Three Poems – John Gimblett

Crow

 

I am Crow;

greater than angel,

magnificent as rainbow;

the rain.

 

 

Watch me shadow

grey landscape, prick

cornfield with winged

knife black, Cain

slaying Abel, the

precursor of holocaust.

 

 

Become me blackness,

death and the leaden

minstrel of sadness;

my wings tip the blood

beak of poppies; I

rearrange.

 

 

You must change; your

sleep is the pitted

blanket of nightfall.

Take the trickster, the

song-singer, forward:

 

 

life spent stepping backwards

is god’s recreation of

the devil’s song. A

note hurries seaward,

sky-toward.

 

 

I am Crow; an

ignominious flower.

Move, and moving

forwards, leave the

shadows on the

speckled breast.

Blackness is the

spider, fast, paring

the love of us. Flee.

Move to the crest

of the thing;

hurry lovewards. See.

 

 

 

 

Crow Flies

 

Where Crow flies I

dream, where

Crow soars I

stumble.

 

 

It’s delineated in the

creaking flap of feather and

face; our souls, carried

along strips of muted sun

strike a stiff scorched earth and

hide, forever, in it.

 

 

Where Crow flies I

fly; trickling in the hollow

bones of the bird is a

lifeblood of light, vexatious

shadows scoring the thing.

 

 

In two lines etched acid

flows; if we are substance

rather than air, we might

anoint the sign that’s life.

 

 

In the Crow’s touch I

touch. You, damson with a

speckled mat of sunset, rest

beneath my hooked arm. Maybe

 

 

with a kiss I could end this

troubled flight; marry

shadow to sunlight, substance

to significance.

 

 

Educate Crow: listen, this is the verb

To Love.

 

 

 

 

In Crow’s Flight

 

                                    Do not torment me… I’ll bring my

                                                wood home faster – The Tempest

 

 

 

In Crow’s flight Crow

touches air: its

breath gentle as shadow.

 

 

In Crow’s flight Crow

touches snow: tickling

Crow’s face, like angels’ hair.

 

 

In Crow’s flight Crow

touches rain: like a

gentle touching of lips, it’s

 

 

electric.

 

 

In Crow’s flight Crow

touches crow: against her,

he feels happy; is touched.

 

 

In Crow’s flight Crow

touches sun: beaming, sun

warms his chill feathers.

 

 

Crow is alive!

 

 

 

 

 

 

John Gimblett is a widely published poet. His last book was ‘Monkey; Selected India Poems’, publ. Cinnamon Press. He has also appeared in books, Magazines and Journals such as Poetry Wales, Anglo Welsh Review, New Welsh Review, Planet and others. He has read at the Hay Literature Festival, BBC Radio Wales and other stations.

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