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

She was sitting on his knees in the garden when she turned to kiss him again. He loved that look she got in her eyes just before her lips began their descent; part predatory, part vulnerable, part risk-taker. He shifted in his seat, feeling the first tremors of arousal. Only a week after he had found the anonymous poem in the message book, and here it was happening. How long had he waited? Where had she come from? Why had she chosen him? He knew he should stop asking questions, but he didn’t trust himself with pleasure the way she did.
    ‘How old are you?’ he asked.
    Her eyes narrowed, as if trying to get him into focus.
    ‘What do you want to know that for?’
    ‘Just curious’
    ‘I’m a snake like you, aren’t I?’
    But he needed her to be more specific. He needed to know how old some people were the way some people needed to know other people’s star signs. It had something to do with this feeling of being left behind.
    ‘I mean, when’s your birthday? What month?’
    ‘October, twenty-third. I’m a Libra, remember.’
    ‘A homemaker. Do you like balance then?’
    For answer she kissed him. He could feel the warmth of her thigh
under his hand, rising up his arm like mercury.
    ‘Do you think you’ll ever have a baby?’ he asked, breaking the kiss.
    She put her palm on her belly, over her skimpy green blouse. ‘I don’t know. I used to think I’d never have a child. All that domestic Goddess crap. Staying home to look after baby while hubby goes out exploring his inner male. But sometimes I just want to give in to it.’
    He watched her hand, then moved his own under her blouse. She was a dancer and her tummy was firm and boyish to the touch. He searched out the appendix scar he knew was there, running his fingers along the serrated furrow. ‘I love this scar,’ he said.
    ‘You know what, Frank?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘It loves you too.’
    He smiled, without showing his teeth. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so happy.
    ‘Have you heard of Bonnard?’ she asked, taking up his hand.
    ‘Bonnard? Yes. I’ve got one of his prints on my wall; a girl in a red shirt, sitting at a table with a dog in her lap. At least, I think it’s a girl. Sometimes it looks more like a boy. She’s so serene.’
   ‘Do you know how he fell in love?’
    ‘Bonnard?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    He shook his head.
    ‘Well, he was a young, starving painter in Paris. One day he was on the bus, looking out the window, when he saw a girl passing in the opposite direction. He just caught a glimpse of her, that’s all, but it was enough. He rushed to the driver and told him to stop the bus. Then he went after the girl and told her he was a painter and he thought she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and would she model for him? She said she would. And they spent the rest of their life together.’
    Frank felt himself blush. The first time he’d seen her at the festival up north he’d known. She was the one. Now Phoebe was gone, irredeemably out of his life, it was this blissful creature sitting on his lap who was going to take her place. This time it was reciprocal. He thought of the hours spent sitting on buses, mournfully searching for Phoebe in the crowds.
   ‘That’s amazing,’ he said.
   ‘Yeah. Maybe she was the girl in your picture?’
   ‘Almost certainly.’
   She kissed him, then slipped from his lap and went into the house. He sat savouring the memory of her wieght, her taste, as he rolled a cigarette and looked out at the crowd. It was a great party. What did it matter if he didn’t know anybody here? If only Phoebe could see him now: strong, self assured, independent, no longer the guile-less innocent she’d rushed off his feet. True, she didn’t want him anymore; but neither, he knew, could she bear the thought of him having fun without her. There were still consolations to be had.
    On top of the garage roof a slide-projector was beaming images of animals on the house. In one he saw two lions lying down with a zebra foal sitting between them; in the next a snake riffling its way across the sand.  The stereo was playing a track by The Violent Femmes. He loved The Violent Femmes. You just couldn’t find a band like The Violent Femmes in England. He sat smoking, waiting for the girl to come back. He would do anything for this girl. Helena had said her mouth was hard, there was something cruel about her; but he know now there was nothing hard about that mouth. Perhaps, the thought occurred to him, Helena had only said that because she wanted him herself? It was certainly possible; Australian girls were drawn to Englishmen, weren’t they? Whereas at home his shyness had set him apart from girls, here those very qualities appeared
to make him irresistible. That was it. Helena was always ringing him to make sure he was still up after her shift at the cafe finished. They would drink wine and smoke a few spliffs together, talking into the early hours. Why was he so slow to cotton on to these things?
