Fishing for Poems

This year's all-night write was another success. Different from last year's in every way, we stayed inside by the fire to keep warm in 20 degree weather. But we got a lot of writing done, and "different" is good when it comes to creativity.

One of my favorite exercises this year was the word-grouping exercise. Make a list of the names for the individuals of any group of things. For instance, under the heading flowers you might list daffodils, roses, sunflowers, bluebonnets, dahlias, peonies, etc. You want to be specific, but you don't have to know the Latin names. That would be a different poem. Birds would be another group, or automobiles; any group that has individuals with particular names. Take 5 minutes and name as many as you can. I started my list several times (ingredients for a recipe, spiders, buildings) before finally settling on something I felt I knew and understood pretty well: fish. A partial list included bass, bream, rainbow trout, Dolly Varden (a beautiful gold trout), crappie, minnows, goldfish, sharks, flounder, cod, and so forth. I named a lot of fish. I was glad there was something out there in the world for which I knew that many names.

Once you've made your list, then write a poem using the names from your chosen group. Leigh Wilkerson wrote a beautiful poem called, "As Names Become a Part of Us" about trees. Her poem inspired me to want to create this exercise because naming encourages us to experience a kinship with life we may miss by throwing everything into a group under a single heading. The exercise of naming also helps us to be specific in our writing. The lovers didn't just sit under a tree, they sat under a blackjack oak.

Following, you will find the rough drafts of my work on this exercise. Because I had so many fish, I had to break the poem into 4 parts.

Backyard Pond

Flash of goldfish
silver shad
minnows spin like quarters
tossed in a wishing fountain.



Lake Wedington

Grass waved underwater like wheat in a windfield.
Springfed and dug by mules, Lake Wedington's grasses
thrived in sunlight through clear water.
Catfish, bass and bream swam through forests of weeds.
Crappie and largemouths loved what they found there–
so much food and safety in their undulating lengths.
Fishermen cursed the tendrils caught in trolling motors,
calling for oars instead of engines.
Someone smart killed the grass, disintegrated
it into a minutiae of green swirl,
destroying homes and clouding what once was clear.
Now the fishing's no good.

Trout Streams

In search of the illusive trout, we stumble
over stones bigger than our feet; toes grown numb
as we hunt rainbows and browns. Under overhangs
beneath the green drip of hemlock,
deep in pools riffling off shallows,
we snap flies. Lengthening the line
we curl it behind then lay it perfectly,
praying for the rise.
The crisp air breathes trout,
our lungs become gills, our tongues
trip along syllables, Dolly Varden.

Deep Sea

Fishing off the far end of a pier
one night in my thirties,
I caught one sting ray,
a single clam shell,
an entire nest of sea snakes,
and an eel.
What started out as night fishing
turned nightmare fishing.
For awhile I was afraid to drop a line in saltwater;
wanting snapper, grouper, flounder, redfish
but coming up with crabs.
For awhile I fished only in daylight
bright enough to blind, but lately
I've returned to the dark,
thinking something down there feels me,
so I feed it.