Roche Lake: Fly Fishing

Up late with a bottle, early out on the lake. Loon call
rippling into quiet. Fish jump beside the boat, slap clean
their scales; my brother and I smudged with dirt
and campsmoke watch chronomids rise from the lake bed,
discard their former shell, and woozy, hatch. They swarm
the boat with sound. It’s my first time out—
novelty shines up the rods, the fly box. Supper art
at $4 a pop, a knock-off some sucker will swallow,
thinking it’s real-life.

But the fish are smarter than we think.
Nothing’s biting so we switch to shrimp,
set the bobber at twelve feet after consulting the fish finder,
$150 convenience that replaces what our eyes can see,
our hands measure—watching for colour changes
or dropping a pair of needle nose pliers on fishing line
to garner the depth.

All day out in the boat, filling up the hours.
Nothing to distract us, conversation idles. We change it up,
try a new location, try trolling, try casting.
When to give up, when to try again?
I can’t get into the Zen of it. I strong-arm the rod,
bend my wrist when I’m supposed to keep it straight,
hook myself, hook my brother’s line. Chaplin-style slapstick.
I catch two things all day: a steady pull as my hook
snags lake bottom, a big one I thought
as my line wrapped around the propeller.

Back at camp, we listen for tips: green chronomids,
cinnamon shrimp. How’s the fishing, we ask
then wish we hadn’t. Their ten to our zero
flares even the beginner’s ego.
It’d be easier with worms, spoons,
but skill is what we’re aiming for.
Wanting success, a four pound trout to throw on the grill,
we head back out. Anchor by the reeds.
Cast and cast and cast our intentions.
I can think of nothing worthy to offer
in exchange for it’s one life
and so catch nothing.


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I've been sitting on this all week trying to make it hatch. Still wrestling with the themes, but thought I'd share it. Sorry I haven't been commenting much. I have been reading and enjoying the poems though.

French Fries

Shaking salt into the cardboard cathedral,
or smearing ketchup over last week’s sports page—

skinny, crimped, soft, crisp—no matter
what denomination, I’m a sucker for rewards,
especially when they’re deep fried.

Nothing like grease on grease to get me through
a rough patch, a mixed basket with mayo.

Sometimes I want to feel worse,
before I feel better.

No caloric overload compares
to the French fry turned host,
washed down with a pint on a Friday afternoon.



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This week I've been struggling with poetry. Everything I try to write feels like a practice poem without heart. Oh well. My goal for next week is to write about small moments of joy. I've written enough cranky poems for a while. Wish me luck!

Nickel

Anchored at the seawall for Sunday cyclists
to puzzle over, washed up at high tide.
Slick brown fur—at first glance,
I thought dog, drowned. Belly-down, forepaws
stretched out like a two-year-old’s rendition
of Superman. Then I saw it’s broad flat
tail, bleached the colour of concrete.
Childhood coin, the price of a jelly candy
turned life-size. Tree-feller, log-jammer,
far from our imagined habitat: scenic marsh
with moose backdrop. Trying to make a go of it
among sewage outlets. An observer
held out his cell phone to take a picture;
there was talk of gnawed aspens
on Granville Island, as cherry blossoms
dotted confetti on park bench couples.
Across the beaver’s eyelids, a flicker—
thinking, it’s still alive—until I saw the fly
searching for a passageway in.