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

Evenings are a problem, the king said,
stirring his coffee. You see,
by day I am in
command, people do as I say,
it all goes like clockwork, the
parades, the openings, the royal
visits, everyone bows and
scrapes, or nod their heads, or
laugh in the right
places, and there's no
questioning of me or of
anything I do. But when it's all
over, all that, and I sit
alone or with the queen,
thoughts enter my head. Unquiet thoughts.
I wonder why Mercury comes before
Mars, or twinsets before
pearls, and any
number of things. I even wonder why
I have to be king. That especially.
If my mother had been
a draper's assistant or bell-
bottom maker for sailors,
or even lady-in-
waiting, I would not have been
king. That stands to reason.
Someone else would have been
and I would have not.
So if I were not
then the not-king now
would be king and I
would inherit the not.
A nice distinction.
I am the not-king raised
to perfection while the king
has the not thrust upon him.

It has always been like this.
A state of confusion
is the one I fit best, not the state
I presumably rule, since everyone says so.
It is a state (of confusion I mean)
without head or soul, tail or body,
existing non-spatially inside my head.
Do not look for it in
reference books or encyclopaedias.
It has no acreage or population,
no rivers, mountains or natural resources,
no languages (least of all those)
and no ethnic minorities.
It is, by definition,
a state always in flux.

Can a king exist in such a state?
Oh, easier by far
than the state that I rule.
Confusion, you see, makes no demands.
It accepts. It comforts. It is absolute wisdom.