Gone Fishing

“Gone Fishing”

By Joseph Hesch

I sat in frustration yesterday

and for too many yesterdays before that,

worried if the Joe who did

all those nice poems would again

warm the heart of the Joe

who was doing nothing but

warming this seat.

Bill Stafford never worried like that.

The old poet would stroll to his couch before dawn

and just cast his line into that dark stream

behind his eyes,

not caring if he reeled in a bullhead or a rainbow.

Bill was an angler of words

who knew enough to love the fishing

as much as the prize.

Not that he ever threw

any of those catches back

into the Stream of Subconsciousness

from where they came.

Why do I worry about the straightness of my elbow

when I cast my line,

or what type of tackle I’d use,

or whether the bait was just right?

Today I’ll just tie some string

to a safety pin and snug the other end of it

to a stick. I won’t worry if they’re biting

on worms or grubs or any bait at all. 

Whatever hits the hook will be fine with me.

And that’s what I just did.

How many of you, like I am, are too often blocked from creating because of paralysis by analysis?  The great American poet, William Stafford, addressed this in an essay in his book, "Writing the Australian Crawl." This poem is about how old Bill taught me to "just write." And that's a lesson I believe is "just right" for all writers.