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

Signs of constrained chaos: coffee and more Moondog. I promised to be intrigued when I offered to listen, but entering the space the music seems more mind than thing - making what I already know less clear. The mischief of contradiction includes internal/external expansion; I cannot be more precise. It ant a matter of mapping out a series of sounds, it is more like swimming in a lake of dreams - trusting one will make it to another shore, or wake up dead in the glade of communal memory. Glottal stops and improvised siren howls… low rumblings and distant inclinations… a clatter of cutlery as percussion: common heritage has been replaced by a multiplicity of viewpoints and voices. I go to my house about three times a week and am always made welcome there. I share a sense of loss and pain: the writer is always throwing away his best work, the musician switches off the machine to save tape and misses the Improvised moment.

Nostalgia embedded in silence, which may explode or leak if inserted incorrectly. Early works are wonderful visionary experiences.

Ancient seeds from the frozen royal tomb sprouted magnolias with one more petal than our flowers today. Clever seeds, so sensitive to our grandiose associations.

After the arcane murders, the trails of blood lead to the plain faces of ordinary boys surprised by the splendid joy of vengeance. What if it is a prison to know forever the cauterising waste of all mystery? To have felt the divine wrath acting on its chosen victims? We horrify the unspeakable, intent upon speaking, surrendering ourselves daily to the blade of language, the knife of expression, the bullet of paint, the violation of music. None can escape their garden agony. After we enforce laws, we plant more flowers. Publish as many novels as possible. Kitach up the museums, use the churches for nuclear disposal. Write an Impenetrable myth and genius will show up later. Justice intrudes into the crime, wanting its access to the revelation, wretched and bitter that it never gets it. Never. Or not unless everything floods. All at once, heart relieved, blood released.