Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Yet another evening with Maud
among intimate remains of books and furniture.
But that debate that was his life
won’t quieten in him. His hands wander
and his voice swerves up to falsetto:
They twisted everything I said!

The Swedish people jostling in his room
since he started being a national monument
examine his scattered debating opponents
through his throbbing senser
they are only false conclusions and dishonesty
obtrusive as tobacco smoke.

Of the man born to be a Montesquien
only a fraction gets through.
Like forcing oneself through a key-hole.

But his hands wander, worrying.
Seems as If his contempt for the others
fed the dizzying misunderstandings.
The one takes part in the other’s thoughts.

He observes the infernal quarrelling
with round eyes pale as water:
Why is the seeker always naive?
Still lets himself dream for a while
of round cornerless souls
in a conversation cool as science.

From different sides he looks different.
To some he is a lulling gusty wind
which has been in every compass-quarter
condensed here and there to blood and papillae
a rage that breathes from pro to contra.
Others see an old -fashioned dean
with flying white locks
and stale faith
but accustomed to tussling with the devil
and ready to confess the whole world,

Expanding empty surfaces in his mumbling.
To one only is he what he wants to be.
Her security is close to a mother’s.
Weightlessly heavy, leaning back in his chair
in a moment’s fragile sleep.
His face naked as a child’s
in the gentle light from Maud.