On a sodden bank at the edge of a stream,
Gramps and I with a paper-wrapped lunch,
He—an octogenarian reed in the wind,
A thinning emblem of once-roaring spring.
He raised the bamboo rod—
A slender peninsula
Cutting into morning mist.
Casting.
The line uncoiled like a silver thought,
Sketching cursive across the water’s skin.
It kissed the surface—
A dragonfly whisper,
A teasing incision in glass.
Ripples widened,
Concentric secrets trembling outward,
Inviting the dark below
To rise.
Beneath, in the cathedral green,
A body hovered—
Gills breathing hymns
Of silt and light.
Hunger flickered.
Instinct bloomed.
An eager mouth
Pierced the mirrored ceiling,
Swallowing the glittering shard of dawn.
Then—
Lightning in the throat.
Not metal,
But a sun with barbs.
The river convulsed.
Water shattered into fists of spray.
The silver body became
A thrown blade of muscle and terror.
Pain—
White and blooming.
Pain—
A furnace behind the eyes.
The hook, a crooked moon,
Tore constellations down the tender tunnel,
Carving its claim
Behind the veil of breath.
Scarlet ribbons
Unspooled into current,
Turning the green cathedral
Into stained glass.
Above,
The bamboo bowed like an old spine,
Gramps steady as weathered oak,
Teaching tension—
How to hold
And not let go.
Below,
The fish burned with one thought:
End it.
The line sang tight between two worlds,
A thin horizon
Between air and oblivion.
The river offered no answer.
The sky offered none.
Only the pull.
Only the unbearable brightness
Hooked behind the gill.
Must stop the pain.
But how—
When the sky itself
Has teeth?
 |
| THE FISH AND THE HOOK |
This poem is about the collision between innocence and mortality, seen through the quiet ritual of fishing. It contrasts:
the tenderness of a grandson and grandfather
the violence experienced by the fish
the thin line connecting two worlds
It’s a meditation on pain, aging, instinct, and the way life can shift from peaceful to catastrophic in a single moment.
En una orilla empapada al borde del arroyo, Gramps y yo con un almuerzo envuelto en papel. Él—un junco octogenario en el viento, un emblema que se adelgaza de una primavera que antes rugía.
Alzó la caña de bambú— una península delgada cortando la neblina de la mañana.
Lanzando.
La línea se desenrolló como un pensamiento de plata, trazando cursiva sobre la piel del agua. Besó la superficie— susurro de libélula, una incisión juguetona en el vidrio.
Las ondas se abrieron, secretos concéntricos temblando hacia afuera, invitando a la oscuridad de abajo a ascender.
Debajo, en la catedral verde, un cuerpo flotaba— branquias respirando himnos de limo y luz.
El hambre titiló. El instinto floreció.
Una boca ansiosa perforó el techo espejado, tragando el fragmento brillante del amanecer.
Entonces—
Relámpago en la garganta.
No metal, sino un sol con púas.
El río se convulsionó. El agua estalló en puños de rocío. El cuerpo plateado se volvió una hoja arrojada de músculo y terror.
Dolor— blanco y floreciente.
Dolor— un horno detrás de los ojos.
El anzuelo, una luna torcida, rasgó constelaciones por el túnel tierno, tallando su reclamo detrás del velo del aliento.
Cintas escarlatas se desenrollaron en la corriente, volviendo la catedral verde en vitral sangrante.
Arriba, el bambú se inclinó como una columna vieja, Gramps firme como roble curtido, enseñando tensión— cómo sostener y no soltar.
Abajo, el pez ardía con un solo pensamiento:
Terminarlo.
La línea cantaba tensa entre dos mundos, un horizonte delgado entre el aire y el olvido.
El río no ofreció respuesta. El cielo tampoco.
Solo el tirón.
Solo el brillo insoportable enganchado detrás de la agalla.
Hay que detener el dolor. Pero cómo— cuando el mismo cielo tiene dientes.
Interpretation
of the Poem
🧓 1. A
Moment Between Generations
The poem opens with a quiet, almost sacred
scene:
This is a moment of inheritance—a ritual
passed down, a skill, a memory, a way of being in the world. Gramps is
described as:
He is fragile, but still rooted in the
vitality of his past. The bamboo rod mirrors him: slender, bending, enduring.
🎣 2. The
Cast as a Metaphor for Thought
The line “uncoiled like a silver thought”
suggests that fishing is not just an action but a meditation. The cast becomes:
The water is a page; the line writes across
it.
🐟 3. The
Fish’s Perspective: A Stunning Shift
The poem pivots into the fish’s
consciousness—a bold and haunting move.
Underwater is described as:
This elevates the fish’s world to something
sacred, spiritual, alive with its own meaning.
When the fish bites the lure, it is described
as:
This is not just a catch; it is a betrayal
of beauty, a moment where instinct leads to agony.
⚡ 4. Pain as
Cosmic Violence
The hook becomes:
The fish’s pain is astronomical, mythic. The
river becomes a battlefield between:
The imagery is brutal, luminous,
unforgettable.
