Fly Fishing With The Dark Poet

Smells of Turkish pipe tobacco and old leather fill my mind when I think back to the quiet moments when my Grandfather would read either “ The Conqueror Worm “ or Edgar Allan Poe’s classic “ Israfel “.... Fire sparks flying , wind howling while my best friend Gramps tied endless examples of his favorite flies, sipped single malt scotch... I felt special being allowed into his fly fishing tying study and even as a little kid was proud to be asked! During one of these extended blissful evenings he asked me, “ Danny boy did I ever tell you the tale of your Great Grand Father Col. Black Jack Fallon and the poor Poet Edgar Allan Poe?

“It was the Poet’s 21st Birthday celebrated at a special gathering hosted by our illustrious ancestor in 1828. Poe was born in 1809 died in 1849 poor as a church mouse they say. He was dressed like a pauper died under mysterious circumstance.... His last words were, “ Lord help my poor soul!”. Now I’m getting way a head of this tale Danny California, hand me that fine Marabou feather, no the black one. “

” As I recall old poor poet Poe as my old man used to refer to him had just bought a beat up old handmade red manzanita fly rod. He was excited to maybe start catching his supper instead of going with out because of his general poverty struck condition which he could not seem to shake. He tried getting a literary magazine started called Stylus but could not raise the revenue. He did publish poems and was becoming known young poet. Only problem was the age old problem all young poets run into, poverty. Raise your nose Danny San Francisco and smell, smell that musty poor scarce old odor boy? That is another poor poets soul going up in smoke as it pass’s through the pearly gates and St. Peter queries him, “So Mr. Poet, did you write any important poems that changed peoples lives for the better?”

“ Gramps were they out on some river or stream when this alleged cornversation, I mean conversation supposedly took place Sir?’” “ You questioning your dear old Grand Pappy’s Irish understanding of the naked truth there Danny Boy? Good thing we been teaching you how to Box with that mouth of your’s your gonna need a fast good right upper cut to start with.” “ No I ain’t questioning your verisimilitude Gramps! “ ” What the hell was that word you just used? Say that again slowly and spell it college boy!” “ Ok get back to the story, so they weren’t out on some smoky perfect chalk stream throwing dry flies like Brad Pitt when he was letting that river run through him?’ They were in upstate New York on a creek near a little hamlet called Hamburg. Brook Trout were abundant and rising to tiny size 22 Mosquito’s tied neat and pretty with just enough black and white to really drive the Brookies wild. In fact they wrote a poem together about that long quite morning catching glistening golden Brookies and reciting Shakespear.” “ Your saying they wrote a poem together, your telling me I have a relative who hung out with, fly fished, and wrote poetry with Edgar Allan Poe, man I got another obtuse, bizarre doctoral dissertation Gramps, outstanding....” “ I’m afraid once again Mr. College boy you underestimated gramps! They also created and tied a special fly named “ Poe’s Recluse Spider “ a long hackled spider like pattern which I will tie for your edification right now.” “ Copacetic Gramps that’s right and I ‘m sure you recall in absolute high literary articulation every historic fly fishy word right?”

“ My my, my worthless son your worthless father never would have even questioned this rather astonishing high historical fly fishy rant.... But, what we have here is a perfect case of what Sherlock Holmes had he lived in this era would call Genetic-Generation-Skippage or G.G.S. Syndrome Bright Boy...... Yes as poor still young, but all ready well known poet Poe whined into your ancestors sympathetic ear something like this transpired,” Thanks so much Col. Fallon , I know I’m washing out of West Point after all the trouble my family went to get the appointment, I go and mess up. Guess poor boy poets ain’t really cut for high official military type thinking. Hell I barely can stop watching birds fly and flowers bloom and pretty woman even though I’m married and such. You know I been trying every legit literary avenue available from that failed magazine Stylus to several other journals. Did make one magazine work, increased circulation 200 percent! Didn’t matter just like a fly in sticky spider web I lost the ball just before the goal line. My life has been a study in Spiderfication by way of spiderization and constant spidersplendor mixed in for good measure.....”

“ I like that Spider-Scape your working on Edger, how about you and me writing a spiderific type poem maybe little fly fishy thrown in, want to young poet, lets try shall we?”

“ I think that is a spiderific suggestion sir, perhaps we should weave pardon the pun a new spider speak and while we do that I’ll try and invent a new spider dry fly pattern right here while we compose very spiderfiscous sonnets steeped in web like spiderverity! Yes that’s its heaping, dripping amounts of fly fishy spiderverity...

Spiderflycation

Weightless silent movement in dark musty places the Sun only dreams. Spiderific moments of pure glee as rising Brook Trout gently slurp wiggling long legs. Dancing spider spirals in endless arabesques, Spiderflying hungry fish mesmerized by the spider splendor performed with great dainty danggling spiderfication...

Only fairies and demons can follow trails left by spinning spideriferous spidererections fooling helpless humans and trout. Wiggling dancing spiny legs each controlled by its own hand of fate.... Spiderflycation spins its silent web before entering the fishs belly....

Poe’s Recluse Spider