    Five Violent Femmes songs and seven roll-ups later, he began to feel the cold hand of conspicuity creeping up his body. He went to look for her.
    She was not in the living room, or the kitchen; nor was she in the hall, or on the veranda out back. He considered trying the bedrooms, but the couple splayed out half naked at the bottom of the stairs changed his mind. There were two dance rooms; one in the lounge, and another in the garage at the bottom of the garden. She was not in the first, so he went to check the garage. Beads of coloured light spilled out onto the dirt as he approached the open door. He edged into the throng. A few seconds later he saw her. Of course. She was a dancer, wasn’t she? Where else would she
be? He sidled his way towards her and positioned himself opposite her. She saw him and smiled, and instantly his future fell into place again.
    Ziggy was in here too, he noticed. One of her housemates. He was gay, Frank had heard, and his short spiky blond hair, yellow net vest, and white dungarees somehow confirmed the fact. Ziggy raised his arms, and gave a whoop in greeting. Frank smiled back, briefly, wary of sending out the wrong signals, then closed his eyes, giving himself to the music. Phoebe and he had loved dancing; often the crowds would part and form an invisible circle around them, amazed at their frenzied abandon. It didn’t matter that in the end she’d said he danced like a headless chicken. Until recently he’d only been pretending, but now it was true. He really didn’t need her, after all.
    When he opened his eyes, however, the girl was gone again. In her place was Ziggy, craning his neck forward and hollering something at him. Frank nodded, not understanding, and continued looking around. A moment later he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Ziggy’s blubbery lips just inches from his face. This time Frank heard.
    ‘Why don’t you take this off? he said, tugging at his jumper.
    Frank backed away, holding his palms up, warding him off.
    Ziggy shrugged and continued dancing. Yet Frank had to admit it was getting hot. Here he was walking around in thirty-degree heat dressed in the same cords and jumper he’d been wearing in a Yorkshire winter not two months before. So after a suitable period had elapsed, as nonchalantly as possible, he pulled off his jumper and tied it round his waist. He was wearing a cream singlet underneath, one of Phoebe’s. The material was torn a little at the neck, with numerous pellet holes speckling the body, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to part with it. Sometimes he still imagined it smelt of her.
    Ziggy gestured towards the singlet, signalling he should take that off too. Frank shook his head emphatically, whereupon a bangled hand reached forward and pulled at the singlet. The material tore. In disgust, Frank left the room. Outside, he examined the damage; the neck was now almost entirely separated from the body. He groaned, and wandered across the garden, and went into the house. A few minutes later he came back into the garden, stood watching the animal pictures for a while, and then went inside again. By the time he returned to the garden the projector had been turned off, and as if some telepathic signal had been passed between them, the crowd was beginning to drain away. Frank sat on a plastic chair under a
eucalyptus tree, not wanting to leave without her.
    He was still there twenty minutes later when Ziggy came out.
    ‘I’m sorry about your vest.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter, its not mine anyway.’ Then, ‘You didn’t happen to see ...?’
    ‘She probably went home,’ said Ziggy, indifferently.
    ‘Do you think so?’
    ‘Probably.’
    Frank stood up, and pulled his jumper on. ‘I think I might follow her.’
    ‘Do you know the way?’
    Frank hesitated.
    ‘I’d better come with you - in case you get lost.’