🌫 5. The
Grandfather’s Role: Steadiness in Violence
Above the water:
He is teaching tension—how to hold, how not to
let go. This is a lesson about fishing, but also about life, grief, endurance.
The grandfather is calm; the fish is in
torment. The narrator stands between these worlds.
🌌 6. The
Existential Core
The fish’s final thought—“End it.”—is
devastating.
The line becomes:
The fish seeks relief, not escape. The sky,
which should be salvation, becomes a predator:
“When the sky itself Has teeth.”
This is the poem’s most chilling revelation: sometimes
the thing that promises freedom is the thing that destroys you.
🌟 Overall
Meaning
Your poem is a meditation on:
It’s a poem about life’s fragility, the
brutality of survival, and the strange tenderness of a moment shared
between a child and an aging grandfather while another creature fights for its
life beneath them.
Pot the spruce,
Trim the pines—
Crush… stomp…
Ten down to nine.
Edge
the grass,
Water the dates—
Wham… crash…
Alas, just eight.
Fan
the willows,
Clip the tulips—
Whoosh… thrash…
Seven to six.
Hoe
the maples,
De-flea the dogwoods—
Bounce… bump…
Five to four—
Soon to be no more.
Pick
the carnations,
Fluff the rose—
Snap… crack…
Three to two goes.
Rake
the ivy,
Sweep the lawn—
Smash… bash…
Now there’s one.
The
dragon boasts a green-thumbed grace,
Leaves ruin blooming in every place.
He tends the garden with fearless pluck—
Yet limps away from his own bad luck.
For
all the girls can plainly see
The black-and-blue result of spree—
A gardener bold, perhaps too glum,
With blossoms bright… and a battered bum.
The house looked ever so merry and
bright,
With a tall spruce glowing in candy and light.
Bulbs and ribbons blazed in the sky,
Guiding Santa and reindeer on high.
“To
that house there— yes, that’s the one!
The rest can wait— now onward, run!”
Down
the chimney with scarcely a shimmy,
He signed every package neatly, “To Jimmy.”
My
mother and father watched with delight
As I danced in wild, pajama-clad flight.
I yanked and I tugged, I ripped and I tore,
Starting with the biggest— then hunting for more.
Paper
went flying in red and green flurries,
Boxes burst open in feverish hurries.
Laughter and ribbons lay strewn on the floor—
Till at last there were presents no more.
It’s
too bad Christmas comes but once a year,
A season of wonder and genuine cheer.
Of love wrapped tighter than bows tied near—
If only we kept that spirit all year.
Billy the bully lived on my street,
And whenever he needed some cash to compete,
He’d shake me down hard for whatever I’d made
And hang me upside down till I paid.
He’d steal all my money and beat me till blue,
Then laugh through a snort— as villains do.
With monkey glue sticky and wickedly runny,
He’d glue my hands to my ears— which wasn’t funny.
I’d tell my poor mother, “He’s at it again!”
She’d sigh and dial up Billy at ten.
She’d threaten to sue in a firm monotone
From the safety and warmth of our kitchen phone.
This lasted until I turned ten years old,
When fate grew sudden and fierce and bold.
Patsy the Pusher moved onto our block
And shattered his kingdom like splitting a rock.
At just age ten— yet built like a tank,
Six-foot-three with a temper rank,
Mean as a bobcat fresh from the bush,
She ended his terror with one mighty push.
She snapped his foot bone clean in two,
A lesson in pain Billy finally knew.
His reign of terror met its doom—
Face in the dirt and ego in gloom.
And I, quick-thinking, sensing my luck,
Aligned myself fast before I was stuck.
I befriended her first— strategic and smart,
Then married her quick— the bravest part.
And here we stand, years later, unstuck—
Or perhaps just wisely, permanently stuck.
I've never seen
Mom quite so upset
as the day I flushed
the hamster down the toilet.
Her face went scrunch like
a grumpy pet,
and I thought Old Sparky
might join the riot.
"Fetch me the plunger!"
she shouted with might,
and zoom—like the roadrunner—it came into sight.
"The other
end, child—don’t be blind!
This one’s for
unplugging from behind!"
She plunged
and she pushed
with a clatter
and clank,
a bash and a splash
and a sploosh from the
tank.
But Lucky
just tumbled still deeper below.
"Get a crane!
Get a plumber! A bulldozer—go!"
"We don’t
have those things,"
I whispered instead.
"One more word
from you and I’ll use
your head!"
She grabbed
the old pliers and twisted
them tight.
The pipes burped and bubbled
like something in fright.
Water shot out
in a wild,
messy sheet— and Mother
was soaked from her hair
to her feet.
A giggle
escaped from my belly
so round, wiggling and
jiggling with jelly‑like
sound.
Mad as
a hornet, she reached for
a knife.
"Keep
laughing and you’ll
be grounded for life!"
She jabbed
the poor bowl
with a desperate
goal— to free little
Lucky stuck deep in the hole.
"I give
up!"
she cried with a thunderous
grumble.
"Where are the Yellow Pages?
I need a plumber!"
 |
| robert margetts |
PAIN IN THE BUTT
Oooooh—
what is
that pain?
