Writing a Fish Story
I fish with a cast net,
a circular mesh with a weighted edge.
Drifting down in the water, shaped
like a jellyfish ten feet across, it looks as innocent
as a falling leaf. A pull on the handline
traps those too large to escape through the mesh.
The real beauties lie in deep water, but standing in a boat
and casting a weighted net makes me
vulnerable. A fisherman off balance, falling
and going under in this lake might never surface.
I am safe when I fish from the shore. I cast my net
as far as I can. Pulling in the catch, I see two
verbs that flop around and one that wriggles, a dull brown
adjective, and one strange looking noun. I am searching
for a noun so I untangle ‘bailiwick’ from the net.
It’s an Old English and French hybrid,
looking more crustacean than fish. It is not a good fit.
I throw them all back. To try again I move
further down the shore. Casting in shallow water,
I can only catch words without teeth, but
I don’t want to get in over my head. I keep my feet
in the sand.
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When Randall Brown was young, he loved poetry and quantum mechanics. The latter provided employment and the former was put aside. Retirement has allowed him to return to poetry.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 