I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled and barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
—the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly—
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
—It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
—if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels—until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
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i guess thats the difference fishing from a womans perspective ... i really liked the dismantling and the quiet observation .... it was like she was filleting the fish and bit by bit we got a look at bits and pieces along with metaphor ... she really looked at every inch and from all angles ... the fact she let it go was the punchline i was seeking ! .... >> EM
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As I read through the first half of this poem I got the impression of dread, almost like there were no adjectives to lighten up the mood, but I see adjectives all within this write and see that they are mostly negative ones through out. Even at the end it was pitty I thought that persuaded the fisherman to let this fellow go. I also felt that it wondered aimlessly through alot of unneccesary description, or perhaps the negativity that I saw within it made me want it to end quicker. But then again we all know that fisherman have a way of imbellishing tales so how can one know if this is what really happened.....lol.
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This poem didn't really grip me as much as it could have done, the imagry and subject are good, but I found it just a little disapointing at first. It is only when studied closely, looking at each stage one at a time, the pure craftmanship of the poet can be seen. I felt the poem lacked the passion the subject should have installed.
Andrew -
While suffering a little from hyperbole (as with all fishers), I found the piece very tense, and that I was holding my breath towards the end.
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Should have taken him to the Vet in a ten gallon can of lake water, had the fishhooks gently and painlessly removed, fed him well with whatever it is that fish love most to eat, and with some
pomp and circumstance music set the poor old guy free. But we humans put limits on our kindnesses, and practicality comes first with us, as, no doubt it does, with God.
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