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

I won’t blurt out
if it all goes wrong, avalanches
or eternity and blue funk
I know we’ve dabbled
in too many horizons
mouthing the infinite
patiently translated

●

I strive to not disappear
on the under side of my dreams
my method: plunge
the voice a face sharply profiled in air
slip into a gifted tongue

a few more syllables
in the quicksilver
we’re already there

●

I haven’t yet said a word
about disappearance or vocabulary it’s too vast
and you remember solitude
it scrapes the bottom of the sea and the alphabet
that night may span the invisible
right up to the notebooks of our indocility

●

for now don’t forget
to regulate immensity
to space well those things that choke us up
silence in light obstinately

for now
we’re still narrating
night falls slowly

●

we had seen life rise
up into installations overhead
and color change
to tiger and origin
behind the window
we had learned
to downplay the idea of vertigo
in the dark and otherwise

●

and now life falls
nights on your breast
as civilizations stream
and word is a word
used to rub lucidity
against dawn and l’ombre
with no one attached

●

by the number of poems, I always knew
if someone was about to die
or brush dawn
with her mouth and the following day

●

by the way: we were used to stars
would observe them with distress
and precision
for the universe might suddenly
spill down in avalanches
shattered glass and voices. Music
or farewell of perfecting

●

don’t forget
we’re still narrating
night falls slowly

●

Life, la vie n’était pas vilaine,
It was July we were
hopelessly toiling. At night
I said yes in the grape-red darkness
of lips expanding on the present
the trembling of vowels

●

The air is opaque today and chiming
like symbols eroding
the world at close range in our eyes.
In the morning I count
roses, insects. And solitude.
Concealing sighs
I drown effortlessly in the urban wind
verbal tense and your hair
Il y avait it was longing feuillage dense des origines.

●

so another page, this time
detached joy is profiled
I dabble in everything life goes on
a stone that lasts, a child
a mirror sound
and a smile not really.

●

in reality space thins
ardor sketches its gnarled presence
about the city we live
on convictions yes and azure
our hair sombre
our seductions, reruns
at the garden’s edge. Watch your words
they will soon                                   there
snatch you from the rift in the simple present

●

a few night syllables
through leafy words
let’s watch
our dream muscles move
our eyes outstripped by nostalgia
let’s watch
tears, palms and fists like thirst
the ever vague idea that living is
necessarily a plus dans le langage

●

since then wind pierces
the horizon our breasts
occasionally in the rain no one
or a face with disorder
a mouth that exaggerates
everything ajar
at the end it’s magnificient
night throbs like a fruit tree
a danger

●

some days through repeated acts
of violence of murmuring
stories pile up
you observe bodies


I repeat

we wish to be snatched
from the rift in the simple present

●

it’s yes: at close of day
pain stirs and carnivorous
rolls redder
quick under the tongue

●

there will be no portrait
of my mother neither etching nor gesture
in capsized language
only a decor still standing
amid the city and wind
an animal rustling that dawn
will have suddenly seized

●

I will not write wound
and all ocean-making gestures
at the end of sentences


and don’t go complaining
if shadows profile reality
if like movies
it’s black and blurred
in eyelashes and time

●

to be there a lifetime in the flexible species
with this reflex that keeps wanting
to depict everything about pleasure and gestures
bites, bedrooms with their shadowy, supple,
hollow spaces, knotted brows
our fragility
of course we go unanswered
with each kiss

●

warmth at your temples whispering
fictions of dawn and absolute
I love when nights displace knees



so I noticed:
night reverses the horizon
elegant but how does it manage
in the shooting with nothing
no protection
for meaning and its seashells
the old pain of horizons
blazing in the voice

●

ideas of falling and labyrinths
as if at arm’s length
all that is was
made to shift dawn one day
reveal the animal reign



so I wake
in pocketknives and dust

●

I haven’t yet said a word about disappearance
upstream from all pronouns
life makes decisions
beneath the skin preparing
wheel of dreams and hoops
and games of math and caskets


now glaciers
the stuff
of dawn and suffering

●

dawn doesn’t founder
with its capital letters
an elegant way of juxtaposing
smiles piping hot
and wounds if you’d like any

●

on flood-planet mornings
as the universe shoves you
if you’d like other sensations
don’t let reality
decide. Plunge.

●

each time the future penetrates
a word, a womb
with a thirst for night that floods breathing

let it stream

in the dew of the world
forgotten under the fingernail of fever

●

and if torment if what quickens
your nights of reading and irreality
si la poussière vibre sur tes doigts
lean back on shadow
in a place with blue and emptiness
there will surely be water in your eyes
modernity and fear in your clothes

●

then nape will come back a word
in the bedroom hours will have to be
imagined
their curve gliding through your upper thoughts
like a drone
high above your life

●

so everything changes
the world is built such
that destruction is repeated
with cameras to measure
the light l’ombre in our eyes

or sound of night
its step in our breasts
the warmth when it rolls
under makeup and the pink of the fingernail

●

it is true that we are often
together there to strip the world
determine life touch
come closer because of farewells
and untellable tragedies


softly no nothingness
just stories
heads or tails scattered
along the length of the quotidian
and creatures for there are always
creatures ready to run for us before eternity
get drunk coil up in language
creatures suspended
from our need of sea and wave

●

hold on in silence
at dawn the verb to be courses
in the veins, a heavenly body, it flies
as after love or grain of salt
on the tongue early morning, taste of immensity
it draws near
the first dampness
come kiss me
think of the great power of water
that makes a place of us

●

this will have been
an idea of flight of fervor
or like a dialogue
when we drop
at the foot of words

it will have been surprising light in time unfurling
perfect sea the entire width of the alphabet and of wind

●

we are still narrating
bubbles of silence linger
in our questions
night falls