Poetry from the As A... series, by Greg German
Kansas farm & rural themed poetry and personal essays.
All writing, poetry & essays in this website - Copyright © by Greg German, 2019
As A... Series Selections
As A Catfisherman I Sit On The Dull Edge
of a long time,
the design of a nap.
I think him onto the hook.
When he bites--it feels
the way a dog looks stretching
after a good sleep. I tell myself
a well-rooted stump
has taken the bait, and believe that
until convinced otherwise. I test
my nerve. And if it holds
and wants to pull my feelings
up stream, I bite down hard
on my heart--anticipate
what will happen if he gets
away. Now, I'll do what I
think best. And if I catch him,
I'll stare at him. I'll look
at the size of that thing. I won't
wonder if there is one bigger,
and I won't come back tomorrow.
Originally Published in Fresh Water Anthology, 2002
As A Trapper I Take Care Of Business
and search for a good stick,
the size of my wrist,
the length of my arm. Or longer.
Something a beaver has finished
and given back. Or a limb
from an old branch
not too long on the ground.
Something I can use
again when I reset this trap
along a steeper bank,
its wire drowning-slide
in deeper water. Something
solid I can bring down
between his pit-black eyes,
hard, and hold him under
until he's still as the leafless
trees waiting along the bank.
I stare as far as I can
upriver, and then downriver.
Water strings around my waders.
This is a heavy coon
and I claim to be no god.
Originally Published in Black Dirt, 1999, F/W, V2, #2
As A Duck Hunter I Crawl Between The Wires
and leave the fence
behind. Fog, wool batting
cross-stitched between rain
and snow, has quilted itself
over the pasture hills, heavy.
Each step inland delivers me
into the same December faded room.
No one thing knows that I am here.
Secretly, I peek above the dam ---
check the water for ducks. I forget
my hands are cold, my jeans
soaked to the knees; wings flare
and fold. Two mallards,
their green heads comfortable
in the water, float toward shore.
Burnt gunpowder, a metallic tasting smell,
is in the air. Ice bickers for space
in the mist. Almost nothing has changed.
Originally Published in Wolf Head Review, 1999, V. 5, # 1
As A Bass Fisherman I Stand Alone
along the edge of the pond
at the corner of evening
and night—my attention
caught, my momentum
stopped by the orange
of the day’s last dim
light. And the pull of one
nighthawk that dips
and skims, maneuvers
with air-smooth cadence
through shadows, toward home.
Cool spills across the pasture.
Cows and calves ignore me.
The final red-wing blackbird
settles through cattails
to its nest. Conflicts
congregate along shore.
No one thing matters more
than I am here. No one thing
cares. Darkness nudges
between the hills. Two bullfrogs
dual deep throated grudges,
divide the silence. Almost taken,
I cast my last hope up
and out, across the water.
Originally Published in Avocet, Spring, 2000