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By Anthony Naples, on September 8th, 2010
 Raven by Anthony Naples I was a little worried as I sat at the computer today. What would I write? Was I already running out of ideas? Then I remembered fishing the Taylor River in Colorado when a raven joined me for a while. Now you folks out west probably don’t take much notice of ravens. But back here in Pennsylvania they’re not all that common. I’ve always loved ravens, and I just get a thrill out of seeing them.
Poem #8: Fishing with Raven on The Taylor River
Like a black rustling of leaves
or sudden darkness from passing clouds
a raven settles on the shore
just a rod’s length away.
Together, we watch the bright
tails of mysis eaters
as they flick and wave.
I know my business here, but
what errand brings the raven?
“Who are you?”, I ask.
The bird turns his head and looks
with one bright, black, inscrutable
eye. “Who are you?” he responds.
Shifting from foot to foot he
turns his gaze back to the river.
By Anthony Naples, on September 7th, 2010
 Small Stream by Anthony Naples Poem #7: Small Mountain Stream
Rhododendron grows
Hanging low over the stream
Miles to the best fish
I wade cold water, and stones
Find their way into my boots
I thought that I would try to tackle some different poetic forms, for the first of my formal attempts I am trying Japanese Tanka. The above poem is an attempt at tanka. The waka or tanka is an unrhymed poem of thirty-one syllables. English language Tanka is typically 5 lines with the following number of syllable in each line 5/7/5/7/7. I’m no expert, but from what I gather after some quick online research, the tanka often involves two different references or observations. Usually the poem will pivot from one reference to the other just after or during the third line. It is the juxtaposition of these two observations that can lend meaning to the poem. But to get a much better explanation and understanding check out this good online reference for tanka, Tanka Online.
And here are a few traditional Tanka examples:
Ono no Komachi, a female poet, ca. 850
The colour of the cherry blossom
Has faded in vain
In the long rain
While in idle thoughts
I have spent my life.
Princess Shikishi, 1149 – 1201
Deep in the mountains
The pine branch door
Does not feel the coming of spring:
Only the slow dropping of gems
From the melting snow.
By Anthony Naples, on September 6th, 2010
 Trout in the Grass by Anthony Naples Poem #6: Watching Trout in the Grass
I don’t recall the month,
though it was winter I’m sure of that.
A dusting of snow on the stubbled, browning fields,
but the air didn’t smell like winter yet.
Maybe it was only late fall.
So, to be out fishing for trout
was not unreasonable, not yet (that would come later).
But we were alone when we stepped out of the truck,
and we were alone when we rigged up our fly rods,
and alone as we stood and looked at the stream,
which had grown fat overnight and had outgrown its banks.
I don’t remember if I caught a fish that day
but I do remember the trout as they
crept carefully out among the leaves of grass,
to mingle with the terrestrial life, rooting and searching
in the flooded lawn.
By Anthony Naples, on September 5th, 2010
 Trout by Anthony Naples The daily fly fishing poem is still going (only 25 more to go), here’s the installment for September 5, 2010.
Poem #5: On The Road to Basalt
We fled across Nebraska
chased by black clouds in the rear-view,
Colorado mountains somewhere ahead
out of site still, Waylon on the stereo,
singing “You got the only daddy that’ll walk the line.”
Flatness flashed past the windows
and slowly became less flat,
or at least it felt less flat on your eyes,
when you knew the mountains and
the trout and the drakes were somewhere
out there across the plains,
through the heat shimmer,
past the corn,
past the feed lots,
past the truck-stops.
By Anthony Naples, on September 4th, 2010
Daily Fly Fishing Poem installment for September 4, 2010.
Poem #4: Before I Was a Fly Fisher
I fished for smallmouth on the Ohio River,
at the base of the Dashields Dam.
Where logs the size of telephone poles
got sucked under in the hydraulic,
and then shot up like rockets, and then under again.
Where at least two people drowned,
and probably more than that.
Where I used to go with my father and brother.
And sometimes we fished at Cross Creek Lake,
where we caught green sunfish,
and red-ear sunfish, and filleted them,
and breaded them with Fry Magic.
They were so delicious; like summer, like salt
and corn meal, like nothing you could buy,
That was before I was a fly fisher.
By Anthony Naples, on September 3rd, 2010
 Rising Trout by Anthony Naples Well, I started this month long, Poem-a-Day thing today (the 3rd of September, 2010). For the sake of neatness, I decided to get three poems out today, so that I was on-track. So, here is the third installment of the Daily Fly Fishing Poem. For the rest of the month it will be just one a day.
Poem #3: The Meaning of Mayflies
From glints and bits of foam,
unlikely pale angels ascend
to emerge scattered and briefly incandescent.
Leaning upstream, shrugging off cold water
a fish tips up, dimples the water,
and whispers the meaning of mayflies.
By Anthony Naples, on September 3rd, 2010
Well for some reason I find myself in a poetic mood, (and I know the public is clamoring for more fly fishing poetry). So I’ve decided to embark on a Daily Fly Fishing Poem everyday for a month. I know I should start on the first of the month, but I didn’t think of it till today, so there you have it.
Well, today it’s just a short one that I’ve had bouncing around in my head for a while.
Poem #1: When She Wakes
The stream lies sleeping, curled on her side,
a siesta in the hot mid-day. I know
what secrets might be whispered
when she wakes, and her dreams
wake with her, so I wait.
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