Fishing Trip by Tom Lagasse (ONE GOOD MEMORY Series)

Fishing Trip
by Tom Lagasse

Packed and wearing our best behavior we take flight in our fern-colored Buick Skylark.

‘Look for a dirt opening,’ my father says, as he points to the river side of the road. There
is no sign to greet you when arriving at Satan’s Kingdom.

Carrying fishing gear, blankets, and a picnic lunch, we careen through a narrow path, as though through an eye of needle, that leads us to a clearing along the river.

The air, moist and sweet, is released from the steady current that sluices over glacial rocks and fallen trees. It caresses us as though welcoming us home.

We breathe deeply and give our tension to the river.

My sister and mother unfold thin blankets and spread them over packed dirt. My father and I bring the fishing gear to the river’s edge.

Like always, my mother sacrifices the most for this day to be possible. She prefers
the safety of four walls and the predictability of Top 40 radio to the outdoors.

Quickly, birdsong and our laughter open her heart like her favorite song.

My father, this was all he ever wanted: to pull his family close and be free
of his sisters, his work, the honey-do list, and his past.

The insouciant river washes over him until he is a trout lifting from the water to find a world existed beyond his own.

Our home is intact, although my sister and I are often divided by specific gender roles.
This was an androgynous day.

She proves to be the better son when she cast her line into the heart
of the river and reels in a trout as she shrieks with delight.

And me? There is no peace that needs to be brokered that day. We eat
bologna sandwiches and watch a metaphor-free river flow.

We never return.

In the half century since, time has stretched this day in all directions,
and I float along it. Unable to help myself, I nibble at this sweet bait.

PAINTING: Two Trout & Reflection by Neil Welliver (1994).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: For over half my life now, I try to write at least five days a week. Inspiration may be immediate whether it’s at a desk or driving, come from responding to poems I read, or ideas that take time to develop and craft. I tend to keep notes and ideas. While I may not use them, it keeps me in a creative frame of mind.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tom Lagasse’s poetry has appeared in numerous anthologies and publications, including three Silver Birch Series. Most recently, a poem appeared in the New Generation Beats Anthology  By day, he writes.  By night, he works with spice. He lives in Bristol, Connecticut. Visit him on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, as well as his website, tlagasse.com.

Bombay Fish Market by Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca (ONE GOOD MEMORY Series)

Bombay Fish Market
by Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

Here the entire sea
Comes in with the fish
Wet, Wet, Wet,
Everything is wet
The stench, indescribable!
Bell-bottoms and flip-flops
Not appropriate apparel
In a Bombay fish market.
Mother scolds me for making
Poor dress choices.

The fisherwomen loaded with gold ornaments
Jasmine flowers in their hair
Call out in raucous voices,
The fish wear sad expressions
Lying on stone slabs
In salt sea-water.

Mother bargains with her usual style
The fisherwoman says
“I’ll sell you the fish cheap
if you give your daughter’s hand in marriage to my son.’’
That was the last time
I went to the fish market with mother.
Fish curry at home erases
The fish market experience.
Still the enjoyment of the curry
Comes tinged with a bit of guilt
Sadness for the fish
On the stone slabs, their eyes follow me.

Father takes me to the Aquarium
A once-in-a-while treat.
A better place to admire fish.

Still my preference is to go down to the sea with him
Where I dream of writing a poem
like John Masefield’s Sea Fever.

The fish are at home in the ocean
That travels the shores of my city.
I wish for everything Masefield desires
Unlike him, I am afraid of the sea.

First published in Verse-Virtual, August 2021.

IMAGE: Fish fairytale by CDD20.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This poem is based on my memory of going to a fish market in Bombay with my mother, as a young girl. It was interesting and unnerving experience at the same time, especially in the company of my mother. The poem also refers to the memorable experience of going to the Bombay Aquarium with my poet father, and for walks to the seashore with him, both of which were always fun and enjoyable. John Masefield’s poem “Sea Fever,” has remained one of my favorite poems to this day.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca has been a teacher of English, French, and Spanish for over four decades in colleges in India and private schools overseas. She is a widely published poet, with poems featured in various journals and anthologies, including the Yearbook of Indian Poetry in English, the Journal of Indian Poetry in English by Sahitya Akademi, SETU magazine, Harbinger Asylum, and Verse-Virtual. Her debut collection Family Sunday and other Poems was published in 1989. Her chapbook Light of the Sabbath was published in September 2021. Kavita is the daughter of the late poet Nissim Ezekiel. Visit her on her author site and on Facebook.

Grandpa’s Tackle Box by Gary Grossman (ONE GOOD MEMORY Series)

Grandpa’s Tackle Box
by Gary Grossman

The thickened air was cold as
permafrost as we picked through
87 years of accumulation,
sentimental trilobites wrapped in
the papery shale of lived years.

