithful motion of the heart, there
    when the fire will settle itself to embers,
    and love will become fine and rare,
    precious as breath, a gentle radiance
    against the skin, the slide along a palm
    as a trout returns to water.

    In time the mirror will return
    a parent’s nuncial reflection; the boy
    will hear the uncle dreaming again;
    the rod will bend, the line straighten through the moon;
    the river will yield its own;
    the struggle will be brief;
    in the soft, white, open belly,
    with great reverence, his fingers curl;
    scales float like stars on the water
    as the opaque moon rises on closed eyes.

    Reply

    • I especially like the lines ” she could/ weave a worm guaranteed to arrive in the fish’s mouth intact/ unhook the catch without wincing at blood/cast her line with a nearly inaudible whir”. I like the rhythm and the sound sense of it and the way you’ve used line breaks and spacing. Well done. 🙂

      Reply

  11. Imaginings

    End my ponderings
    Pull the line under
    Break the stillness
    Shatter the wondering
    Ripple the surface
    Stir me from bucket perch
    Bow my cane pole
    End my patient waiting
    Meet my hopes—console

    © August 15, 2014, Robbie Pruitt

    Reply

  12. Casting Illuminating Lines

    The sun casts its lines
    As rays of light
    Breaking the day
    Hoping to make a catch
    Illuminating life, time, ocean,
    Beaches, ships, mast and sail
    And one lone fisherman
    Hoping to prevail

    © August 16, 2014, Robbie Pruitt

    Reply

  14. “A Love for Fishing”

    Fished for love,
    Threw myself into the sea.
    Sat on the bottom of the ocean
    Waited,
    No one could see me.
    Strings with hooks passed over me,
    With patience and acceptance
    Watched as every hook came by.
    Then came the little fishing boat.
    The one with piercing blue eyes.
    Accepted the hook,
    He reeled me right in.
    Love is all about a boat and a man.

    Reply

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