    Another early morning walk home through the city, the foreign city
easier to call home than his own: the unnerving quiet of deserted streets; the feeling that the end of civilisation was upon them, and they were its sole survivors; the wonder that this way of seeing happened so seldom in a life; the barely perceptible lightening of the atmosphere. This time though it did not bring with it the sense of defeat it usually carried. Frank resisted most of Ziggy’s attempts at conversation, keeping his sights resolutely on his goal. When they arrived at the house he went directly upstairs to the girl’s room. Her light was on and the door was ajar. He knocked delicately and peeked inside.
     She was sitting on the edge of a mattress, still in her clothes. In the fraction of a second his glance met her eyes his hopes were restored. She was the girl glimpsed from the bus. The one he was ready to confess everything to. She was the answer. He was no longer alone. Unfortunately, he realised, neither was she. Sitting next to her on the mattress was someone else. A girl. He didn’t recognise the girl, but quite obviously she was topless. In no particular hurry, she pulled her blouse to her, covering herself.
    ‘I was just wondering if you’d like some tea?’ he asked.
    Both girls said they didn’t.
    He went downstairs again. Ziggy was in the living room, rifling through the record collection. The curtains still weren’t drawn, and Frank caught sight of his own reflection superimposed on a view of grimy sandstone wall. The night had not been kind to him. He closed the curtains and sat down on the sofa as the first track of Jennifer Warnes’s album of Leonard Cohen covers began: 'First We Take Manhattan.’ Well, he’d certainly been taken tonight.
    ‘Do you want tea?’ Ziggy asked.
    Frank said he did.
    By the time Ziggy returned five minutes later, and set the mugs down on the coffee table, he was still trying to steady his hands sufficiently to roll his first cigarette. Perhaps the girl had been just a friend who need a place to sleep? Girls were like that, weren’t they? Not everything revolved around sex. He’d simply caught them undressing, that was all. He ought to be more careful, barging into a girl’s room like that. Jesus, it was only a week since the poem in the message book. A little week! He’d even gone so far as to leave the back door open overnight most of that time in case she should decide to visit him after her shift a the pub. He should go. No point in hanging around. But he didn’t want to go home either. Not yet
anyway. He knew he’d only end up alone in his room, brooding. And the Bonnard print would be there at the foot of his bed, taunting him with his forever follies. Suddenly, it seemed such a melancholy picture: the single chair; the single bottle of wine; the single plate; the single slice missing from the cake; the girl’s downward gaze, more sullen than shy; the dog, eternally resisting temptation. Until recently, he’d always assumed it to be a detail from a larger composition, a table surrounded by guests, but now he knew different.
    There was a rudimentary bong on the table, half filled with what
looked suspiciously like swamp water, and a saucer next to it with a few microscopic grains of grass. Even the doors of oblivion were closed. He reached for the lighter, which was almost empty of gas, and tried to get a flame. Why had he asked her how old she was, for Christ’s sake?
    ‘You’re very beautiful,’ said Ziggy, from the armchair.
    Oh, what now?
    ‘You’re very beautiful.’
    Frank glanced up. ‘Thanks,’ he said, in what he hoped was a
sufficiently withering tone.
    ‘Can I kiss you?’ came the voice again, obviously not noticing it.
    ‘I’d rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind.’
    ‘Just once.’
    ‘No thanks.’
    ‘I won’t tell anyone.’
    Frank finally got his cigarette alight, and sucked it deeply. The last
person who’d called him beautiful had been Phoebe. She’d said it the very first night he got into her bed, nearly two years ago. He remembered her lying under the blankets, watching him undress. Her choice of words had surprised him; he’d never particularly thought of his body as being one thing nor the other ‘til then. And surely ‘beautiful’ was a word men applied to women, not the other way around?
    ‘Please Ziggy ... I’ve just had a bit of a shock. I’m not sure you quite understand why I’m here. I came for ... [he gestured upstairs]. I thought we had something, I really did. But I’ve just found her with someone else.’
    ‘Oh, she’s always with someone else.’
