Nocking by Jeff Gallagher

In taking position to draw the bow

the heels are seven to eight inches apart

with both feet firm on the ground

yet easy and springy, not rigid.

 

The apprentice archer presents himself

ready to follow instructions: sadly

he thinks of the shaft striking its target

and not the precision of its flight.

 

So we must now grip the bow string

at the same time grasping the arrow,

holding eyes and breath in union

with the hands. This is called nocking.

 

He has mastered the appropriate stance

like a child playing soldiers or cowboys:

but stranded on nocking, uncertainly

still he curses his clumsy fingers.

 

Crecy and Agincourt pass him by.

A boy’s head can safely carry an apple.

For he is still nocking, still puzzling

how to shoot his wild aim true.

 

He is still nocking. This process

is manipulating the bow string,

gripping firmly, but not so firm

as to make the fingers awkward. 

 

Where others fire a fine anger

of fletched and sharpened phrases,

he is still nocking, while no one sees

his well turned words fall short.

 

Yet he is still nocking, still working towards

that one release that will send a shaft

to prick the pompous, puncture pride,

pin down the elusive metaphor.

 

Like a boy who cannot catch a ball

or a stand up comic with a stammer,

he strives with his keen, straight aim  

and continues to fail better.

 

But if at his death he is nocking still

and has no words left in his quiver,

then lay aside his bow and arrow:

fetch the rifle, the hand grenade.


“Nocking is the art of stringing a bow. None of Penelope’s suitors could string Odysseus’ bow. Only Odysseus could do that. But it didn’t stop them trying. Maybe this one got rejected because I keep telling people I’m not going to give up sending them stuff. I’m going to keep on trying till I get it right. Then maybe I’ll get to kill off my rivals and show them who’s the daddy. Meanwhile I’ve tried to string that bow nine times, and failed.”

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There is no poetry in the sky by Jeff Gallagher

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i miss you every day (but you’re still alive) by Ole Jensen