DANIEL GUSTAFSSON has published volumes of poetry in both English and Swedish, most recently Fordings (Marble Poetry, 2020). New poems appear in Temenos Academy Review, Pennine Platform, in several anthologies by Black Bough Poetry, and in Sunken Island: An Anthology of British Poetry (Bournbrook Press, 2022). As an occasional scholar, with a PhD in Philosophy, Daniel has a special interest in William Blake and currently draws much inspiration from A. N. Whitehead. Daniel lives in York. Twitter: @PoetGustafsson
The Lure: A Prelude
| Waking as one, | my world and I, | ||
| roused from slumber, | the reeds shiver | ||
| in lapping light. | The lake’s astir, | ||
| tongue teasingly | tugging the shore | ||
| to coax me out: | calling always, | ||
| lure and likeness | of life within. | ||
| I’m soon vested: | sandwiches made, | ||
| the rods arranged | ready to go. | ||
| Eager angler, | I’m out the door. | ||
| Grass glistening, | globules threaded | ||
| on limber straws: | lines and sinkers. | ||
| A spider-spun, | spangled network, | ||
| its catch of dew | caught in the light. | ||
| The boat lies wedged, | banked and heavy | ||
| with last week’s rain. | Leaves infuse it, | ||
| and dead insects | dapple the brew. | ||
| Bent to my task, | I bail it out, | ||
| labour gladly, | lungs relishing | ||
| the tinctured air: | tang of iron | ||
| and scent of birch, | sweet yet bracing. | ||
| Lightened at last, | I launch myself, | ||
| push the boat out | through parting reeds | ||
| to wide-open | weltering surf. | ||
| The lake expands, | its long body | ||
| roiling in light, | rippling silver: | ||
| a shade-shifting, | shimmering form, | ||
| its dragon-scales | drawing me out. | ||
| An ageing craft’s | creaking oarlocks; | ||
| the wood weathered, | worn to a sheen | ||
| where other hands | have held their own; | ||
| planks though peeling | plunging anew. | ||
| Facing backwards, | I’m born forward | ||
| beyond myself: | surface yielding | ||
| new perspectives, | a narrow hull’s | ||
| widening wake. | World-conjuring, | ||
| the more meeting | the making eye | ||
| builds under me, | bowls me over, | ||
| and wraps me round. | I row gently, | ||
| my line trailing, | trawling the light | ||
| for pike and perch, | peace and wonder. | ||
| It hooked me once, | heart in my mouth, | ||
| breath of my breath, | this bright expanse. | ||
| Those far-reaching, | first adventures | ||
| out on my own, | the elements | ||
| drew me closer: | the driving wind’s | ||
| grandfatherly | grasp on my waist | ||
| keeping me true | through coarse furrows; | ||
| wood and water | weighing me up. | ||
| A featherweight, | fledgling pilot | ||
| growing my wings, | the grebe taught me. | ||
| That sleek diver | slipped dauntlessly | ||
| into darkness, | under currents, | ||
| to soar again: | a sun-crested | ||
| anointed one, | needling the deep’s | ||
| thick hinterlands, | threading skylines: | ||
| a journeyman | joiner of worlds. | ||
| The summer-long | susurrations | ||
| din distantly, | disembodied: | ||
| screeching bathers, | screens chattering, | ||
| growl of tyres | on gravel roads. | ||
| Always turning, | tacking eastwards | ||
| now westering, | the water’s course | ||
| flows where it feels. | Far from certain, | ||
| familiar shores, | I moved with it: | ||
| nearer something, | nameless as yet. | ||
| Wheels within wheels, | the whirling stuff | ||
| spins spiralling, | spooling outwards. | ||
| Rowing the boat | or being rowed, | ||
| I’m intimate | with ultimates: | ||
| pulse and pattern, | the pull onwards | ||
| out of mundane | into mystic | ||
| entanglements. | Taking it slow, | ||
| a two-handed | hold on the twin | ||
| strands of the world, | my strokes braiding | ||
| NOW and EVER, | I know my way. | ||
| Birch on the shore, | all bent with years | ||
| yet leaf-laden, | leaning over | ||
| the glimmer-glass. | Gliding along, | ||
| inching forward | with oars lifted, | ||
| a fleeting span | flexing its wings | ||
| holds a moment | the heron’s gaze: | ||
| protean calm, | a present tense | ||
| then loosening, | launching futures. | ||
| A boy again, | bending open | ||
