A Fishy Tale
Dave was a fisherman, a fisherman was he
He could catch them in the rivers, he could catch them in the sea
In his thigh-high waders, with his mighty phallic rod,
Trout, salmon, carp, perch and sometimes even cod
Would take his bait, tricked by his skill;
They never sensed his cunning homing in for the kill
Until it was too late, until they’d run out of fishy time;
The only time they were aware of their hunter was dangling from his line.
And then wollop’d go Dave, and flollop’d go the fish;
The next time their eyes would meet, the fish’d be lying in a dish
A-bubbling and a-boiling, a-simmering in a sauce,
Awaiting the eager lips of Dave who, of course, felt no remorse
For these pre-meditated acts of pescicide.
Dave he was a champion – won competition after competition;
He was Mozart, Einstein and Fred Astaire when it came down to fishing.
His sideboard strained with trophies, his cabinets sagged with winning cups;
When other anglers saw Dave coming, they felt like giving up,
Because his reputation went before him like a bugle call.
His record catches filled all and sundry with envious awe
at such unmatchable skill.
But, one day
Dave was sitting by the river Thames – it was early on in May,
And the morning sun was breaking through the dawn’s sweet haze,
And Dave was as happy as a hungry cow put out to graze
In dew-fresh pastures; but, as he pressed a wriggling maggot onto his hook,
He heard a voice calling him and, startled, looked up
To see, sitting, yet somehow hovering above the river,
A plump, bald, cross-legged man – oh, the sight sent a shiver
Or two or three or four down Dave’s angling – now tingling – spine.
Dave stared at the man; the man stared at Dave,
And then, to the sound of rushing waters, wave after wave
Of warmth rippled through Dave’s body and shimmered through his soul:
He felt naked and revealed, and yet totally accepted, utterly whole.
The cynicism of his years, the sarcasm of his tongue
Slipped gently from him, and in his heart a riverside choir sang songs
Of celestial joy – at this, Dave’s water-borne satori.
But this glimpse of Oneness is not where Dave’s story
Ends. No, this riverbank revelation was the fulcrum
Upon which Dave’s life tipped from selfishness and dumb
Ignorance towards passionate equanimity and grace.
From that moment on, an exquisite inner-light distilled his face
With bliss.
In a blink, the plump, bald man was gone
And all that remained was the shadow of a joyful song
And a single lotus flower adrift on the river’s surface,
Travelling onwards, seawards, at a beatific pace,
Its petals as proud as sails. Dave sat there transfixed
For seconds, minutes, hours – until the May sun finally slipped
Through the fingers of the spring-green trees,
And Dave was stirred from his trance by the evening breeze.
And so he quickly packed up his rod, line, maggots and weights
And wandered home and through his garden gates
Into the darkness of his cottage which was filled with the welcome warmth
Of the resurrectable embers of his stove.
The following morning, Dave awoke still at one with world;
He drew back his curtains and his soul unfurled
At the sight of such a brave and brand new dawn.
He didn’t see himself as the religious type, but he felt as if he had been born
Again. Then, glancing at his kitchen calendar, he remembered with glee
That today was the Bedford Gazette’s “Annual Angling Trophy” –
The most coveted and prestigious prize of the Bedfordshire year.
Dave ate a hearty breakfast and cobbled together his gear
And strode out, a man perched on top of the world,
Unvanquishable, serene. But a voice inside him stirred:
“Dave,” said the voice, “You have scaled the peaks of your skill
But not of your compassion. How can you still go forth to kill
The very beings which bring to you such pleasure?
Surely the secret of life is to honour and to treasure
All living beings? To walk lightly on the earth
And to swim gently in its waters?” Dave instantly knew
In his heart that these simple words were true,
And were the fruit of his riverside vision.
But, at the same time, he couldn’t miss that competition;
He suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of his mates making fun
Of some namby-pamby neo-vegan pacifism.
Oh, now he shuffled on, drag-heeled, torn, heavy-hearted,
And when he got to the river, things had already started.
He made his way to his allotted place
In a tortured state: whether to lose face
Or to betray his soul.
Sitting next to him was Ray:
“Morning Dave! Feeling lucky today?
