Nancy: The fyke nets are out in the rivers and the young eels will be shipped away to become gourmet dinners. Meanwhile our eel populations are declining rapidly, a sad end for such an amazing fish.
The Poem About Eels
The poem about eels knotted itself
in words like catadromous and
Sargasso, and it wandered up
obscure streams, and it grew thicker
and longer until finally I let it go.
It left with an eelish quickness.
Nothing, I used to say,
propping my pole against the porch,
nothing but eels.
Then I saw them: elvers: glassy,
transparent, almost invisible. They
were the poem I had wanted to write.
Just so – eye, spine, quicksilver.
If only I could write in light.
If only I could write on bright high cold water.
Alan: Indra, king of the gods, is said to have a net of infinite extent, every node of the net holding a perfectly polished jewel, each jewel reflecting every other jewel and in turn being reflected by them.
Indra’s Net
Indra cast his net upon the dark.
Fishing for suns, he was; many he caught.
Fishing for stars, fishing for moons, he was;
many on many he caught.
Indra cast his net upon the dark.
Fishing for days, he was; many he caught.
Fishing for seasons, fishing for years, he was;
many on many he caught.
Indra cast his net upon the dark.
Fishing for lives, he was; many he caught.
Fishing for minds, fishing for souls, he was;
many on many he caught.
Indra trawled the darkness long upon long,
hauling up galaxies, eons, oceans, peoples,
past and present, never and future,
nowhere and somewhere, right here and all around.
He was done. Darkness was empty.
The things in the net were light, all light and shining.
They were strong, they swam, they were fast
and they were afraid.
They saw themselves! They saw each other!
They reflected and held each other.
They shone forth and burned deep in each other.
It was lovely. But they were afraid.
Indra grew sad. His sadness went into everything
just as it came from the fear in everything.
Perhaps he had wronged, where he only meant
to gather the light so it could shine together.
Indra grew sorry. He cut the net open.
With a rush, the light flowed out and was gone,
taking its fear and sadness with it. It was free.
Only a little fear, a little sadness, still clung,
and a little, little light, like fishscales stuck to the net.
Indra saw this, and seeing this, hoped.
Hoping, he mended his net. With it mended,
hope grew large.
Indra cast his net upon the dark.
“Indra’s Net” first appeared in the Beloit Poetry Journal.
Very interesting
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