angling angler angled Poem, by crypticbard, at My poetic side

angling angler, angled—

You ask me what’s your angle,
as if the line between us were straight,
as if its cast were clean.

But I’ve seen how you stand at the bank,
how your wrist turns before the throw,
how the lure brightens only when someone watches.

There is no geometry here—
only that slow pull of intention
moving through water which never settles.

If I rise, it is not for the shine.
If I follow, it is not for the hook.
It is because something in the drift
answers something in same drift of you.

Call it angle if you must.
I call it the quiet moment
before the surface breaks.

Comments +

sorenbarrett September 12th, 2026 06:42
There is deep psychology in this metaphor where images become processes and in the transformation a personality is born. The fish never mentioned observes from below deep waters obscure to the fishermen above. The fellow fisher watches the manipulation not just in wrist but tongue and the shine of the mind as thoughts reflect sun beams reflecting angles. Another fave my friend.

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