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

On the way to my studio,
I see a dead bird in the road:
Smooth autumn-colored feathers
And dried-out eyes.
Bit of gold, toe of newt-
The old alchemical urge returns.
I stop and put it in my basket.
I'll mix the wings in with my paint.

I wonder if they still
Take canaries down into the mines ...
In a shoebox rank with droppings,
Tight under the armpit of the foreman,
It skitters for footing,
The elevator sinking,
Then out into headlights, dust
Sparkling in the beams,
They take it for a little ride,
Lumbering on a makeshift subway
To the new dead end in question;
Then holding the birdy by a wire
Wound around its wirey leg,
They offer it to the dark
Corners of the wall of coal.
An imperceptible whiff of gas,
And the feathers flare in the flashbulb dark.
The foreman slings it round and round
And off it goes into the dark ...

I had a doctor years ago
Who swore yellow was the favorite color
Of schizophrenia.     His pet theory.
How I jammed my yellow pencils
At the eyes of my self-portraits!
But mainly he found my birds fantastic.
I'd even make them smile for me,
With infinite patience
For each graphite quill,
Eyes overbrimming under the lights
With hot wax from my Canary
Yellow pencil as the passion
Burned through the wall of paper.

Golden spokes would ray from the eyes
Of my other carbon angels
As I looked into my fire,
Getting a whiff of atmosphere
From that other larger home
Swept with winds of light
Where every quantum blood drop held
Enscrolled the datum of the Word
And I'd feel the pressure closing,
Claustrophobia on fire,
And I'd rush to find a tool,
Pen, pencil, anything sharp,
To puncture the container    tumor    creature,
Let the sea of light burst in!   burst forth!
And then the doctors took me off,
Stuck wires to my legs and skull,
Shocked me with a golden household
Current, giving off a whiff of ozone.
Fight fire with fire, the intern grinned.

That was ten years ago.
I function well now, even light
A candle with my wife for supper.
A grey bird shuffles through brown
Dusty leaves.  Others scatter
From a bloody place high in a maple.
I think of my Alizarin Crimson
Pencil. Burnt Sienna at the curb.
But how to do the fine dust there?
Where to give my yellow pints
In the smell of burning leaves?