Not like you to arrive so late.” Dave gave Ray a nod,
Placed his tackle box down and assembled his rod,
Unfolded his seat and weighted his line,
And scanned the river’s surface, looking for some sort of a sign
That would free him from this terrible dilemma. And, there, in mid-stream
Appeared the Mona Lisa face of the largest trout he’d ever seen.
And Dave knew, in that instant, the Mystery Of All Things:
That he was the fish, and that the fish was him. The trout disappeared
But its smile remained. And even though Dave feared
Ray’s mockery, his course was now crystal clear.
He folded his chair and sat down in the mud with a tear
Of joy refracting rainbows across his view.
He crossed his legs, untied his hook and threw
It back into its box for ever. And then, with such fine
And exquisite confidence, he cast his hookless line
Into the exact spot where the trout had reared its head.
Ray looked askance at Dave and said,
“What’s going on, Dave – have you finally lost it?
You’ll get piles – or worse. You can’t just sit
There cross-legged like some friggin’ Buddha
With your bum stuck in the mud. Have you lost your rudder
mate? And what’s with no hook?
There’s feeling lucky, Dave, and there’s pushing your luck.”
And Dave turned to Ray and said, “Look, Ray,
I know this sounds weird, but, in truth, I say:
I am the fish and the fish is me.”
Well, Ray let out a roar of laughter and said,
“You slippery little eel, Dave,
I have to give it to you: You’re one hell of a joker –
Or maybe you’ve become one of those whacky-backy smokers
Mate – not knocking the stuff – but this, I say, is also true:
To catch a fish you need a hook, even if that fish is you.”
At which point, Dave’s float began to bob up and down.
Ray looked at Dave with a suspicious frown
And said, “Ha ha, Dave. Nice little trick. Funny little joke.”
But Dave wasn’t listening; his eyes were on the float,
Wondering what on earth – or under water – was going on.
But not for long: the pull on his line was so strong
That his instincts and skill could not resist
The chase and the play and the tease of such a fine fish.
And soon it was there, hanging from his line, perfectly still and serene:
The largest trout that Dave or Ray had ever seen.
Dave gazed at the fish; the fish smiled at him.
So Dave smiled in return the sweetest grin
And understood this: that this diamond of a fish
Was a celestial blessing, undisguised. Ray’s eyes
Too beheld the sight, but did not understand the prize,
As Dave gently tickled the belly of the bodhisattva trout,
Who in turn opened her mouth and let the hookless line fall out.
So, with a silent prayer, Dave tossed the trout up high
And she paused, unmistakably, in mid-air, silhouetted against the sky,
Before plunging down and through the river’s surface
Without so much as a splash, vanishing without a trace,
Leaving Ray agog and Dave a-whirr
In total silence. Which one of them would first stir
And break the spell of the magic of this moment?
“I believe,” finally said Ray, “but I don’t know what.
Please, tell me Dave.” And there and then Ray got
Down on his knees. Dave blessed Ray’s head
And, gently lifting him back to his feet, gently said:
“You, Ray, are the fish and the fish is you.
That’s all I know, but I know it’s true.
And that trout was a wise old soul who has chosen to remain
In this mortal game to help such souls as ours gain
Liberation too.” And on that very spot, Ray and Dave embraced one another,
And Ray said, “I love you Dave – and not just in a brotherly
Way.” “I love you too,” said Dave, and there and then
They stripped off their clothes, and these two fine men
Made love as sweetly as love has ever been made.
And all the other competitors looked on amazed,
And secretly jealous.
Dave and Ray went on to fulfil their deepest, deepest wishes;
They even formed The League of Enlightened Fishers
Which spread – with the help of fishy bodhisattvas – like a dream
Along riverbank, around lakeshores, down every beck and stream,
Until every single angler in the land had dispensed with maggot and hook.
Some would just sit in bliss; others with an open heart and open book.
And, as the years progressed, the origins of the particular pursuit clouded
Over and its once deathly purpose became shrouded
In myth and legend. Fishing became a pure and harmless pleasure,
Devoid of obvious, practical function.
Much like the male nipple.
