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

She is creative, in that scarves and bangles, non-specific way, 
             and writing a book,
not a novel, quite, as such but based on her life and her own 
             spiritual journey.
The café dog stops scavenging and mooches off across the square; 
             the waitress looks
alarmed,clatters plates and glasses on her tray. A dungeon door 
             slams shut, the turnkey

throws the lock and, whistling, pads away. She was drawn here by 
             the history, a sense
of something sacred, power and mystery, secrets in the landscape; 
             ley-lines
meet here, you can divine the energies, attune to the Earth-Chakra 
             convergence.
Dirk checks his watch, hears water drip, a distant moan and feels
             the slow entropic grind.

She has had many tribulations down the years, three husbands, 
             every one a skunk;
the children who she hardly ever sees, they’ve swallowed whole 
             that patriarchy thing.
The blessèd Fabien – table behind; making cow eyes with a just-
             arrived Goth-punk –
is special, respects her as a woman. People want to stop you from 
             becoming,

(Becoming what? Dirk thinks, More talkative? More asinine? 
             More self-infatuated?)
but Fabien – be-dreaded, barefoot, reading, ostentatiously, the 
             Goth girl’s palm –
so enlightened, so stuffed with arcane lore his saintliness cannot 
             be overstated
has given her a gift, more use than any oil or crystal, better than 
             any charm,

an astrological chart – he only charged her twenty euros – that 
             looking back,
is so precise it shows why everything’s panned out the way it 
             has. It’s all there,
inevitable, ordained, in the stars. The ropes strain, creak and tighten 
             on the rack.
This wondrous document delivers absolution on account; 
             no need for prayer,

penitence, faith or charitable works. Just Om a bit and stoke some 
             joss-sticks up
and ev’ry little thing will be alright. His indulgence at its limit 
             Dirk snaps
to his feet, begs her pardon, swaps eye-rolls with the waitress as 
             he hands her his cup,
and goes. Fabien and Gothette have long since decamped. She 
             is left to clear the tab.