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This Poem was Submitted By: G. Donald Cribbs On Date: 2004-07-07 08:47:48 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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A Fish Out of Water

“You have made men like fish in the sea… The wicked foe pulls all of them up with hooks…” —Habakkuk 1:14,15 In sleep, I fear water’s weight pressed down, drowning me each time the air seeps out. How stunning, the stab of throat accustomed to the lightness of air, darkness of water. Down dream’s womb, panic to plunge back, shock of air, rebirth, exquisite death of consciousness, knowing darkness, myself a harbored shadow thrown against the wall. What remains in absence but the drowning truth of light? Hardened hands in earth at 5 a.m. rout out the fatted meat of dirt passed through flesh, worms in black soil. Softened by their deliberate work—taking in filth to attain purity— these bodies baited, opened, cast into dark waters. The air leans in, cuts through current, obviates another dying. He clutches the stringer, stripping basket dressed to receive the feast. What is fishing to me now—the practice of his hands thread childhood on hooks, thrust beneath water's surface! The clustered claustrophobia presses in, tightens, clench of teeth, tensing up, rigid rigor mortis, tiny death in wakefulness. His sweat an urgent haste, skin thrusts to satisfy, gratified, I die. Laden, laid in gravesclothes, I pass from stringer’s chain to stripping basket, casket stokes the choke of light, weight of sight. My unlived life a fathomless dream; seamed by the death I live with him; worn revelation of shame mourned, torn in water, reborn.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Wayne R. Leach On Date: 2004-08-04 14:11:31
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.75000
Don, A superb work, IMHO. I won't bother to copy and paste, only mention that you have used an immense amount of poetic tools [you know what they are] very well. The images had a profound effect on me, although I am not a fisherman. I have experienced and seen the results [as a child esp.] of fish responding to their capture - on banks, sod, wharves, etc. This piece returned these images to me dramatically, as was the intent I'm certain. I find no fault, nor have a solitary suggestion for change. You, sir, are a very fine poet. I've read many of your pieces, and usually find perfect grammar, punctuation, form, meter, etc. Enough praise for now. :>) Thanks for sharing this beauty, though a little sad for me. [Note: Metaphorically, it is perfect, too. At times, I gasped as I read it - seeking breath, salvation.]

This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2004-07-30 23:52:12
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.18182
What on the surface appears to be a tale of fishing and the result, not such a great one for the fish, in essence can account for those times when one feels totally out of their depth, when one feels he is beyond the glamour of uniqueness, and the feeling of sticking out like a sore thumb becomes a reality. Esoteric to the bone. Good one.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Jana Buck Hanks On Date: 2004-07-28 13:07:55
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hi Donald, I am not much of a critic but I felt a need to comment on your poem. Having read your poem on sexual molestation, I see the same topic in metaphoric guize here. The feeling of rage topped by a wet blanket is a physical feeling to me. Maybe, because I know the feeling well. I love the free verse and the tone of the poem follows from first verse through out. I am amazed at the vehicle of "Fishing" and "threaded hooks" that you use as analogy to the glareing thruth. My favorite part is: What is fishing to me now—the practice of his hands thread childhood on hooks, thrust beneath water's surface! The clustered claustrophobia presses in, tightens, clench of teeth, the petit mort or little death of tensing up, rigid rigor mortis, tiny death in wakefulness. the act of or climex in sex His sweat an urgent haste, skin thrusts to satisfy, gratified, I die. Hus sweat and urgent haste..makes me Laden, laid in gravesclothes, I pass from stringer’s chain sneer and clinch my jaws to stripping basket, casket stokes the choke of light, weight of sight. Here is your impending death of My unlived life a fathomless dream; Spirit, the fathomless dream seamed by the death I live with him; Unable to move on, you mourn life worn revelation of shame mourned, torn in water, reborn. waiting for rebirth in life and in in the psyche. AT least this is the way I sense the poem. I think this is a wonderful metaphoric poem and I love your writing. Bright Blessings Jana

This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2004-07-13 21:19:15
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Don: This is an immense work. It took a lifetime to write, and I think it will take nearly a lifetime to fully comprehend. There is a force within the poem that is engulfing - a certain sense of current flow that is something like electricity to me. I can see its effects, feel its power, but do not understand what it truly is. Is it God's energy? Within the poem, the strength needed to survive, the very gasping for air and even before that, the surrender to the "exquisite death of consciousness" overwhelms me as a reader yet vivifies me, gives me a kind of certainty that I can 'survive' my life, too. The poem evokes for me vivid experiences of near-death or death itself as I have observed it, and certain life experiences that seemed to bring me close to the edge of what it is (or who it is?) that I am and what comes next. One experience was the accidental hanging of my daughter, who survived, and spoke immediately, at age four, of seeing Jesus. There are others, but I won't detail them here. Please know that your poem touches me deeply. How I admire your courage, your determination at all cost to survive, to retain a sense of self, to overcome! It is evidence to me that we can, with God's help, overcome anything. The words with greatest impact for me are "tiny death in wakefulness" and the final lines -- Laden, laid in gravesclothes, I pass from stringer’s chain --beautiful in the midst of terror to stripping basket, casket stokes the choke of light, weight of sight. My unlived life a fathomless dream; seamed by the death I live with him; --exquisite worn revelation of shame mourned, torn in water, reborn. The analogy of rebirth (perhaps not as much figurative as literal) makes this overwhelmingly powerful. Your brilliance with sounds, with images, with reaching to the core of the pain, cutting to the bone, is truly amazing. Bravo! As Wayne often writes, peace and love to you, "not necessarily in that order." Joanne

This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2004-07-08 10:55:30
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Fish Out of Water “You have made men like fish in the sea… The wicked foe pulls all of them up with hooks…” —Habakkuk 1:14,15 Yes, and we are all in constant danger of becoming fish out of water. Amazing sustained metaphor with enough allusion and “objective correlative” to make T.S. proud. In sleep, I fear water’s weight pressed down, How stunning,[indeed] throat accustomed to the lightness of air, this puts me in mind of Milan Kundra’s “incredible lightness of being” for a larger reason than word choice that I can quite conceptualize. Down dream’s womb, [ah] myself a harbored shadow thrown against the wall. one thinks – yes – Plato’s cave but with a hint of exit and entrances Hardened hands in earth at 5 a.m. rout out the fattedmeat of dirt passed through flesh, worms in black soil. There are those worms again – those necessary worms – composting us all into a sort of infinite rebirth? Softened by their deliberate work— [wonderful thought!} taking in filth to attain purity— we need to do that yes - What is fishing to me now—the practice of his hands thread childhood on hooks, [great great illusion here and throughout this piece] beneath water [-surface –“surface” is understood It think – ] The clustered claustrophobia [great phrase]presses in, tightens, clench of teeth, tensing up, rigid rigor mortis,[isn’t all rigor mortis pretty much rigid – as delicious as that phrase sounds?] tiny death in wakefulness[ah, the “petit morte” the French very definition of orgasm – that life-giving moment. His sweat an urgent haste, skin thrusts to satisfy, gratified, I die. In Him – amazing thought even to this heathen Laden, laid [great assonic alliteration] gravesclothes, I pass from stringer’s chain to stripping basket, casket stokes the choke of light, weight of sight. My unlived life a fathomless dream; seamed by the death I live with [perhaps [H]im?]worn revelation of shame mourned, torn in water, reborn. Ah… Don, Bravo! Sustained standing ovation!

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