Friends, Haven'T You Any Fish
The best poetry stays silent and deep
It cries for attention below still waters
Each one melting into oceans weeping
I still fish poorly in infinity’s pool
With no reward that satisfies
How the fishees goad me cruelly
Titles of poems swim beneath
Above this captain surrendering
Then fragments of stanzas bequeath
I take in my morning catch
Fillet and debone them into lines
Till the blade parse thoughts
My unskilled lines always snap
But the hours in between recede
Tugging fruitlessly my line's gaps
The more I go fishing with a net
Tempting manic thoughts gather
Inspire me as Jesus did to Peter
The best poetry needs no hook
Leave the white whale port side
Cast starboard into faith’s pools
But I doubt the Lord’s mastery
Bereft without empty nets or baits
I dive without wit into the mystery
If I pull up a catch each dour day
Perhaps I will tire of idle fishing
Careless of a spare haul turning gray
I’ll hang tunas and shrimps on a board
Hoping not to care if poems are unsold
Catching and releasing every word
Becoming a fine fishmonger fishing his soul
** Sorry for the deluge of poems. I'm trying to write a poem a day this month just to hammer down each poem straighter. I'm obsessive about getting it just right and hating nails that stick out.
Copyright © Triny Xiang | Year Posted 2023
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