Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE MIRACULOUS CATCH, by PAUL FORT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MIRACULOUS CATCH, by                    
First Line: The tidings seemed so heaven-sent, - an uncle dead so a propos
Last Line: And about their floats the little fish waltzed as sweetly as heart could wish.
Subject(s): Courts & Courtiers; Death; Royal Court Life; Royalty; Kings; Queens; Dead, The


The tidings seemed so Heaven-sent, -- an uncle dead so a propos -- my dear
little Louis Eleventh was fain to properly express his glee and gain additional
content with a modest fete, but intimately, in pleasant society.
Master Tristan, all imagination, counseled a picnic in the plain, and as he
blinked with his sly red eyes, "I consent," said the King. "'Tis good advice.
You're an old villain, though, just the same."

Next day, 'neath skies of celestial blue, gay and content, my sweet little King,
Louis Eleventh, with Tristan L'Ermite and their fair, frail friends, Simonne of
the Chains and Perrette of the Treasure, together came to fish for the gudgeon
that swim in the Seine, at the reedy foot of the Tower of Nesle.

Master Oliver, still a virgin, stands sentry near the river's margin. He strides
along his tedious beat, crushing the grass with careless feet. Agape in
boredom's black abyss no consolation can he find. The fall of Buridan it is that
occupies his mind.

Simonne of the Chains, soul and heart fast bound to the heart and soul of her
well-loved King, like a dainty water-lily bent above an ancient nenuphar, on her
lover's threadbare shoulder leant her bosom's snows, her brow of milk, her
little nose of swan-white silk; and, now and then, the gracious King, Louis of
France, with a tender look, would bid his lovely handmaid bring a squirming
maggot to bait his hook. Then 'twas with such a melting charm that into a small,
green box she poured one, 'twas with such a sweet and profound appeal that she
gave the creature, all quivering, to that reclining King, her adored one, that
Louis the impulse no more restrains but kisses an ear (not the ear of the maggot
but that of Simonne of the Chains), amorously whispering into its hollow, meekly
bent, "You shall be present when I call the Three Estates to Parliament."

Perrette of the Treasure (formerly King Louis' light-o'-love, your pardon! --
now bequeathed, a charming guerdon, to Tristan by royal clemency) was plump and
fresh as a rambler rose, cheeks like a peach, ample bosom bare, where, in
duplicate glows the rising sun, each breast an orb, but a pointed one, starred
with grains of beauty ambulant (fleas I would say), whereon the gaunt Tristan
from underneath his hood full often lets his glances brood. And when good
Tristan, his line drawn taut, a fresher maggot would fain acquire, 'twas with a
manner so languor-fraught the plump dame granted this slight desire, that, quite
transported with Cupid's blisses, he dropped his line her side to gain! The
line, released, went flic, flac, floc, and sank beneath the Seine, while
Perrette received on her neck, all warm, two or three hearty headsman's kisses.

Master Oliver, still a virgin, stands sentry near the river's margin. He strides
along his tedious beat, crushing the grass with careless feet. Agape in
boredom's black abyss no consolation can he find. The fall of Buridan it is that
occupies his mind.

He saw with inattentive eyes, like a flower beside the river's brim, a certain
Master Villon skim the reeds in chase of dragon-flies. From eyes ablaze with
anarchy a side-long glance he sometimes sends towards the place where those
boon-companions ply the angler's art with their gentle friends. Master Oliver,
still a virgin, having other fish to fry, that advent scarcely heeds. Vaguely he
saw Master Villon disrobe among the reeds, but merely murmured in slumbrous
tone, like one who speaks in dreams, "That naked gentleman is not unknown to me,
it seems."

And Tristan L'Ermite landed naught. And Louis Eleventh landed naught. The
maggots spun in vain, in vain. . . . And Master Francois Villon, now swimming in
mid-Seine, as he floated, whispered to his brother fish, "Liberty forever! Don't
let yourselves be caught!"

"Gossip," said Tristan, "if you are good, and sage withal, I here engage to give
you a pass, wherewith to break the cordon of the Scottish guard when I hang and
when I decapitate." Quoth Perrette of the Treasure, "A neat reward." "And,"
continued Tristan, in merry vein, "if your heart does not bid you the fatal view
shun, some fine Spring morning you shall see the rapid and joyous execution of
the virgin Oliver le Dain." "I'll be there, I'll be there," responded Perrette,
clapping her hands with glee.

-- "Peace!" cried the King, "or this turbot I miss."

-- "A turbot, seigneur, is a fish of the sea," . . . timidly ventured the tender
Simonne. "With my mother I've sold full many a one in the market-place of Saint-
Honore in the time of my virginity." -- "A fish of the sea, eh? Then that was
why I missed him!" the monarch made reply, not disconcerted in the least!

"Days that are o'er will return no more," hummed Perrette, on her hose intent.
"Yes, youth has only a single time," Tristan intoned in hearty assent. Thereat
the timid, the tender Simonne cooed to an air that is little known, "'Twas
twenty years ago my mother died." It needed only that. Tristan dissolved in
tears. While the King as he fished the wind chanted stentorianly, "No, no, my
friends, I do not wish a thing of naught to be! . . ."

And Tristan L'Ermite landed naught. And Louis Eleventh landed naught. In vain
the tempting maggot spins. The aesthetic gudgeons loud applaud, clapping their
frantic fins. Applaud no doubt, is figurative but who knows what fantastic dream
is truth in the depths where fishes live at the bottom of the stream?

At the reedy foot of the Tower of Nesle. those cronies good, headsman and King,
in chorus sing like birds of the wood. And about their floats the little fish
waltz as sweetly as heart could wish.

Master Oliver, still a virgin, stands sentry near the river's margin.

Then suddenly Perrette smothered a laugh in her skirt. My sweet little Louis
Eleventh, feeling his line drawn taut and heaving it up with ardour, a king-
fisher had caught. "A wager," Tristan said. Simonne, "A winged gudgeon," cried.
And Master Oliver halted dead in the middle of his stride.

"On my word, the judgment was too empiric," mused Villon, swimming beneath the
stream. "To fish for a gudgeon and catch a bird. . . . In the bourgeois soul of
that curmudgeon mean, somewhere survives the germ of a lyric!"

And about their floats the little fish waltzed as sweetly as heart could wish.





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