My fishing was folded,
a complicated origami protein.
I found it in a pocket and unfolded it
until a stream (it still had creases)
was wriggling in my hand.
It was fragile and dog-eared, but was beyond all hope
So it has been a while since I put this collaborative project into motion – but it is done. It is the Wintertime Blues. I won’t say too much about it you can read all about it in the thing itself…painting, poetry, essays, photography, comedy, drama and etc. and sundry….
There is a list of all 15 contributors at the end of the document…
Feel free to share, but only non-commercially of course. And all the rights belong to the artists and authors.
Click on the above picture to view and download….
I came across this three part poem that I wrote a while back but never got to use for anything. So I figured might as well set it adrift on the river of the interwebs.
Three Rivers – A life in water
She is fat with promises,
The mountains cascade
She slides onto the gravel
Throwing orange eggs
I have been sick with the flu. At first I slept all day – now I cannot sleep at all. As I lay on the couch, in and out of sleep strange ideas come in and out of focus. I woke up in the morning after a restless, coughing-fit and fever fueled unrest with this poem in my head. I guess I need to go fishing.
Has this ever happened to you?
The road was a fishermen’s path and the the library was a rise
I should have known, especially when that stream
But I didn’t want to know.
It was something that I had to work though I guess.
A little while back I got a contact email from Timothy E. Haught wondering if I’d post a few of his fly fishing poems. Timothy’s poems are quite different from my own fly fishing poetry, which is a good thing. Variety is a good thing I always figure. I enjoyed his poems and I hope that you do to. Thanks to Timothy for sharing with CastingAround!
I’ve included one of the poems below – to read the others click HERE.
Biography: Timothy E. Haught is an attorney, poet, novelist and fly fisherman living in New Martinsville, West Virginia. He is known to members of the WV Angler Message Board as “wanderingaengus.” His passion is fly-fishing, particularly in the mountains of West Virginia.
Ode To A Wild Brook Trout
One day, I wandered far alone,
As I am often prone to do,
Through mountain laurel, fern, and stone,
Where once red cedars grew.
Along the banks of a little stream,
I followed till at last I came
Upon a lost, idyllic scene
Of rushing water, clear as rain.
I cast to ease the pain within,
To find some hope of solace there—
A tiny fly spun at my desk,
Into the crisp and brightening air.
An imitation of the real,
The highest form of praise to God,
It fell upon the stream, surreal
And floated as I grasped my rod.
A pied fish rose there, hungrily,
Its color’s blazing in the sun.
It smacked the fly! I set the hook!
It made a bold and desperate run!
Now of the struggle, I can tell,
It was not trout or man that won.
No, I am not ashamed to say
That we, two rivals, were but one.
I wore the dogged rascal out
And gently took him in my hand.
It was a dappled, wild trout
No more than six inches in span.
His belly was a burst of orange,
The hue of Hemingway’s sunset,
His back the shade of evergreens,
His flanks with jewels of crimson set.
As I stood and pondered thus,
In awe and wonder, to be sure,
A strange voice interrupted us.
It echoed from the farthest shore:
“If you ain’t gonna keep it, toss it in my cooler.”
I looked up and there beheld
Another native of our state
Who in his sole possession held
Five brook trout brook who had met their fate.
“What you staring at?” he asked,
As I released the noble fish.
“Darn it, fool!” he yelled at me,
“I would’uv had my limit, six!”
The spell once cast upon the place
Was broken then and there for me.
So, I wandered back unto my truck
And poured a shot of smooth whiskey.
What makes a man keep such a fish,
The sacred symbol of our state,
To gill and gut it at his wish
And fry it for the dinner plate?
Someday, I hope we change the way
We think about this special fish
And cherish it for what it is,
A beautiful and precious gift.
“Beauty is trout, trout beauty.”
I was recently contacted by Jim Crissman to see if I’d like to post one of his poems on Casting Around. Well, after reading it, I thought heck yeah. I’m all about spreading the word on good fly fishing writing – which this poem is. Jailbait in Holy Water is the title poem to Jim’s 1998 Pudding House Publications chapbook and it appeared originally in Gray’s Sporting Journal in 1997.
Jailbait in Holy Water
Drifting up through silver currents,
Bio: James W. Crissman is a veterinary pathologist and former large animal veterinarian. He is the author of a 1998 Pudding House Publications chapbook, Jailbait in Holy Water, and has won numerous prizes for his poetry. His short story, Wallhangers, won the 2007 Dirt Rag literature contest. Root Cause: the story of a food fight fugitive is his first novel. Jim and his veterinarian wife Jill live on a small farm in central Michigan where they’ve grown three children and much of their food for more than twenty years.
Jim’s new novel, Root Cause: The Story Of A Food Fight Fugitive, is now available over at Xlibris. He tells me that it doesn’t contain any fly fishing, and I haven’t read it – so I can’t vouch for it, but the blurb on Xlibris sounds pretty interesting.