JON BRODERICK lives on the Oregon coast and is the guy who made the first phone calls that started the FisherPoets Gathering. He seined in Kodiak, then drifted in southeast Alaska and now his family setnets on the Nushagak in Bristol Bay. He has read, among other places, at Kodiak Out Loud, at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada, at Writers on the Edge in Newport, Oregon, at the Seattle Folklife Festival, at Sea Stories at Fort Flagler, Washington, in Curt Olson’s cabin at Nushagak Point, Alaska and, of course, at the FisherPoets Gathering in Astoria, Oregon. He and Jay Speakman played behind Clem Starck on Clem’s “Looking for Parts” cd. and have recorded two cds of original fisherpoetsongs “Pitched Off and Heading Home” and “All Wore Out.”
VIDEO
Jon Broderick and Jay Speakman perform "Everybody's Gonna Miss Fish Sometime."
Video courtesy of Brad Wartman, 2013
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Video courtesy of Brad Wartman, 2013
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AUDIO
WRITINGS
Mark Mizell Goes Clamming
When the tide falls low on the Oregon coast
Mark Mizell, who likes clams most,
grabs a shovel, hip boots and pail
and heads due west through the dunes on a trail
that leads to the ocean Pacific
where, shovel in hand, across acres of sand
he pounds that apparently barren land
searching its surface for clams
which, when they dig, leave a dimple this big
and Mark catches one if he can dig faster.
He drops to his knees, gives that clam a tight squeeze
and mutters, “I got you, you bastard”
as a wave fills his boots with salt-water.
But he won’t let go like he ought to.
He’s got a clam by the neck.
And what usually happens as the water recedes
is the razor clam yields to Mark Mizell’s squeeze.
And though he’s wet and he’s sandy beyond both his sleeves
Mark banks it and resumes his beach pounding.
Only this time the clam, it keeps sounding.
And Mark gives a quick thought to drowning.
He’s chased this clam clear to his armpit.
Then another wave rolls in from the west,
dousing him deep, to the hairs on his chest.
Mark closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
What’s that he feels at his fingers?
No longer resistance, it’s more like insistence,
a yard deep where sensation just lingers.
It’s a queer one. He’d better let go.
Well, he’d like to let go and have back his hand
but the razor clam’s pinned his ear hard to the sand.
And in between waves that drape him in kelp
Mark catches his breath and he tries to cry “Help!”
But sometimes the clam’s going to win.
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Poetry in Motion
Some morning just past sunrise when the skiffs are anchored out
and you’ve trudged back to the cabins through mud that’s just about
knee-deep, and you’ve peeled off your chest waders, and you’ve pulled off your hip boots
and you think you’ll sleep ‘til midnight, then Ole passes, pooped.
He’s walking like a zombie in his muddied, gurried clothes.
“Pancakes in ten minutes,” he says. Then in his shack he goes.
And when you show up shortly in your long-john poly-pro
Ole’s got the batter on and he’s making up weak joe
like they like it in Montana with their buckskins golden brown.
He throws you a few on a paper plate and he tells you to sit down.
“Get some fish last night?” he asks.
“We did all right. And you?”
“Oh, that net just boiled when we set out. We got quite a few.”
And so you relive another opener before you go to sleep
and when you’ve finished salmon, talk sometimes turns to sheep
‘cause Ole, he’s a shearer in the winter down below.
And as I do the dishes I like it when he’ll show
me how they do it in Montana two hundred times a day.
“Poetry in motion,” that’s what he’ll always say.
“Poetry in motion.” And he holds his hands just so
and he crouches in the kitchen and he has another go
at another invisible sheep. I’ve seen him shear a hundred.
And I’ve watched imaginary wool fall easy and I’ve wondered
how it looks just like that bow-wake that peels off of his boat
when he’s packing several thousand pounds and the skiff will barely float.
His hands, as big as flounders, move as smooth as salmon swim
and he lays that imaginary fleece before me all smooth and tight and trim.
That’s poetry in motion. Like Marco mending net. Like picking fish at sunrise
and sometimes I regret that I’ve never seen a real sheep ever shorn by Ole’s hand
though I’ve seen him start an outboard so I think I understand.
‘Cause Ole starts his outboard by swearing at it first,
sort of sweet and gentle but presently it’s worse.
He primes her twice and yanks her once
but she yanks him right back,
So he lets go the starter cord and the next time it’s all slack
and he barks his shin on the transom.
Then the recoil won’t rewind
so he yanks off the cowling and he throws it back behind
the buoys and the anchors and he helps the cord back in.
The spring’ll bite his finger, then he’ll pull that chord again
and again and again. But she won’t start just yet.
Ole just keeps pulling, his brow beads up with sweat.
Then he mutters something vulgar, maybe fiddles with the choke.
He checks the gas line, shakes the can and wonders what he’s broke.
“Poetry in motion, O…” I shuffle off to sleep.
When Ole starts his outboard I’m sure glad I’m not a sheep.
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Dark Eyes at the Cannery
By the ice chute,
In her hip boots,
Working swing shift,
Driving fork lift,
Her shoulders bare
Beneath her raven hair
She’s the girl with dark eyes at the cannery.
Her red bandana,
I think I can
Smell her perfume
In the egg room.
I love the way she walks
Down those rain swept docks,
She’s the girl with dark eyes at the cannery.
She was standing
On the landing
As we cast off
For the Shelikoff.
Did she smile at me
As we went to sea?
She’s the girl with dark eyes at the cannery.
When we got back
To put up home pack,
She donned rain gear
Then she stood near,
On the sliming line
Her gloved hand touched mine.
She’s the girl with dark eyes at the cannery.