    ‘Well ... I’d just like to sit here for a few moments, if that’s okay. I’ll be alright in a minute. I’ll just finish my tea, then go.’
    Ziggy didn’t seem to hear. His eyes stayed firmly fixed on Frank. ‘You’ve got beautiful lips,’ he said.
    This was getting ridiculous. He didn’t have to put up with this. The
man had a slight lisp, exacerbated by the drink, which made him sound more like a cross between Jodie Foster and Roy Hattersley in his milder moments. He had a way of smiling too, which Frank didn’t like, as if he knew something Frank didn’t. What kind of name was Ziggy, anway? If only he’d just leave him alone. Was that too much to ask? Yet Frank didn’t want to be left alone. Alone there were only ghosts, and the Bonnard print, and the message book to moon over, and the image of the two girls entwined. Besides, she might be upstairs sleeping with someone else, but at least he was close to her. Pathetic, but it was all he had.
    He reached for his tea. It was white. He’d forgotton to say he didn’t drink milk - his skin came out in blotches when he did. He held onto it anyway.
    ‘Can I kiss you?’ Ziggy asked again.
    ‘Look, will you please just ... fuck off.’
    ‘Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t say it again. I’m just the kind of person who says what’s on his mind, that’s all. I can’t help myself. When I feel attracted to someone I just have to say something. It’s better than saying nothing, don’t you think?’
    All at once Frank wanted to laugh. He was a determined old queen; he’d give him that. What was it Quinten Crisp said? ‘If at first you don’t succeed, failure might be more your style.’ There was certainly nothing ambiguous about his approach. None of the subtle, subterranean signals that passed for sexual invitation between heterosexuals. He took another suck on his roll-up, but it had gone out. He rubbed the lighter vigorously between his palms.
    They listened on in silence awhile, while Jennifer Warnes’s voice filled the room. The warm keyboards and languorous saxophones made the music too sleepy and saccharine, Frank thought, stripping the songs of the nakedness Cohen had given them, but he had to admit she’d come a long way since ‘Love Lift us up Where We Belong.’ And it wasn’t the first time Leonard Cohen had helped get him through the night.
    ‘Can I sit next to you?’ came the voice again.
    ‘You’re fine where you are,’ said Frank, not looking up.
    ‘I won’t bite.’
    ‘Glad to hear it.’
    ‘I just want to be a bit closer to you, that’s all. There’s so much
distance between us.’
    ‘Let’s keep it that way shall we.’
    What if she’d had a threesome in mind? Perhaps that had been the intention all along? Perhaps this was some kind of a salacious test? He tried to visualise the other girl. He was sure she’d been attractive. But no, not that. He didn’t want to be just another fling. Number forty-seven in her book. He wanted her to himself. Then again she was obviously experienced. What could he give her? There’d only ever been Phoebe before and he’d hardly satisfied her. He remembered her asking him once - rather meekly which was uncharacteristic for her - if they might try some other positions. What other positions? he’d asked, genuinely surprised.
    The last song on the album began - ‘Came so Far for Beauty.’ Dimly, he heard Ziggy say something about going out to play? He didn’t answer. He just needed a moment, that was all. Any second now - as soon as this song finished - he was going to get up, go upstairs, slip off his clothes, open the bedroom door, and join them in the dark. Either that or he was going home. Whichever, he’d better make his mind up soon because Ziggy was edging his way round the coffee table towards him with that smile on his face again. Already he was sitting down next to him with his elbow on the back of the sofa. Frank could smell the fug of alchohol on his breath. The terrible proximity of those engorged, blubbery lips. Why didn’t he say something, instead of just sitting there?
    The song ended. He heard the needle lift itself from the record and return to its cradle, plunging them into silence. He became aware there was light seeping through the curtains, turning the chintzy material a lighter shade of mauve. The first few notes of the dawn chorus reached him, startlingly crisp. as if he were waking froma deep sleep. Slowly, Ziggy took the mug from his hand, and placed it on the table.