Reading Task 1: The Fishing Pole of the Drowned Man
Read the poem The Fishing Pole of the Drowned Man by Raymond Carver (who also wrote many short stories):
The Fishing Pole of the Drowned Man
I didn’t want to use it at first.
Then I thought, no, it would
give up secrets and bring me luck —
that’s what I needed then.
Besides, he’d left it behind for me
to use when he went swimming that time.
Shortly afterwards, I met two women.
One of them loved opera and the other
was a drunk who’d done time
in jail. I took up with one
and began to drink and fight a lot.
The way this woman could sing and carry on!
We went straight to the bottom.
Analysis
Events in “The Fishing Pole of the Drowned Man”
- Discovery of the old fishing rod
- The narrator initially hesitates but decides to use a fishing rod that belonged to a man who drowned.
- Belief in its power
- He hopes the rod will reveal secrets or bring him luck.
- Memory of the drowned man
- The rod was left by the man shortly before he drowned (“when he went swimming that time”).
- Meeting two women
- After taking up the rod, he encounters two women: one an opera lover, the other an ex-convict.
- Choosing a relationship
- He becomes involved with one of the women, leading to drinking and fighting.
- Downward spiral
- His life worsens (“We went straight to the bottom.”)
Summary:
This is a short, cautionary arc: from hopeful curiosity to self-destructive behaviour, spurred by the lure of the drowned man’s rod. It’s a story of unintended consequences and internal reckoning.
Who is this person?
A Rough-Edged, Honest Everyman
1. Reflective but Unsentimental
- The narrator reflects on events with a raw clarity. He doesn’t romanticize the past but presents it plainly, almost wearily.
- He says things like “We went straight to the bottom” without melodrama, suggesting he’s used to loss or disappointment.
2. Working-Class, Possibly Recovering
- The mention of drinking, bad relationships, and rough life decisions implies he’s either lived a hard life or come from one.
- There’s an undercurrent of blue-collar realism: people who fish, people who’ve done time, and people clinging to luck.
3. Searching but Cynical
- Taking the drowned man’s fishing pole could symbolize a quiet belief in superstition or fate, but his life quickly derails—again.
- The narrator seems to want connection, meaning, or renewal—but finds only old patterns repeating.
4. Blunt and World-Weary
- The voice is conversational, like someone talking across a bar table late at night.
- This person doesn’t use poetic flourish—they speak in experience, scars, and self-deprecating humour.
What Kind of Person Is This?
- Someone who’s made mistakes and knows it.
- Someone with hope still simmering under a tough shell.
- A drifter of sorts—both physically and emotionally—who keeps returning to the same questions.
- Possibly middle-aged or older, recalling a past marked by regret, resigned acceptance, and occasional beauty.
Deeper Analysis: “The Fishing Pole of the Drowned Man”
(by Raymond Carver)
- Summary of Events:
- The narrator recounts a fishing trip where they discover a fishing pole once owned by a drowned man.
- They take the pole home—perhaps impulsively or sentimentally.
- Afterward, life spirals downward: drinking, arguments, possible violence, and emotional breakdowns.
- The story ends not with resolution but with quiet exhaustion—emotional and spiritual.
2. Voice and Character:
The speaker is an emotionally restrained, reflective, working-class man—grappling with memory, masculinity, and mortality. His voice is blunt and honest, tinged with regret but not pity.
He is a witness to his own damage.
He doesn’t speak to heal wounds, but to name them. And yet, in naming them, he allows us to feel.
Connecting to My Creative Practice
I’ve already started creating deeply emotional and symbolic work, such as my story about the bird and the koi fish. Similarly, like Carver’s poem, I work with metaphor, silence, and symbolism to express complex human emotions.
My Odyssey
My Odyssey and creative journey, using my experience as a parallel universe resonating with Homer’s work, working on this poetry exercise, gave birth to the following pieces of work.
The Penelope (in Me).
I walked through tempests with no stars to chart,
Each shore a question, every bed a test.
The gods I blamed were figments of my heart,
And still I sailed, unrested, yet obsessed.
The suitors feasted on my thoughts each night,
Disguised as doubt, desire, or past regret.
But I returned with salt still in my sight,
And found no throne—just silence, and a threat.
A mirror waited where her face should be.
No veil, no voice, just breath that matched my own.
I saw not her, but me, unravelled free,
A soul once lost, now claimed and overgrown.
To love yourself is not to be alone—
But to come home, and know you’ve always known.
Reflection on the Challenge (Writing Diary Entry)
Writing The Penelope (in Me) in just 14 lines was like, to use my textile background, threading an entire myth through the eye of a needle.
One of the main challenges was condensing vast emotional and mythological meaning into a sonnet-like structure without flattening the complexity. Each line had to carry weight: character, setting, conflict, and resolution, all in miniature.
Another challenge was the voice. The poem needed to be introspective without sounding self-pitying, elevated without being distant. It had to reflect emotional truth, but also poetic discipline. And finally, the poem walks a fine line between symbol and clarity: I had to trust that the reader would feel the myth beneath the modern experience without being over-explained.
What I learned is that limitations can create focus. Fourteen lines are not a constraint: they are a container. And sometimes, the soul is loudest when it speaks in its quietest form.
