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

When Love, who conquers Gods and men,
Had set my poor heart blazing; when
He torched in fury most unkind
My blood and courage, bones and mind;
I lacked the power to complain,
Express my suffering and pain.
Apollo of the laurel-tree
Hadn’t yet set my verses free;
But now his sacred rage inspires,
And fills my breast with bold desires:
He has me sing, not Jove nor Mars,
Not thunder, nor the cruel wars
That shake, at will, the universe:
The lyre he gave me sang the verse
Of Lesbian Sappho’s ancient love,
And now to mine its strings shall move.
Sweeten my voice, sweet curving bow!
With so much grieving it might grow
Bitter, or break, with all the pains,
Misfortunes, setbacks, sorrows, strains.
Damp down the fires by which my tender
Heart was once toasted to a cinder:
For now I feel the memory
That brings a sad tear to my eye:
I seem to feel the first alarms
I had of Love; I see the arms
He used for his assault on me.
It was my eyes that lavishly
Shot looks at those who shot, just so,
At me, unshielded from my bow.
Those ogling glances doomed my eyes,
Made me a case for Nemesis.
I teased: I saw one man desire,
Another perish in the fire;
I saw so many sprinkled tears,
Such reckless waste of sighs and prayers,
I didn’t notice, suddenly,
The same fate overtaking me.
So murderously was I gored
That, even now, I’m still not cured,
And cannot but repeat again
And re-create my lived-through pain,
With new sad songs. I ask you, ladies,
To sigh along with me. Dear readers!
It’s possible one day I’ll do
The same thing back, assisting you
To mourn your troubles and your pain
And all the time you’ve spent, in vain.
Be your heart never so severe,
Love can effect a conquest here;
The more you’ve been obtusely brave,
The worse he’ll treat you, as his slave.
Do not assume it’s right to blame
The ladies Cupid sets aflame.
Many with haughty fantasies
Have suffered love’s indignities:
Pride, pedigree and pulchritude
Could not avert their servitude
To ruthless Love: the best are found
Suddenly, definitely, downed.
The famous queen Semiramis
Flattened as if with pyramids
The sable hosts of Ethiopia;
Her swordplay spilled a cornucopia
Of brave men’s blood. The flow was ample,
Setting her team a fine example.
She, still desiring to pursue,
Attack her neighbours, and subdue,
Found Love, who pressed and crushed her so,
She let her swords and statutes go.
Didn’t her royal circumstance
Deserve a less malign mischance?
She lost her heart: she loved her son!
O martial queen of Babylon,
What happened to that sword and shield
That forced your bravest foe to yield?
Where is the warlike helm and crest
That held your golden locks compressed?
Where is that blade and that cuirass
That broke the foeman’s neck of brass?
Where have they fled, the chargers furious
That pulled your chariot, when victorious?
Soon as you smashed the feeble foe,
Your manly heart went soft as dough:
And war’s delights no longer touch;
You merely languish, on a couch.
You quit the bitterness of war
And found the sweet, soft joys once more:
Thus from yourself by Love estranged,
You’re to another person changed.
So, anyone who hears my cries
In Love’s constriction, don’t despise
My sorry dirge: for Love, with brief
Delay, may bring you equal grief.
I knew a lady who was cold
To Love, when young; when she was old,
She burned, lamenting piteously
The pangs of late-life agony.
With paints and scented sprays she’d try
Repeatedly to beautify
And smooth the furrows of the plough
That age had etched across her brow;
On her grey locks she chose to wear
A poorly-grafted piece of hair.
The more she gaily rouged and creamed,
The less her lover-boy esteemed:
He fled without a thought, for she
Looked hideous: he felt shame to be
Her fancy. So the poor old bat
Got her comeuppance, tit for tat.
Once hopelessly pursued by many,
She loves, but is not loved by any.
So Love contrives, and takes delight,
That all our wants are opposite.
One, whom a lady loves, loves not;
Another, who’s not loved, is hot,
And obstinately will maintain
His rigid strength, though hope is vain.