Dave was a fisherman, a fisherman was he
He could catch them in the rivers, he could catch them in the sea
In his thigh-high waders, with his mighty phallic rod,
Trout, salmon, carp, perch and sometimes even cod
Would take his bait, tricked by his skill;
They never sensed his cunning homing in for the kill
Until it was too late, until they’d run out of fishy time;
The only time they were aware of their hunter was dangling from his line.
And then wollop’d go Dave, and flollop’d go the fish;
The next time their eyes would meet, the fish’d be lying in a dish
A-bubbling and a-boiling, a-simmering in a sauce,
Awaiting the eager lips of Dave who, of course, felt no remorse
For these pre-meditated acts of pescicide.
Dave he was a champion – won competition after competition;
He was Mozart, Einstein and Fred Astaire when it came down to fishing.
His sideboard strained with trophies, his cabinets sagged with winning cups;
When other anglers saw Dave coming, they felt like giving up,
Because his reputation went before him like a bugle call.
His record catches filled all and sundry with envious awe
at such unmatchable skill.
But, one day
Dave was sitting by the river Thames – it was early on in May,
And the morning sun was breaking through the dawn’s sweet haze,
And Dave was as happy as a hungry cow put out to graze
In dew-fresh pastures; but, as he pressed a wriggling maggot onto his hook,
He heard a voice calling him and, startled, looked up
To see, sitting, yet somehow hovering above the river,
A plump, bald, cross-legged man – oh, the sight sent a shiver
Or two or three or four down Dave’s angling – now tingling – spine.
Dave stared at the man; the man stared at Dave,
And then, to the sound of rushing waters, wave after wave
Of warmth rippled through Dave’s body and shimmered through his soul:
He felt naked and revealed, and yet totally accepted, utterly whole.
The cynicism of his years, the sarcasm of his tongue
Slipped gently from him, and in his heart a riverside choir sang songs
Of celestial joy – at this, Dave’s water-borne satori.
But this glimpse of Oneness is not where Dave’s story
Ends. No, this riverbank revelation was the fulcrum
Upon which Dave’s life tipped from selfishness and dumb
Ignorance towards passionate equanimity and grace.
From that moment on, an exquisite inner-light distilled his face
With bliss.
In a blink, the plump, bald man was gone
And all that remained was the shadow of a joyful song
And a single lotus flower adrift on the river’s surface,
Travelling onwards, seawards, at a beatific pace,
Its petals as proud as sails. Dave sat there transfixed
For seconds, minutes, hours – until the May sun finally slipped
Through the fingers of the spring-green trees,
And Dave was stirred from his trance by the evening breeze.
And so he quickly packed up his rod, line, maggots and weights
And wandered home and through his garden gates
Into the darkness of his cottage which was filled with the welcome warmth
Of the resurrectable embers of his stove.
The following morning, Dave awoke still at one with world;
He drew back his curtains and his soul unfurled
At the sight of such a brave and brand new dawn.
He didn’t see himself as the religious type, but he felt as if he had been born
Again. Then, glancing at his kitchen calendar, he remembered with glee
That today was the Bedford Gazette’s “Annual Angling Trophy” –
The most coveted and prestigious prize of the Bedfordshire year.
Dave ate a hearty breakfast and cobbled together his gear
And strode out, a man perched on top of the world,
Unvanquishable, serene. But a voice inside him stirred:
“Dave,” said the voice, “You have scaled the peaks of your skill
But not of your compassion. How can you still go forth to kill
The very beings which bring to you such pleasure?
Surely the secret of life is to honour and to treasure
All living beings? To walk lightly on the earth
And to swim gently in its waters?” Dave instantly knew
In his heart that these simple words were true,
And were the fruit of his riverside vision.
But, at the same time, he couldn’t miss that competition;
He suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of his mates making fun
Of some namby-pamby neo-vegan pacifism.
Oh, now he shuffled on, drag-heeled, torn, heavy-hearted,
And when he got to the river, things had already started.
He made his way to his allotted place
In a tortured state: whether to lose face
Or to betray his soul.
Sitting next to him was Ray:
“Morning Dave! Feeling lucky today?