Aeolus and Nausicaä
I met Aeolus one night in China.
He wasn’t holding the sack of God’s breath,
Nor did he present himself as the keeper of the winds.
He was holding a drink and wearing a big smile.
I asked him where he was coming from.
He passed the drink and said:
“Parthenope.”
Going forward, many moons ahead,
I realised there was a bag of all the winds,
Stitched with unfinished sentences—
Questions full of “what ifs” and “why nots.”
Answers I had to give,
To be able to breathe back again,
To find my pace and purpose.
He made me realise a lot about my destination,
But he also made my journey a breath of fresh air.
His bag of winds blew my sails.
And off I went.
Waves of memory and regret, crashing.
Old routines clung to my skin like salt.
But then came the wreck. The rupture.
And I was cast ashore—breathless, naked,
Half man, half ruin.
And that’s when I saw her.
Nausicaä.
No palace. No royal entourage.
Just a gaze, and a spiritual caress—
As we say in Greek, a hadi (gentle touch)—
That made me remember:
I was not wandering,
I was wounded.
She didn’t ask for my name.
She offered presence.
Gentle as the seafoam,
Strong as the pull of the tide.
She didn’t save me.
She saw me—saw through me!
And in that quiet recognition,
I felt human again.
Just a man, naked,
Standing on a strange shore,
With wind behind him,
And grace before him.
And the echo of Parthenope,
Somewhere far, still singing…
Commentary on “Aeolus and Nausicaä” and “Penelope (in Me)”
These poems are more than just literary exercises — they are emotional documents. They came from conversations, memories, heartache, moments of beauty and confusion. Each line is tied to something lived and felt, not imagined. They’re how I try to make sense of the contradictions inside me: the longing, the tenderness, the chaos, and the stillness I’m chasing.
Both of these poems emerged naturally, not from the need to write poetry, but from the need to survive emotionally. They’re milestones in what I can only describe as a personal odyssey, both literal and spiritual. I didn’t set out to write about mythology. Myth came to me, probably because it’s in my bones, part of my upbringing, and it’s the only language big enough to hold what I’m going through.
“Aeolus and Nausicaä” was the first turning point. The idea began when I was in the midst of change, uncertain, storm-tossed, and torn between the pain of home and the mystery of what lay ahead. Aeolus, the bringer of winds, stood for that chaos: the push and pull of decisions, emotions, departures. Nausicaä, in contrast, became the symbol of unexpected grace — the person (or moment) that appears when you’re nearly drowned by it all. Someone who sees you as a castaway but offers kindness without question. That poem became a dialogue between turmoil and tenderness, between being lost and being momentarily found.
“Penelope in Me” came later, after the storm, when I started asking what I was really searching for. It’s easy to think you’re chasing someone else: a woman, a place, a future. However, the truth is that I was always trying to return to myself. Penelope, in this version, isn’t a woman waiting in a palace weaving a cloth. She’s my soul. The part of me I lost somewhere between sacrifice, obligation, and heartbreak. The moment of revelation: opening the palace doors and seeing myself reflected was powerful. It meant the journey was never just about finding core values, but about reclaiming the part of me that still believes in them.
Both poems reflect what I’m navigating: exile, longing, connection, and return. And both were born not from stillness, but from movement, emotional storms, longings I couldn’t control, and the need to find meaning in the chaos. Art became the raft, the veil, the language that helped me keep afloat.
These poems aren’t endings. They’re markers. And I’ll return to them, maybe reshape them, but right now they are honest, raw pieces of the road I’m still walking.
Reflective Commentary – Skillshub
Before this short course I treated “voice” as decoration – a tone I sprinkled over ideas. Skills hub forced me to recognise it as the engine of the poem: the source of attitude, pace, authority and emotional temperature. Moving from narrative monologue to stripped-back lyric, I learned how a shift in register can tilt meaning even when the imagery stays the same. The practical exercises (reading a draft aloud, then rewriting it solely by ear) were revelatory: I heard where my syntax sagged, where a lazy abstraction dulled the pulse, where an unintended rhyme pulled focus.
Work I’m pleased with
Two pieces feel alive enough to keep: “Aeolus and Nausicaä ” and “Penelope in Me” (my Odyssean epilogue). In the former, I let a quiet, romantic/nostalgic voice speak; in the latter, I tried a measured, reflective baritone. Discovering that I can occupy more than one vocal mask opens new formal possibilities.
Next steps
Both poems still need tightening – fewer adjectives, sharper line-breaks – but I sense their cores are solid. I’d like to braid them into a larger concept as memoirs of places and people.
Transferable value
Voice isn’t confined to poetry. In critical essays, exhibition notes and even email pitches, a conscious voice can invite or shut out a reader. The ear-training from this module will help me hear flat academic phrasing before it hits the page.
Broader themes
My creative practice often circles exile, myth and self-recognition. Those subjects demand a voice that can move between intimacy and mythic distance. Skillshub showed me concrete techniques (selective contraction, strategic enjambment, deliberate code-switching) for achieving that modulation.
Big takeaway
Voice is not seasoning; it’s the spine. If the voice rings true, a poem can carry imperfect imagery. Without it, even flawless metaphor collapses. Holding that insight will shape every draft I write from here on.
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