More reading? Rise Forms Issue 2 is live.
Ted Hughes, Rupert Brooke, Basho, Richard Wilbur,
William Butler Yeats...Dave Motes?
Yep. All here: The Art of Angling: Poems About Fishing
Talk about your terrible beauty...
The slim women looked annoyed, maybe at betrayal by a fish. Neil
guessed they had never seen a trout unaccompanied by
rice and parsley. The tall man just seemed weary. Neil idly
wondered how they would have reacted if he had produced
a real priest and clubbed the fish quivering, gutted it
in a single crunching yank, eaten it raw like an ear of corn.
...I have not done the disturbing, or
interrupted the sliding plane and tended curves
of line acrossing the surface of the river,
moving downward, outward, along.
"By March the sun begins to unpeel them
into patterns only an urban Minnesotan could love."
"...there is no revolution in the air, not here..."
I'm still drinking
It's amazing (more)
Our second summer in Logan I wandered the banks of the canal to the east of our house to Main Street, and two blocks further to Central Park, thinking about that Garcia pole. I asked some people who lived nearby about fishing in the canal. “There aren’t any fish in the canal. You’ll have to go to the river to fish,” was the typical reply. I never saw fish in the canal, so I figured they were right and the pole stayed at home. Ins
tead I spent hours staring into the rippling canal water where it passed under Main Street.
"Too deep is just deep enough to notice that you are pressured by current, that the flow suddenly matters to that edgy teeter of traction and lean, that slow-mo moonwalk of maybe that defines stable or stupid. "
"TSDIALSWMO picked off the fresh tomatoes wordlessly; the GKX2 would not eat the mushrooms because of TSWITMLM’s fungi comment and the dressing did have a whisper of garlic but the BILFM did not seem to notice. MM, BS, MFW and the BOB were fine."
"...Then from loops and pockets,
each into their own boxes:
71/2s, 8s, 6s and 4s."
Two others by Phil:
"Now that he knew what to look for, Cal found several more large scallops in the creekbank where, he presumed, other large trees had stood, grown, and fallen. Of course they had—what else would they do?
Some of the cottonwoods were fifteen feet around, and they leaned out over the stream on massive interwoven exposed complexes of roots. Some day they would fall; they all would fall. It was stupid to try to change it whether you could, or thought you could, or not."
"He was looking at just such a riffle when suddenly the mink was there, as brown and still and smooth as a river stone, so still that the boy could see the reflection of the moving current in the deep, sleek black glass of its eyes."
The car raced a blur down the slope of the fat cable to the middle,
where it would pace back and die if not
pulled up the other side by my grandfather’s huge,
calloused hands and the corded muscles of his arms and back...
The ridges beyond the river bluffs are strange with the loss of their soft, sleeping-mammal profiles, the tree lines abruptly broken with obtuse mechanical angles of the clear-cut logging jobs and fire trails.
The Fly Fishing Papers
"There is no direct evidence that the Downies ordered the expurgation of the fly-fishing reference from Hawthorne’s work. However, as we have seen, there is a considerable depth of circumstantial evidence that the Downies were behind it."
...if Long Lake were 60 meters deep, the current would bend as much as 180°--that is, it would flow against the wind. Current isn’t just water flowing downhill.
July Featured Poem
by Anthony Naples
All of the usual stuff happened. I lost the hat, got splashed, and bunted my son in the ear with the butt of the flyrod. The fish jumped like an animated masonry block and zoomed around and got wired up in elodea and coontail and tripled the seven-weight over and required hasty pedaling ahead and abaft....
It’s a healthy person’s game--physically healthy, anyway. Probably why we don’t catch many sick fish--the sick fish aren’t biting, and the sick folks aren’t fishing.
April Featured Poem Crow with Straw
The Fly Fishing Papers
The Catcher in the Rye from Chapter 5 by JD Salinger
MARCH FEATURED POEM:
What I am reading:
A StoryArc Exclusive:
"Angling used to be a constant motif in American fiction. Beginning in the early 20th century, references to fishing--especially fly fishing--were systematically expunged from our greatest art. Sound fantastic? I thought so too. But evidence is evidence, and non-fiction does not lie."
--James Frey, author, "A Million Little Pieces"
Cyran and Ajax Downy’s real assault: a systematic effort to purge any mention of fly-fishing from Western Literature. Apparently encouraged by his father’s dismantling of Cullen, Ajax continued to flex his literary muscle and his sense of vengeance until he died atop his fifth wife in 1966 at the age of 98. Using his power of punctuation, Downy the younger empowered a cadre of editorial henchmen who redacted, revised, and expurgated everything they could reach and nearly eliminated all mention of fly fishing from the Canon.
DECEMBER FEATURED STORY:
Cal slogged up next to him, dread backing up in his throat. It is a peculiarity of our understanding of others that we can comprehend broken bones and bloody cuts and dazed concussions, but when confronted with invisible injury we panic and fold.
“'You will become the best flyfisherman on the planet. No one will outcast you. No hatch will elude you. Latin names will curl off your tongue. Your dubbing will always hold. Your casts will be undefinable in their excellence, beyond the cleverest metaphor. You will tie better than A.K, cast cleaner than Lefty. You will catch bonefish in the wind. You will catch rainbows on the San Juan on a Royal Coachman. They’ll name a pool on the Miramichi after you. You will win the Bassmasters Classic. You will release world records with cavalier indifference. You will never nymph again. You will become a legend.'
" 'Better than Lefty?' I asked.
" 'Better than Lefty. Either hand.'
He bends into the current,
casts about forgotten water thickened by rains.
too skeined and dark for finding
what might but hope not isn't there.
StoryArc is a cooperative nonprofit publication of fiction writers, poets, photographers, and artists with a focus on the outdoors, conservation, nature, and wildlife. Its mission is to present quality work to a discerning readership.