John Gimblett: Two Poems
A Storm | Hwyl

A Storm

I revealed in me pockets of
previous substance, watched what was
hidden within become open, conjunct.

And merged, tripped fitfully, in a
light sleep, with the sand-scuffling
mumbles of surf re-arranging

pebbles, soft rockets of ocean.

At a station, a railway in Gujarat,
leant on a ballustrade stone grey,
flashed with an ornamental wondering

of dusk. Stood at the end of a warm
day, fussing with bent ideas of
unworkable plans, hands flat on the

railing.

And someone, a man, stood beside me,
began worshipping the sun, let water he'd
spun from a bottle drip through his palms

as libation to sunset.

I watch this dribbling of liquid tinged
with a god's eye orange every day
in imaginings; daydreams of ochre

and other rays, mild thoughts melting me
to substance.

And six, eight egrets slow as a new moon
burning turn on a grey cloud, fold in a
flash of hands, tumble, like sand under surf.

I appoint my day as this worrisome, prat-
falling minder; it pricks me, succombs to
all manner of unkindly kicks, ticks time

like it's ended and ended and ended.

Everything I apply to ideas I slash
in tired frenzy; atoms buzz with a dull
tickle yet fumble like bears, dash

hopes.

And what skin accompanies me,
makes an old coat older, trails me.
Puts me to trial: I stood at a full moon

in autumn once, while horns played
above me. The new moon now brings
a fierce storm; I'll never be peaceful.

Hwyl

I believe that I am
banded by a dusk stripe,
magnificent, magnetic, pulling me—
every quark of me—eastwards.

It lies, the iron Kundalini,
coiled about me like a reminding
strip of bell. Circumstances dictate

I must ignore the note as it
sounds, must remain unsure-
footed to Wales. But still, in its
ignorance, it draws me, forcefully.

This stripe, almost ochre when
seen by a level spear of Indian summer
sunlight, has wishes and needs;
I have bowed low before gold

statues, walked butter-waxed floors
to expose the skin beneath
skin. On waking, often I fight
for any breath, so constricting

is this metal. And when, knowing
I am returning to the place
which summons me, I dream in
a beautiful colour, as far from

iron as are birds.

Poet's Biography:

Born in 1960, in Wales, UK, Gimblett began writing poetry at 15. He has travelled extensively, especially in Asia and S.E.Asia, and published poetry, fiction, and essays/reviews widely. His publications include Mister John (Stride), Shadows & Fireflies (with Rupert Loydell, Stride), Water (Making Waves), Spokes of the Wheel (Eigth Apparition), and Selected Poems (2001, Torona Press).