In a far corner, under an eave,
sat a tackle box, metallic green
mottled with rust, the colors of
duckweed trapped in the corner of
a pond full of brim.

Opened, the layered trays creaked—joints
almost as frozen as Grandpa’s
aged knees. The box was a small
galaxy of rusted hooks, bobbers,
plugs and needle nose pliers.

The tangle brought back his hours of
help with my middle school science
project, a model cell—Golgi bodies,
mitochondria, and the sticky
sounding endoplasmic reticulum.

An embalmed night crawler lays across
both a red-headed bass plug and a
leopard frog endowed with two trebles,
somehow having escaped our old tin
worm can. It crumbled at my touch.

My earliest memory, us walking back
from Uncle Jake’s pond. I didn’t
even reach four feet and he remarked
“The stringer’s heavy, let me carry it.
We had a good day, didn’t we?”

Originally published in Verse-Virtual, June 2022

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: My Grandfather was born in Ukraine during the 1890s and immigrated to the U.S. in 1913. I doubt he had as many experiences as a child that I did growing up in the 1950s-60s, but he always encouraged my many interests, especially fishing and baseball. He passed in 1972.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Gary Grossman is retired Professor of Fisheries at University of Georgia. His poetry is published or forthcoming in 29 reviews, including: Verse-Virtual, Poetry Life and Times, Your Daily Poem, Poetica, Trouvaille Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Poetry Superhighway, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Knot, and Delta Poetry Review. His essays have appeared in Alaska Magazine and American Angler, and his short fiction has been featured in MacQueen’s Quinterly. For 10 years, he wrote the “Ask Dr. Trout” column for American Angler. Gary’s first book of poems, Lyrical Years, is forthcoming in 2023 from Kelsay Press. His hobbies include running, music, fishing, and gardening. Visit his website, garygrossman.net, and his blog, garydavidgrossman.medium.com.

PHOTO: Gary Grossman with an Arctic Grayling (Chena River, Alaska). Photo by Jason Neuswanger.

Guaymas, poem by Catfish McDaris (BEACH AND POOL MEMORIES Poetry and Prose Series)

Guaymas
by Catfish McDaris

The town was sleepy, my pockets
were light, I needed work of any
kind, a Yaqui man watched me, he
knew I spoke Spanish and approved

Of my silence, he invited me to beans
and tortillas, it tasted better than steak,
we walked to the beach, fishermen
sat with heavy poles and curved knives

They fished for red snapper or yellow
tail, but kept the blades handy in case
of a tuna dragging a man into a watery
death, it had happened a few times

There were long thin ribbon fish on the
beach, men were surf casting big chunks
of meat on treble hooks, one was soon
in a battle with a sand shark, when it

Was on the beach, it took five blows to
the head to kill it, the Yaqui said it was
for soup, we got jobs cleaning fish and
icing down shrimp, the water, sun, and

Cloud of blood over the Sea of Cortes
removed the January snow from inside
my weeping heart, a woman had made
me a prisoner and I was trying to escape.

PHOTO: Yaqui fishermen prepare for a long day of work at the height of shrimp season in Guaymas. Image by Dominic Bracco II. Mexico, 2012.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Catfish McDaris won the Thelonius Monk Award in 2015. He’s been active in the small press world for 25 years. He’s working in a wig shop in a high crime area of Milwaukee. His newest book is Sleeping with the Fish (266 pages fo $13).

Abstract Pipe Dreams. by Sue A’Hern (Me, as a Child Poetry Series)

Abstract Pipe Dreams.
by Sue A’Hern

No thoughts for health and safety, no rules applied;
apart from have fun with your bright orange and blue nets.
No one ever said, ugh or argh don’t fish off the sewage pipes.
The mighty Triumph or Norton parked on the barren ground,
between Swansea Baths and laundry;
often the sidecar roof removed so that I could stand up,
head and shoulders stuck out the top.
I wonder where the big blue bridge is now,
it isn’t where it used to be.
That’s the second blue bridge this week
that I can’t seem to find.

I can see him now squatting down, camera in hand;
brushing the sand off his light metre,
often using the B word in distress.
Saying “don’t tell your mother of anything I have let you do,”
in return I promised not to tell he swore.
I was the tomboy that held the Tilley lamp on the rocks at Worms Head,
whilst dawn broke and fish were caught.
Becoming proficient through his teaching of having a keen eye,
shooting rabbits for the pot.

So many childhood experiences given to me by my Dad;
the smell and magic of the attic room with its red light and blacked out     windows,
where photographs magically appeared on paper.
Pushing the bike out of the garage and down to the end of the street,
not to disturb the birds on eggs in his aviary.
Climbing down into the pit with its sawdust,
holding the light in just the right position while we fixed the bike;
For the briefest of time I became his assistant lapping up his knowledge,
a little girl behaving like the son he longed for.

