ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Friday, March 8, 1996 TAG: 9603080014
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: KAREN ADAMS STAFF WRITER
Writing poetry is a lot like fly fishing. They both require one to search out the likely places, be ready, stay alert and wait for something to rise to the surface.
John Engels - poet, fly fisherman, and writer-in-residence at Hollins College this semester - lives in such a state every day, whether he's fishing, writing or simply watching the world around him.
``You lay the fly out there and wait for the rise to come, but, like poetry, the process is what's important,'' he says.
Engels' ninth and latest collection of poetry, ``Big Water,'' contains 40 years' worth of poems about fishing and nature, life and death, and memories of his boyhood in Green Bay, Wis. Illustrated with delicate line drawings by Alan James Robinson, it has become a favorite among fishermen and, having sold close to 3,000 copies, is considered a best-seller for poetry.
The book has been reviewed in such publications as Fly Fishing Journal, Atlantic Salmon Journal and Gray's Sporting Journal.
``They think fishermen should buy it and read it,'' said Engels.
The 65-year-old writer has spent his life closely watching what he sees and feels in order to understand it all. He has been married for 40 years, raised five children, held numerous residencies, won many awards and traveled on fellowships to Yugoslavia, Ireland and Italy.
For and because of poetry, he has learned to pay attention. ``It changes the way you look at things,'' he says.
To illustrate, he describes a holly bush near the Hollins library and how the recent snow lay on the red berries. With poetry and fishing, the pleasure lies in the technique, the heightened awareness and being alert to ``something really big happening.'' He says, ``The quest is what it's all about.''
Since 1969 Engels has taught English at St. Michael's College in Winooski, Vt. He tells his students that poetry requires training and discipline, like playing the violin. It's not easy, he says, but the rewards are immeasurable.
When Engels talks, his voice is gentle and deliberate, and he measures his words before he speaks them. He sits with his hands folded in his lap. There is a pleasant, avuncular air about him - gray beard, spectacles, navy V-neck sweater, baggy khakis and white Green Bay Packers cap. His white house at Hollins seems to suit his nature: It's quiet, filled with neatly arranged books and flooded with silvery light.
Facing the windows is his writing table, over which is suspended a large hand-painted fish made of paper. Beside it are the trappings of his latest pursuit: salmon fly tying. A half-finished fly hangs on a wire, and next to it is a cabinet filled with bright, exotic feathers.
Since he was a teen-ager he has been tying trout flies, which look like insects, but about four years ago Engels began tying salmon flies, which look like...nothing else in the world. A Victorian featherwing salmon fly, he explains, can have as many as 40 or 50 feathers and can take days to complete.
``It's a tremendous feeling of accomplishment,'' he says.
The product of a Catholic education, Engels brings the Catholic's sense of mortality and mystery to his poetry. Images of the beautiful and miraculous - and the horrific - emerge from the most ordinary elements.
``I was brought up by a strong order of priests who were very much aware of the warring forces of life: good vs. evil, with the outcome uncertain.'' A deep reverence for life shines throughout his work as well.
The ``catch and release'' bumper sticker on the back of his blue pickup truck says something about Engels, who fishes mostly for trout. Like many fly fishermen, his joy comes from tying the fly, being on the stream, fooling the fish, catching the fish and letting it go.
``I stopped keeping fish a long time ago,'' he says. ``...I decided a while back that I wasn't ever going to kill anything that I couldn't replace. And a fish is such a marvelous, beautiful creature.''
His poetry often focuses on images of suffering, such as a bullhead choking on a hook, the bloody feathers of a road-killed flicker, the late-night crying of someone in Ljubljana, Yugoslavia.
In Engels' world, the membrane between life and death is very thin.
Thirty years ago the sudden death of his infant son, Philip, left a deep scar that shaped the poet's view of the world. He also lost his mother close to that time. He says he felt angry for years, and the sense of loss runs deep in his poems.
And yet, he says, in spite of all their trouble, human beings have capacities for hope and love that surpass everything.
``It seems incredible to me that in the face of the monstrous injustices of life, we can keep on hoping,'' he says.
Most often, it is the small, life-containing things that catch Engels' hopeful eye: a cardinal flashing across a yard, a chopped-down apple tree that keeps growing, a goldfinch on a stalk of timothy.
``It's clear to me that we have a capacity for fulfillment and salvation, and that the world is the manifestation of some energy that we - Christians and other religions - see as the life-giver,'' he says.
No longer a church-goer, Engels finds his faith in the rough order of nature.
``I think there's a divinity operable in nature,'' he says.
His is a sacramental vision, he says, a spiritual reality that comes from his careful observation of the world.
``I want my poems to have extension, I don't want them to sit inside themselves. I want them to parallel and embody another reality.'' As for his readers, he says, ``If I'm lucky, I can do this for someone else, too, and they will have a moment of recognition.''
As he sits in his light-washed room tying a scarlet feather to a salmon fly with the skill and patience of a jeweler, he embodies his own belief: ``The poet is one who puts things together."
...and the great trout coming
to the fly, breaking water, suspending themselves
over the rapids, an outburst, a levitation
of high-leaping rainbows, striped scarlet, striped
cherry-red, green-
gilled, brilliant
in the ripe, sun-smelling day!
- John Engels, from ``Big Water"
Hollins Literary Festival: John Engels will read from his poetry Saturday at the Hollins Literary Festival, which begins at 9:30 a.m. The free, day-long event also features readings by fiction writers Allen Wier and Lucy Ferriss; a panel discussion on poetry, led by John Engels, with Hollins faculty members Jeanne Larsen and Eric Trethewey; poetry and fiction prizes; and a reception to meet the authors. Call 362-6451.
LENGTH: Long : 125 lines ILLUSTRATION: PHOTO: 1. CINDY PINKSTON/Staff Hollins Collegeby CNBwriter-in-residence, poet John Engels.< color 2. ``The poet is one
who puts things together": Engels ties a fly with the same skill
and patience he applies to composing verse. color
3. CINDY PINKSTON/Staff John Engels brushes out a feather as he
completes a salmon fly.