Starts in my back,
shoots through my body
like a coupon‑day
stampede at the grocery chain.
I
yelp,
I holler,
I put on a whole Broadway show—
“Stop! Stop!
You’ll break something…
and it might not be me,
you know!”
They
think they’re clever,
they think they’re slick,
but next time they’ll check twice— ’
cause dear old Pop
smacked my book
and learned my paperback
hits back harder than his advice.
So
back in my pocket
this trouble will stay,
waiting, plotting,
biding its time for another
gloriously naughty day.
My brother Burt was speeding
through the house
on his brand‑new tricycle,
so I wrote him a ticket for
reckless driving
and another for not wearing his
seatbelt.
He
cried racial profiling
and sexual harassment
and then punched me square in the
nose.
I wrote him up for assault and
battery,
but he tore the ticket in my face
and
sped back into the living room.
An
hour later, I walked into the kitchen
and found him playing with my
Monopoly game.
I ordered him to stop,
put both hands behind his head,
and back slowly away from the box.
Burt
just smiled and said it was his—
he’d claimed eminent domain over
my property.
He didn’t stay to argue semantics
or defamation of character.
All I know is he smelled,
and he looked mighty stupid in the
eyes of the law.
He
raised his fists
and warned me about his right to
bear arms—
and these were the two he planned
to use
if I didn’t stop harassing him.
My
sister Lonnie was in the other room
playing with her new Barbie doll,
not paying attention to either of
us.
Burt marched in,
grabbed Barbie by the torso,
snapped her clean in half,
and said she no longer had a leg
to stand on.
He chuckled and handed the wounded
doll back to Lonnie.
Since
Roe versus Wade, he said,
gave him the right to choose
the pursuit of happiness for
everyone in this house,
he could do whatever he pleased.
And if he wanted to break some
bones
or take what wasn’t his, then so
be it.
The law protected him
from unlawful search and seizure,
and it granted him the right to
bear false witness
against his neighbor.
Yes
sir, Roe versus Wade made that clear—
and for Burt, it couldn’t be
clearer.
He was headed to law school
just as soon as he finished third
grade.
I
told him he was dead wrong,
that it was Brown versus the Board
of Education
that endowed us with unalienable
rights
of life, liberty, and the pursuit
of happiness.
And if he wanted to argue the
facts,
I’d gladly ask Mommy to be judge
and jury.
Burt
just smiled,
gave me the finger, and said,
“You win, dude.”
Through the archways they came—
out of millennia and dust,
from Khan to Hitler,
from Booth to Ray,
from bronze and iron
to atom and ash—
each bearing his hardened steel.
Pride.
Honor.
Vengeance.
Distrust and dominion.
Loathing and power.
These
filled the damp granite halls
where the soldiers of time
trampled cobblestones
in sullied boots.
A nod
of recognition here,
a shove and a snarl there—
they clutched their weapons
like starving infants
at a swollen breast.
Maidens
in corsets moved through smoke,
their flutes spilling silver notes
that rose like incense
into vaulted dark.
The
soldiers stiffened.
Helmets tilted.
Scarred lips parted.
Before
them stood
creatures in white—
so innocent of hatred,
so unmarked by crime.
Desire
flickered in battle-worn eyes.
The sober few drank deep of ale
like jackals at carrion dusk.
The
first to fall was the knight—
entombed in dented steel.
He loosed his nail-studded mace
and cast it to the waiting moat.
Pride
sank.
Deceit followed.
Deep
in silt and silence
the rust began its patient work.
The
seeker of Grail and glory
rose unarmed—
reborn
in the house of Arthur.
The
cowboy watched.
He nodded once,
unholstered his pistol,
unbuckled his belt,
and placed them in the blacksmith’s hand.
Honor
and hate,
vengeance and law—
hammered thin
into a humble horseshoe.
Billy
the Kid removed his dusty hat
and offered not a draw
but an open hand.
For the first time
he shook the sheriff’s palm—
and was reborn
in the house of Garrett.
From
the shadows a musketeer
let fall his blood-streaked foil.
It rang against the stones.
Revenge
seeped from its narrow spine
as creeping weeds
licked it clean of memory.
For
the first time in a century
Romeo looked on Juliet
without feud in his eyes—
and Capulet and Montague
were reborn
in the house of Shakespeare.
Yet
in a darkened alcove
near the spiral stair
stood one more—
gaunt and terrible.
In
his fist he clutched a vial,
the world held hostage
in fragile glass.
In
his pocket—
stupidity and hypocrisy
folded like bribe-stained notes.
Too
weary
to resist the rising music,
too tired
to bear the weight of ruin,
he
opened his bony hand.
The
vial fell—
a soft surrender—
and the moat swallowed
its secret fire.
Kneeling
on ancient stone,
he wept.
For
in that hour
in the house of humanity,
Einstein was reborn.
And
for the first time
since the seventh day of making,
the Shaper of dust,
the Forger of stars and steel,
was glad.
For
in the eleventh hour
of a wounded age,
faith flickered—
not in weapon,
nor in will,
but in surrender.
And
the Maker wept—
not for wrath,
but for mercy.
He
wept
for all his children.
