A Fishy Tale
Dave was a angler, an angler 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 rarely sensed him homing in for the kill
Until it was too late, until they’d run out of fishy time;
The only time they saw 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 sagged with trophies, his cabinets bulged with winning cups;
When other anglers saw Dave coming, they felt like giving up,
Because his reputation went before him like a regal bugle call.
His record catches filled all and sundry with both envy and awe
in the face of such unbeatable 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 morning cow put out to graze
In dew-fresh pastures; but, as he skewered a wriggling maggot onto his hook,
He heard a voice calling him and, startled, he 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 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.
Oh, he suddenly felt totally accepted, and 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.
In a blink, the plump, bald man was gone
And all that remained was the shadow of that joyful song
And a single lotus flower adrift on the river’s surface,
Travelling onwards, seawards, homewards, at a beatific pace,
Its petals as proud as billowing 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 open garden gate
Into the darkness of his cottage, which still emanated the welcome warmth
Of the resurrectable embers of his stove.
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 equanimity and grace.
And from that moment on, an exquisite light danced upon his face,
As if the gods had blessed him.
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 the depths 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, still, he couldn’t bear the thought of missing the competition;
Even though his mates would probably make fun
Of his 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 the stirrings of 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 packed up his chair and sat down on the muddy river bank with tears
Of wonder 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!
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
quite vigorously.
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 struggle of such a heavy fish.
But it wasn't long before the fish was dangling from his line, perfectly still and serene:
The largest trout that Dave or Ray had ever, ever seen.
Dave gazed at the fish; the fish smiled at him.
So Dave smiled in return the sweetest of grins,
And understood this: that this diamond of a fish
Was a celestial blessing, traveling in disguise.
Ray’s eyes, too, beheld the sight, but he did not understand the prize,
As Dave gently tickled the belly of the bodhisattva trout,
Until the hookless line fell out.
So, with a silent prayer, Dave tossed the trout up high
And it 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?
Finally, Ray spoke: "Dave! I believe! But I don’t know what.
Please tell me.” And there and then Ray got
Down on his knees. With an open palm, 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, “Oh, I love you Dave – and not just in a brotherly
Way.”
“I love you too, Ray,” 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 more than a few were secretly jealous.
Dave and Ray went on to fulfil their deepest spiritual wishes:
They formed The League of Enlightened Fishers
Which spread – with the help of fishy bodhisattvas – like a dream
Along riverbank, around lake shores, down every beck and stream,
Until every single angler in the land had dispensed with worm and hook.
Some would just sit there with an open heart; some with an open book.
And, as the years progressed, the origins of this particular pursuit clouded
Over and its once deathly purpose became shrouded
In myth and legend. "Fishing" became a national treasure,
Devoid of obvious function, but a source of untold pleasure,
Much like the male nipple.
Dave was a angler, an angler 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 rarely sensed him homing in for the kill
Until it was too late, until they’d run out of fishy time;
The only time they saw 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 sagged with trophies, his cabinets bulged with winning cups;
When other anglers saw Dave coming, they felt like giving up,
Because his reputation went before him like a regal bugle call.
His record catches filled all and sundry with both envy and awe
in the face of such unbeatable 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 morning cow put out to graze
In dew-fresh pastures; but, as he skewered a wriggling maggot onto his hook,
He heard a voice calling him and, startled, he 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 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.
Oh, he suddenly felt totally accepted, and 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.
In a blink, the plump, bald man was gone
And all that remained was the shadow of that joyful song
And a single lotus flower adrift on the river’s surface,
Travelling onwards, seawards, homewards, at a beatific pace,
Its petals as proud as billowing 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 open garden gate
Into the darkness of his cottage, which still emanated the welcome warmth
Of the resurrectable embers of his stove.
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 equanimity and grace.
And from that moment on, an exquisite light danced upon his face,
As if the gods had blessed him.
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 the depths 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, still, he couldn’t bear the thought of missing the competition;
Even though his mates would probably make fun
Of his 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 the stirrings of 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 packed up his chair and sat down on the muddy river bank with tears
Of wonder 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!
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
quite vigorously.
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 struggle of such a heavy fish.
But it wasn't long before the fish was dangling from his line, perfectly still and serene:
The largest trout that Dave or Ray had ever, ever seen.
Dave gazed at the fish; the fish smiled at him.
So Dave smiled in return the sweetest of grins,
And understood this: that this diamond of a fish
Was a celestial blessing, traveling in disguise.
Ray’s eyes, too, beheld the sight, but he did not understand the prize,
As Dave gently tickled the belly of the bodhisattva trout,
Until the hookless line fell out.
So, with a silent prayer, Dave tossed the trout up high
And it 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?
Finally, Ray spoke: "Dave! I believe! But I don’t know what.
Please tell me.” And there and then Ray got
Down on his knees. With an open palm, 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, “Oh, I love you Dave – and not just in a brotherly
Way.”
“I love you too, Ray,” 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 more than a few were secretly jealous.
Dave and Ray went on to fulfil their deepest spiritual wishes:
They formed The League of Enlightened Fishers
Which spread – with the help of fishy bodhisattvas – like a dream
Along riverbank, around lake shores, down every beck and stream,
Until every single angler in the land had dispensed with worm and hook.
Some would just sit there with an open heart; some with an open book.
And, as the years progressed, the origins of this particular pursuit clouded
Over and its once deathly purpose became shrouded
In myth and legend. "Fishing" became a national treasure,
Devoid of obvious function, but a source of untold pleasure,
Much like the male nipple.
