Fishing poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best fishing poems ever written. Read all poems about fishing.
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.
The green village, the colored city, the ever familiar locality
Each path, tree, house, turn, each native I have left behind
But creepers, hedges have entangled with my leg and hand
The green crops fields, green hills, fruit trees, call me back,
call it the greenhouse effect or whatever
but it just doesn't rain like it used to.
I particularly remember the rains of the
When Ironbark the turtle came to Anthony's lagoon
The hills were hid behind a mist of equinoctal rain,
The ripple of the rivulets was like a cheerful tune
And wild companions waltzed among the grass as tall as grain.
When the moon was full they came to the water.
some with pitchforks, some with rakes,
some with sieves and ladles,
and one with a silver cup.
This crowded life of God's good giving
No man has relished more than I;
I've been so goldarned busy living
I've never had the time to die.
'Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.'
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Something strange is creeping across me.
La Celestina has only to warble the first few bars
Of "I Thought about You" or something mellow from
Amadigi di Gaula for everything--a mint-condition can
I saw you twice the other day
Stirring passion anew
It's easy saying just move on
Less easier to do
I'll tell of the Battle of Hastings,
As happened in days long gone by,
When Duke William became King of England,
And 'Arold got shot in the eye.
Sitting on the sands of the Bay, a small sea
Gigantic waves throw themselves on the sands, I see;
Methinks a true fact the sea never knows, is
How horribly, hungrily and thirstily it roars!
Now can you see the monument? It is of wood
built somewhat like a box. No. Built
like several boxes in descending sizes
one above the other.
When the morning star,
Sees first sun ray,
In grief and distress,
I knew that James Whistler was part of the Paris scene,
but I was still surprised when I found the painting
of his mother at the Musée d'Orsay
among all the colored dots and mobile brushstrokes
Forth upon the Gitche Gumee,
On the shining Big-Sea-Water,
With his fishing-line of cedar,
Wallowing in this bloody sty,
I cast for fish that pleased my eye
(Truly Jehovah's bow suspends
No pots of gold to weight its ends);
A pathetic tale of the sea I will unfold,
Enough to make one's blood run cold;
Concerning four fishermen cast adrift in a dory.
As I've been told I'll relate the story.
I recall that man and not two centuries
have passed since I saw him,
he went neither by horse nor by carriage:
when fish bite
when salmon run
these are good
high noon is the time to be fishing
in deeper holes light penetrating
sunset dusk hours perfect for fishing
geroscoping dreams of mystic fishing beside magicality of reality in driving innovative hymns for layerring wisdom of resilience to de-weaving established forms of multiple-composition of truths in societal formations from all walks of life
for the networked poetry of moving-changing-expanding multiuniverse.
what is the point of weaving -fishing culture?
An old widow does live nearby,
And when the weather does permit,
We do go fishing, she and I.
Waiting for her here now I sit.
A strange vision unfolded; unfazed I gazed.
A beach flanked by a long fishing net in the haze.
Dark silhouettes and shadows formed a crescent band.
Figures, forms and fishing net fused in the sand.
Fishing is not about getting fish
It's also not a matter of the fishing equipment used
Also not the kind of sharp hook, arsenal and bait used to trick fish
Or a thick and strong fishing line for fishing used
Gone fishing, says the sign
Upon the door,
Gone fishing, wont be back
Till after four.
As a boy growing up in the Allegheny foothills of southwestern New York state—otherwise known as The Southern Tier—I would go trout fishing during the spring, summer and fall with a local barber named Louie Scarlotto, a friend of the family who had plied his trade for more than forty years in my hometown of Wellsville, New York. Wellsville is located in the Genesee River Valley on two of the tributaries of the Genesee River, these tributaries joining together at Island Park, their confluence then flowing through the middle of town at the West State Street bridge. There are a plethora of other streams running through the county, and needless to say, we didn't have to venture far to find a trout stream, the closest one a mere ten-minute walk from the front door of my boyhood home, a stream flowing up and over a tiny dam on Miller Street, then down a steep decline into a large pool in which we swam as children in July and August each year. The water, you see, was pretty clean in those days.
Tuesday, April 6,2021
As a boy growing up in the Allegheny foothills of southwestern New York state, I would go trout fishing during the spring and summer with a local barber named Louie Scarlotto who was a friend of the family. My hometown of Wellsville was located in the Genesee River Valley, and there were streams running nearby, far and near across the county, tributaries a plenty of the Genesee River flowing together through Island Park into the middle of town at the West State Street bridge. Needless to say, we didn't have to venture far to find a trout stream, the closest one a mere ten-minute walk from the front door of my boyhood home, a stream flowing up and over a tiny dam and down a decline into a wide pool that we also swam in during July and August each year. This particular stream was called Dyke Creek, and it ran for miles through small county towns and hamlets like Andover and Elm Valley, finally flowing into the Genesee River on its journey north to Rochester where it emptied into Lake Ontario. At one time, Dyke Creek flowed under six bridges in Wellsville before making its way to Belmont and then farther north, flowing through Letchworth Gorge on its way to the great lake. But that was a long time ago.
Tuesday, January 26,2021
Sitting here inside their house, thinking back to the time when I first moved to the island and into my house, how I enjoyed living there, and now looking outside in the direction of the converted carriage house on the far side of the property, the writing studio on the second floor that I presently call 'home', and realizing how unsettled I feel at the moment, it's shocking to discover how difficult it is to make sense of my life. You would think that... Heavens, I will turn thirty-seven in a little over two months, and... Has the town changed that much in ten years to become unrecognizable? What has happened to the charm, the beauty I associate with things, this island? Is it just an effect of the light?
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