Mark, here is a poem which came to my mind after watching this clip...
THE FISHERMAN (W. B. Yeats)
Although I can see him still. The freckled man who goes To a grey place on a hill In grey Connemara clothes At dawn to cast his flies, It's long since I began To call up to the eyes This wise and simple man. All day I'd looked in the face What I had hoped 'twould be To write for my own race And the reality; The living men that I hate, The dead man that I loved, The craven man in his seat, The insolent unreproved, And no knave brought to book Who has won a drunken cheer, The witty man and his joke Aimed at the commonest ear, The clever man who cries The catch-cries of the clown, The beating down of the wise And great Art beaten down.
Maybe a twelvemonth since Suddenly I began, In scorn of this audience, Imagining a man, And his sun-freckled face, And grey Connemara cloth, Climbing up to a place Where stone is dark under froth, And the down-turn of his wrist When the flies drop in the stream; A man who does not exist, A man who is but a dream; And cried, 'Before I am old I shall have written him one poem maybe as cold And passionate as the dawn.'
This remind me when I was crazy about mountaineering and birding, I always carry a field note with me, for diary or just write/draw something special...although my writing is not good at all, it still serve me as real treasure : ) Maybe I should bring a field note and watercolor kit with my rod next time!
Mark I think you really should... My wife gave me a sketchbook for last birthday and some charcoal pencils...I haven't used them yet. Maybe we should both do it and compare the thoughts and images from the waters we fish...? I don't know!
Great footage Mark, thanks for posting!
ReplyDelete: ) indeed... James Prosek has high standard in shooting artsy film...
ReplyDeleteMark, here is a poem which came to my mind after watching this clip...
ReplyDeleteTHE FISHERMAN (W. B. Yeats)
Although I can see him still.
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped 'twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.
Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, 'Before I am old
I shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.'
That is wonderful! Thanks! Vlad.
ReplyDeleteThis remind me when I was crazy about mountaineering and birding, I always carry a field note with me, for diary or just write/draw something special...although my writing is not good at all, it still serve me as real treasure : )
Maybe I should bring a field note and watercolor kit with my rod next time!
Mark I think you really should... My wife gave me a sketchbook for last birthday and some charcoal pencils...I haven't used them yet. Maybe we should both do it and compare the thoughts and images from the waters we fish...? I don't know!
ReplyDeleteHa ha ha ha... GREAT IDEA!
ReplyDeleteVlad, This thread really make my day! (I been trouble shooting all day in the lab lately...@@)
We should have some matching post... I am excited now about my next trip - Fishing and Drawing on the riverside!!
LET'S DO IT! "riverside illustration!" (maybe you can give it better term... :P)
Mark, it is a great idea, LET'S DO IT!
ReplyDelete