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"fishthoughtblood" poems
FISHTHOUGHTBLOOD JON BOLDUC When I was a boy, Father taught me to ice-fish. Here’s a memory; Father drills a hole, the auger bounces, vibrates, roars, shaving ice– soon the blade connects with winter water, –the engine fades off. I fish floating ice chunks from the hole with a skimmer while Father sets the trap, ties the sinker, and hooks the minnow thru its side. He lowers the line gently into the fishhole; the bait plunges to the lakebed. Father reels up the slack, pitches the three legged trap above the exposed black water and we wait for a trout, or a snarled toothed pickerel. Father, I have learned to fish for thoughts with an ice–trap. When the flag springs up, I reel slippery ideas up from deep darkness. As they flop, I pull the hook out from their lips, knock them in the head, throw them in a pail; gut them, I spill fishthoughtblood on the white snow. After the low sun sets, My friends and I fry caught fishthoughts in my dim cabin. Hughes, Plath, Ginsberg, and Eliot talk around the fireplace as the pan sizzles, as the oil jumps. Soon we feast on flakey poemfillets; we talk about the dark english rain, the crowded zoos, electroshock therapy, bald mediocrity. After we have eaten and finished the wine, and all my friends have gone home I look down at empty plates and somehow, “the page is printed.”
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Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
jonny-bolduc
FISHTHOUGHTBLOOD
FISHTHOUGHTBLOOD JON BOLDUC When I was a boy, Father taught me to ice-fish. Here’s a memory; Father drills a hole, the auger bounces, vibrates, roars, shaving ice– soon the blade connects with winter water, –the engine fades off. I fish floating ice chunks from the hole with a skimmer while Father sets the trap, ties the sinker, and hooks the minnow thru its side. He lowers the line gently into the fishhole; the bait plunges to the lakebed. Father reels up the slack, pitches the three legged trap above the exposed black water and we wait for a trout, or a snarled toothed pickerel. Father, I have learned to fish for thoughts with an ice–trap. When the flag springs up, I reel slippery ideas up from deep darkness. As they flop, I pull the hook out from their lips, knock them in the head, throw them in a pail; gut them, I spill fishthoughtblood on the white snow. After the low sun sets, My friends and I fry caught fishthoughts in my dim cabin. Hughes, Plath, Ginsberg, and Eliot talk around the fireplace as the pan sizzles, as the oil jumps. Soon we feast on flakey poemfillets; we talk about the dark english rain, the crowded zoos, electroshock therapy, bald mediocrity. After we have eaten and finished the wine, and all my friends have gone home I look down at empty plates and somehow, “the page is printed.”
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