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We sail our haringbuss on the midnight tide,
my wife, my daughter and I, across the Ijsselmeer
out into the Noordzee to throw our gillnets
into the beam of a shining moon; crossing the path
of a thousand million Atlantic herring that swim
between the Shetlands and Dogger Bank.

There swims our harvest, a million tons
of sleek fish-oil fatness that only the haring
can bring. Mother and daughter slit out the gills
and gullets, pack the fish into barrels,
salt one portion in twenty,
pack down and seal for Scheveningen.

The pancreas and liver gives a savour
that is relished, but cannot be explained,
both are removed
at the fishmonger's stall.

Nieuwe Haring in pairs served
with chopped onion on rye bread.

Wat lekker-how tasty are they!

Frank---

rich, hearty and original. love it.

We sailed on our haringbuss on the midnight tide
my wife, my daughter and I, across the Ijsselmeer
out omit into the deep and frenzied cold,
Nordzee to throw our omit.....gillnets into beams of moon,
and cross the multitudes of Atlantic herring
between Shetland and Dogger Bank.




We sailed on the midnight tide of haringbuss,
my wife, my daughter and I,
across the Ijsselmeer into the deep and frenzied cold,
to throw gillnets lighted by beams of moon
and cross the multitudes of Atlantic herring
between Shetland and Dogger Bank.



There swims our harvest, a million tons of sleekness
of fish-oil fatness that only the haring can bring.
Then mother and daughter slit out the gills and the gullets

with their sharp knives and pack the fish
into barrels, salt them one portion for twenty,
pack down and seal for the journey back.


i love the feel here of Melville---Captain Ahab and the Pequod....


bernie

I agree...you have found both your voice and a way to express it....and both are terrific. Your course is set now....just steer, and let the rest of us enjoy the views....best

Frank---

had to go and find this much favored poem i love of Carol Ann Duffy---first Female poet Laureate circa 1955:


Prayer

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child's name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.



Carol Ann Duffy

The Times Saturday Review, 1992

Thanks Bernie and Bob
you are fabulous fellow poets.

Again, the use of olde language truly sets this off. You've a flair for that.There is a timelessness in this. Could be today or a hundred years ago

Nicely done

Thank you Ken,
I have missed your poems this month
not so many,
hope you hit the groove soon.

best wishes for this year.

Did you know Bernie
the North Sea
at it's deepest
will not cover the top of St Paul's cathedral, London.