| my can of worms: | cold to the touch, | ||
| fingers fumble | to fix metal | ||
| in squirming flesh; | skin finally | ||
| barbed and bursting, | bodies lowered | ||
| to sightlessness, | I sit and wait – | ||
| my hope ebbing | then high again | ||
| reading the signs, | ripples nibbling – | ||
| with bated breath. | The bobber goes | ||
| and I with it, | out of my seat, | ||
| a young victim | in yearning’s jaws, | ||
| wriggling rapture | reeling me in. | ||
| Hours of this, | hours of that, | ||
| basking simply | in being here. | ||
| The lithe lilies, | lotus-kindred, | ||
| climb from cloudy | to clearer skies: | ||
| floating candles | flame waterborne, | ||
| constellations | of calyxes. | ||
| Remaining yet | what youth made me, | ||
| loyal to worlds | of leaping streams, | ||
| of tarns brooding | bright and tarblack | ||
| on depths above, | I dub myself | ||
| lover of lakes: | these language-games | ||
| surfaces play, | sounding heaven. | ||
| Where mouthing waves | weave their music, | ||
| overlapping | in interlace, | ||
| the weft calling, | warp answering, | ||
| it’s antiphons | all the way down. | ||
| I cast around, | catching a few | ||
| damned slippery | dazzling moments. | ||
| Galled by others | that get away, | ||
| learn to take | what time lends me. | ||
| As gusts gather, | the golden plane | ||
| creased then cresting, | I cross for home. | ||
| Swill at my feet, | swirling remnants | ||
| of guts and blood, | the gill-filtered | ||
| lees of the lake. | Late suddenly, | ||
| this halcyon, | heart-opening | ||
| day of dawnings | dims to a close. | ||
| The un-ageing, | ever-flowing | ||
| re-arranger | revels in change: | ||
| a mottled sky’s | moving image | ||
| shoulders blessings | to shrug them off; | ||
| a hoard of hoards | harbours the lost, | ||
| bears our bruises | for beauty’s sake. | ||
| Altering still, | it’s always there: | ||
| first of figures, | fathering more, | ||
| mother of all | our metaphors. | ||
| A leaden sun | sinks in the lake. | ||
| Past perishing, | I pull with me | ||
| the reef-ravaged | wrecks of myself. | ||
| Now earth looms up, | aspens lining | ||
| the darkened shore: | deep presences | ||
| robed in silver, | in rapt repose | ||
| watching the sky | that watches them. | ||
| The moon making | its milky way | ||
| from shore to shore, | shedding comforts, | ||
| the blue hours | blacken at last. | ||
| Jetty glimmers | at journey’s end. | ||
| I moor the boat, | making it fast | ||
| loosely enough | to let it drift. | ||
| Close to home now, | I climb the slope | ||
| heaving my bags, | hung with buckets, | ||
| gear and tackle; | my gifts, my take: | ||
| lucky burden, | lifting my own | ||
| weight in wonder, | wanting nothing. | ||
| Now scattered lights | school overhead; | ||
| swooning treetops | swim among them. | ||
| Flaton the sheets, | I’m floating too. | ||
| Spent bodily, | buoyed in spirit, | ||
| my restless dream | rocks me to sleep. | ||
| This boundless night: | a net bursting | ||
| with precious catch, | a pregnant void | ||
| heavy with stars. | I’m still hauling, | ||
| drawing droplets | from dry valleys | ||
| and failing ponds, | fishing for pearls. | ||
| I know it’s here, | nursed in the deep, | ||
| that grit-cum-grace | growing brighter | ||
| with hidden strength. | The heart’s wellspring, | ||
| joy’s genesis, | rejuvenates, | ||
| daring me now | decades later | ||
| to re-affirm – | rich in salvage, | ||
| lapped by other | living waters – | ||
| the first poem’s | first utterance: | ||
| this yearning world’s | YES to its call. | ||
DANIEL GUSTAFSSON has published volumes of poetry in both English and Swedish, most recently Fordings (Marble Poetry, 2020). New poems appear in Temenos Academy Review, Pennine Platform, in several anthologies by Black Bough Poetry, and in Sunken Island: An Anthology of British Poetry (Bournbrook Press, 2022). As an occasional scholar, with a PhD in Philosophy, Daniel has a special interest in William Blake and currently draws much inspiration from A. N. Whitehead. Daniel lives in York. Twitter: @PoetGustafsson
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