TBT: The Institute for Bad Flyfish Poetry

One from the very early days of fly fishing on the web.

So how did this all get started? Blame it on an ex-riverkeeper in Colorado, a former wolverine owner named Chaz Clover. Once upon a time, long before internet haiku contests became commonplace, Chaz thought it would be nice if we had a Bad Flyfishing Haiku contest. We did, and it tapped a rich vein of bad verse. A lot of bad haiku got produced. Limericks weren’t far behind, because anywhere you get talented bad haiku artists you’ll get talented bad limerick writers as well. Now every time an exploitable topic comes up it is sure to draw a bad haiku or limerick. 

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One thought on “TBT: The Institute for Bad Flyfish Poetry

  1. Then there are Modern Variations on Old Classics.

    Here’s a Sea-Trout one I dreamt up in less time than I should have given to one of my all-time favourite poems, one I’ve known by heart since boyhood – The Song of Wandering Aengus by W.B. Yeats.

    First the Fake –

    I went out to the hazel wood,
    Because a fire was in my head,
    And de-tubed and rigged a wand by Sage,
    And knotted my hot new secret pattern to a fluorocarbon thread;
    And when white moths were on the wing,
    And moth-like stars were flickering out,
    I Double Spey Cast the fly into the Prime Week, Prime Beat stream
    And caught a simply mahoosive silver trout.

    When I had laid it on the floor
    I went to blow the fire a-flame,
    But something rustled on the floor,
    And someone called me by my name:
    You’d better put me back, buster
    Or take it from me you’re dead

    It had become a glimmering girl
    With apple blossom in her hair
    Who called me by my name and ran
    And faded through the brightening air.

    Though I am old with wandering
    Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
    I will find out where she has gone,
    And kiss her lips and take her hands;
    And walk among long dappled grass,
    And pluck till time and times are done,
    The silver apples of the moon,
    The golden apples of the sun.

    Either that, or clonk it.

    Second, the original, which I hope, both as Lovers as well as mere I Can Go for That Anglers, you will far prefer –

    I went out to the hazel wood,
    Because a fire was in my head,
    And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
    And hooked a berry to a thread;
    And when white moths were on the wing,
    And moth-like stars were flickering out,
    I dropped the berry in a stream
    And caught a little silver trout.

    When I had laid it on the floor
    I went to blow the fire a-flame,
    But something rustled on the floor,
    And someone called me by my name:
    It had become a glimmering girl
    With apple blossom in her hair
    Who called me by my name and ran
    And faded through the brightening air.

    Though I am old with wandering
    Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
    I will find out where she has gone,
    And kiss her lips and take her hands;
    And walk among long dappled grass,
    And pluck till time and times are done,
    The silver apples of the moon,
    The golden apples of the sun.

    Okay. Posted with minimal editing, so retires quickly, considers not coming back….

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