Wherever you are now Dad,
I hope that you can see that your abstract pipe dreams live,
in the woman that is me.

AUTHOR’S NOTE ON THE PHOTOGRAPH: Me and my brother in the late 1960s, with our fishing nets and no concern for health and safety playing on an outlet pipe on Swansea beach. The photograph was taken by our father Jack A’Hern.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: “Abstract Pipe Dreams” is a poetic reflection on being brought up in Swansea in the 1960s, back in the days when health and safety was not a common term. My father, Jack A’Hern, taught me many skills that back then were usually only passed onto boys. He taught me to ride a motorcycle and do basic mechanical maintenance on his Triumph and Norton, to fish and use a shotgun for shooting rabbits for the pot. Jack encouraged me to read poetry and pursue my interest in photography, both of which led to my chosen career path. Unfortunately he died before his dream of having an adult child that shared his interests came to fruition.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sue A’Hern is a poet living in Swansea, Wales.

Bonding by John Grey (Me, as a Child Poetry Series)

BONDING
by John Grey

The old man and I sit at the diner counter
picking ashes out of the toast.

Where else would I be on a Saturday morning
but in the shadow of the Alpha fisherman
watching him gulp down coffee
while I sip through the thick tangy scent of orange juice.
Next time, I’ll insist on a cup of joe instead.

I hold myself up by the elbows
so as to feel so much older
while Sally the waitress
unbraids the early morning crew
with her usual salty sass
and Sam the cook shouts something to my father like
“save some of them big fat trout for me.”

I’m looking forward to damp grass, river bank,
and the slow curdle of brown water
around two taut catgut lines.

It’s a good deal for me.
There is a chance that, even at twelve years old,
I can haul in the bigger catch.
A hook is a hook
and a fish has no clue
who among us deserves most tribute.

Better this than suffering him
sinking baskets over my head
or busting my pride on the checkerboard.

The old man pays the bill
and we drive off in his truck.
I wonder how many more times
the two of us will be doing this.
It’s the start of a season – fishing season sure –
but with another, unspoken definition
going for it.

PHOTOGRAPH: The author as a schoolboy in 1963.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: John Grey is an Australian poet and U.S. resident. His poetry was recently published in New Plains Review, Mudfish, and Spindrift with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit, and Louisiana Literature.

Green Creek, poem by Wang Wei

GREEN CREEK
by Wang Wei (Translated by Henry Hughes and Jin Lei)

To find the Yellow Flower River
One follows the waters of Green Creek
Through the mountains in ten-thousand turns.
But only a few miles, at most.
Sounds drown among the wild rocks,
And colors quiet within deep pines.
Water chestnuts bob lightly.
And reeds and rushes shine
In the clear, stilling waters.
My heart and the river are equally at peace.
Let me sit upon a large, flat rock
And drop my line and hook forever.

Photo: “Green Water Reflection, Blackstone River, Lincoln, Rhode Island” by Sheba53, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Green Creek, poem by Wang Wei

GREEN CREEK
by Wang Wei (Translated by Henry Hughes and Jin Lei)

To find the Yellow Flower River
One follows the waters of Green Creek
Through the mountains in ten-thousand turns.
But only a few miles, at most.
Sounds drown among the wild rocks,
And colors quiet within deep pines.
Water chestnuts bob lightly.
And reeds and rushes shine
In the clear, stilling waters.
My heart and the river are equally at peace.
Let me sit upon a large, flat rock
And drop my line and hook forever.

Photo: “Green Water Reflection, Blackstone River, Lincoln, Rhode Island” by Sheba53, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Green Creek, poem by Wang Wei

GREEN CREEK
by Wang Wei (Translated by Henry Hughes and Jin Lei)

To find the Yellow Flower River
One follows the waters of Green Creek
Through the mountains in ten-thousand turns.
But only a few miles, at most.
Sounds drown among the wild rocks,
And colors quiet within deep pines.
Water chestnuts bob lightly.
And reeds and rushes shine
In the clear, stilling waters.
My heart and the river are equally at peace.
Let me sit upon a large, flat rock
And drop my line and hook forever.

Photo: “Green Water Reflection, Blackstone River, Lincoln, Rhode Island” by Sheba53, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Snow River, poem by Liu Zongyuan, photo by Chris McLennan

SNOW RIVER
by Liu Zongyuan (Translated by Henry Hughes)

A thousand mountains without a bird
Ten thousand miles without seeing a soul
A boat and an old man in a straw raincoat,
alone, fishing in the icy river of melted snow.

Photo: Chris McLennan (detail), National Geographic photo of the day, 8/31/2010.

“Snow River” is found in The Art of Angling: Poems About Fishing, Edited by Henry Hughes. This beautiful — and highly recommended — book is available at Amazon.com.