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There is something in us
that desires to live,
when we're young
it flip flops wildly
wet and slippery
like a caught fish
in a bucket
twisting
impatient
splashing about.
By midlife
the desire
is more settled,
it strives in us
gasping visibly
pumping
sporadically
with strain and effort,
behind a strategy
like sport,
an eye
that is game-plan
focused.
Later
it settles down in us
and we learn how
to accept;
we understand
that no misfortune
endured
is futile
and to take solace
in small victories,
love is tied
to meaning
like a stringer
of the day's haul
hooked to the gunnel
on the slow troll
home.
3 comments:
Fishing has always been a bit of a chilling experience for me, particularly holding (or trying to hold) a just-caught, flip-flopping fish, so full of life (that is already beginning to ebb away) in your hand. The journey from live fish on the line to stone dead fish on your plate is nothing short of mind-boggling. I have written several poems over the years trying to capture this experience. Your poem captures it very well, comparing it the experience of our own lives. This is a seriously harrowing poem.
I was raised to fish. My dad used to take us on fishing trips, salmon in the maritimes, deep sea in the Florida keys. Along with skiing it’s the activity I most associate with my father. I have a cottage on Lake Champlain and fish regularly for bass and northern pike. And yet I remain conflicted about it. It’s a bit like what soldiers say about war, equal parts thrilling and brutal. Fighting a hooked fish, as unequal as the battle is, feels like coming in contact with the natures survival instinct, the mortal drive and life force of nature itself. The art of fishing, that at core is utterly mysterious, unseen and below the surface, has a metaphorical power that’s hard to describe but is so compelling. Obviously you have a sense of what I’m talking about as you are an aficionado of the white whale.
There's nothing quite like that feeling of having a fish pull on your line.
On the other hand, I'm not sure how I'd react if the fish decided to take a huge bite into my leg (a la Ahab).
Next time we meet up, we can share our fishing stories. I have quite a few of them.
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