Not like you to arrive so late.” Dave gave Ray a nod,
Placed his tackle box down and assembled his rod,
Unfolded his seat and weighted his line,
And scanned the river’s surface, looking for some sort of a sign
That would free him from this terrible dilemma. And, there, in mid-stream
Appeared the Mona Lisa face of the largest trout he’d ever seen.
And Dave knew, in that instant, the Mystery Of All Things:
That he was the fish, and that the fish was him. The trout disappeared
But its smile remained. And even though Dave feared
Ray’s mockery, his course was now crystal clear.
He folded his chair and sat down in the mud with a tear
Of joy refracting rainbows across his view.
He crossed his legs, untied his hook and threw
It back into its box for ever. And then, with such fine
And exquisite confidence, he cast his hookless line
Into the exact spot where the trout had reared its head.
Ray looked askance at Dave and said,
“What’s going on, Dave – have you finally lost it?
You’ll get piles – or worse. You can’t just sit
There cross-legged like some friggin’ Buddha
With your bum stuck in the mud. Have you lost your rudder
mate? And what’s with no hook?
There’s feeling lucky, Dave, and there’s pushing your luck.”
And Dave turned to Ray and said, “Look, Ray,
I know this sounds weird, but, in truth, I say:
I am the fish and the fish is me.”
Well, Ray let out a roar of laughter and said,
“You slippery little eel, Dave,
I have to give it to you: You’re one hell of a joker –
Or maybe you’ve become one of those whacky-backy smokers
Mate – not knocking the stuff – but this, I say, is also true:
To catch a fish you need a hook, even if that fish is you.”
At which point, Dave’s float began to bob up and down.
Ray looked at Dave with a suspicious frown
And said, “Ha ha, Dave. Nice little trick. Funny little joke.”
But Dave wasn’t listening; his eyes were on the float,
Wondering what on earth – or under water – was going on.
But not for long: the pull on his line was so strong
That his instincts and skill could not resist
The chase and the play and the tease of such a fine fish.
And soon it was there, hanging from his line, perfectly still and serene:
The largest trout that Dave or Ray had ever seen.
Dave gazed at the fish; the fish smiled at him.
So Dave smiled in return the sweetest grin
And understood this: that this diamond of a fish
Was a celestial blessing, undisguised. Ray’s eyes
Too beheld the sight, but did not understand the prize,
As Dave gently tickled the belly of the bodhisattva trout,
Who in turn opened her mouth and let the hookless line fall out.
So, with a silent prayer, Dave tossed the trout up high
And she paused, unmistakably, in mid-air, silhouetted against the sky,
Before plunging down and through the river’s surface
Without so much as a splash, vanishing without a trace,
Leaving Ray agog and Dave a-whirr
In total silence. Which one of them would first stir
And break the spell of the magic of this moment?
“I believe,” finally said Ray, “but I don’t know what.
Please, tell me Dave.” And there and then Ray got
Down on his knees. Dave blessed Ray’s head
And, gently lifting him back to his feet, gently said:
“You, Ray, are the fish and the fish is you.
That’s all I know, but I know it’s true.
And that trout was a wise old soul who has chosen to remain
In this mortal game to help such souls as ours gain
Liberation too.” And on that very spot, Ray and Dave embraced one another,
And Ray said, “I love you Dave – and not just in a brotherly
Way.” “I love you too,” said Dave, and there and then
They stripped off their clothes, and these two fine men
Made love as sweetly as love has ever been made.
And all the other competitors looked on amazed,
And secretly jealous.
Dave and Ray went on to fulfil their deepest, deepest wishes;
They even formed The League of Enlightened Fishers
Which spread – with the help of fishy bodhisattvas – like a dream
Along riverbank, around lakeshores, down every beck and stream,
Until every single angler in the land had dispensed with maggot and hook.
Some would just sit in bliss; others with an open heart and open book.
And, as the years progressed, the origins of the particular pursuit clouded
Over and its once deathly purpose became shrouded
In myth and legend. Fishing became a pure and harmless pleasure,
Devoid of obvious, practical function.
Much like the male nipple.
