Reaching Lines

Poems about fly fishing and its surrounds…

As a passionate pastime of mine it seems (and I believe) that very little has been captured in poetry in South Africa regarding fly fishing. Traditionally fly fishing is more than catching fish. It connects on another level – a more esoteric, spiritual level. Much has been documented about the ability of waters to haunt, about being taken over, possessed by the art and science of fly fishing. It gives you an opportunity to stall, pause, take a deep breath in the overpowering crush of life, an opportunity to simplify and illuminate the inner self. It asks that you hand over to another power, it requires courage to stand at the water’s edge and confront your life; fly fishing is able to give your life back and it is able to be another world out from under the willows, where the summer breeze finds you.

Fly fishing is a unique avocation. It is intellectually stimulating and emotionally satisfying. You have a choice of occupying various levels of dedication or indulgence and remaining there, or you can climb to new heights according to the depth and width of your personal involvement. There are those who’s with zeal and curiosity will lead them further and further afield in an effort to penetrate the murky gloom that obscures many aspects of fly fishing, to dredge up bits of knowledge and to pry loose a few of the delicious secrets reluctantly yielded by a begrudging nature. Is poetry the fly fishing nirvana?

Is there a behavioural relationship between words and water? Water runs over rocks, goes around rocks, adapts to the river bed and moves as fast or as slow as the lie of the land. Sometimes it stalls by turning into a lake until the depression is filled, then it continues on its way – a journey.  Words rise from the basement of the soul through feelings, not forgetting that their end lies in the ocean of a message, sooner or later arriving there. The fly fishing experience lends itself fittingly to capturing it in the form of poetry and prose. Of course it is paramount to link the practicalities of fishing to life’s experiences. This should connect the reader to the words and their collective meaning in such a way that they will be able to identify with what is on the page, on levels that they choose to.

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7 responses to “Reaching Lines

  • wideringpoetry

    Rhino Peak from the window of a Crystal Waters cottage
    George M Momogos©

    Natabancobo, no one mocks your
    horned nose, a nose born in the
    ancient of times the envy of men
    with its magical qualities, a
    symbol of power, which turns
    these men into killers for powder
    to be ground and ingested in the
    hope that their tower of power
    will be as yours. Best you stay as
    stone looking out over the valleys
    of these mountains never to lose face.

  • wideringpoetry

    Light on the waters of the Bushman’s: An evocation of a river in spring
    George M Momogos©

    The yellow, gold, and crest red
    showy cosmos once seeds brought
    by bale to reach these shores
    rise orderly in the high grasses.

    The rainbow and brown trout
    once eggs brought from far off
    by pail to reach these shores
    fin alongside the feeding lane.

    Settlers both, now seen by some
    in a different fading light.

    Are these badges of repression,
    emblazoned on the coats of masters
    of the past, trout and cosmos now
    herrings so to hide what really matters?

    The beauty of the river and flower,
    their vibrancy in precise, evocative
    passing flows out and around the
    insulation of my sanctified life; afloat
    against the incessant decay of time.

    Will the river be less a river without
    the finning settler, the fields lesser
    fields without showy cosmos?

  • wideringpoetry

    Searchers
    George M Momogos©

    I follow fishermen whose parched hands
    have held the butt end of split cane, to
    blow fly lines out across waters, waters
    like the turmoil women sometimes offer.

    Fishermen, who pitched their lives around
    the fantasy of a part moon, splitting a deep
    pool where fish die out to myth and where
    you can feel with your mind; a mental orrery?

    I follow fishermen whose silent words are
    sheltered behind eyes, long grown accustomed
    to the truth, like a weary river flowing on,
    travelling back along the lines of time.

    Fishermen, who search endlessly for meaning,
    which trips and falls, as flowing waters, toward
    the afternoon of their lives, a long quiet time of
    waiting, in the face of old tradition.

  • wideringpoetry

    Fishing the drainages of the middle Berg
    George M Momogos©

    Near Highmoor the spear grasses tremble
    at the thought of being cloaked in the
    wrath of another ‘Berg storm. And just
    before, the air is known to bristle with
    silence, while overhead in the distance,
    grey clouds squeeze in on Giant’s Castle
    quickening as a Lanner falcon glides by.
    The quilted sagewood bends toward
    grace, and at its back a relentless wind.

    Fishing in the solace of the late afternoon
    in a muted rush of autumn sun, where the
    shallows and weed beds are abuzz with
    creeping, crawling, climbing, wriggling
    burrowing, swimming, diving, floating,
    skating, sliding creatures. You know once
    their song and dance is over, it’s your time.

    It’s here that all hope is appraised by the
    wind that passes us ceaselessly and takes
    each lost breath as we stutter on words.
    The sun moves with the wind and will be gone,
    but there is another light coming from below,
    casting fish from the shadows. The flimsy grass
    knows more than I know of my homage here,
    my virtue and my destiny.

  • wideringpoetry

    Unnatural causes
    George M Momogos©

    I hear my hellhounds of discontent
    and bitterness as they scurry through
    the basement of my soul. The sewers of
    my mind noisily carry warnings; they
    take cover before my conscious will has
    time to take action. Why am I stone?

    I find a natural world, its face disfigured,
    as noxious elements leech out life; as
    Mother Nature miscarries amid the
    onslaught of mass production, mass
    consumption and mass waste.
    I cryout, money laughs back.

    And you, like me, as stone in a failing world
    as the wetlands of your heart dry up; the
    sands of your mind, in time run out. Is this
    the last kick of a dying earth as we wait
    for dragons and angels in preparation for
    war; the cause of death will be unnatural.

  • sleep apnea machine

    A fascinating discussion is definitely worth comment.
    I do think that you ought to write more on this issue, it might not be a taboo subject but typically folks don’t speak about these topics. To the next! Kind regards!!

  • wideringpoetry

    Hi Sleep Apena Machine – thanks for stopping by. I have taken a passive stance on my blog at this stage while I work on more material. Meaning, that I have not pushed it but rather, using it as a respoitory while I improve on my writing/s. Please help by referring to the particular discussion and I will resond. Thanks again for stopping by. Cheers George

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