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

Arenti: Jilted

"She was brown before she was white before she became your
wife she was holding fast her father's contacts, me and all that
lives in her mother's memory. Enough respect, for being stiff
lipped when your legs were on hold, but we're not the only
dejected suitor sprung from a box. Since the black cat came
between us - we've all been through the pale. But we're not
passive like our parents. These are the black belt streets.
There's a custom: You buy her a bouquet of roses, who buys
the foreplay of bruises? You take our bride our wives, we take
your pride or lives. We intend to deal with our own. You hand
her in to the RSPCA before it gets too late."

Senti: The golden nest egg

"It's simple. I work all of God's hours, cutting cement into
rectangles so my daughter will have five star marriage, with
my son will go to Bharat and imagine a pizza restaurant in
Model Town. Da future then begin. Retired, drinking faluda
under fan - they will shout that with the many eyes of
Brahma, my son masters the crickety customers. And at the
daub of Holi, I will pack my white Maruti with matyai for the
childrens of my village. To the tired old faces, I will say: yes,
yes, what you are turning at is me, that snot-faced,
short-tempered nothing who went away is back from Belaat.
But it's super, you must all of you, come for roti. Yes.
I live in Model Town."

Katali: Death of the Turbanator

"By God, the old man could handle his punjabi! coming home
bladdered, late at night, his old man could handle his punjabi
as well. They were two turbanators in a warrior clash of
expletives; I would catch how the old man shifted barrels of
creosote all day, drank his share on the Capri dashboards,
then his old man would curse about the lack of land, the day
they left home was the day they lost their something or other,
and as the voices trebled when the old dear carried in his roti, I
wanted to run downstairs in impatient terror, and shout them
down: Go away! I'm trying to watch The Minder, to talk about
at school tomorrow. Do you think it's easy trying to fit in?"

Batali: Chequered

"From across the narrow aisles, a land of neat jigsaw pieces -
at the airport, so many white faces, I'd never seen in all my
life, so how would I cope? 'Don't worry pot - you will too
lose your colour,' said my mother excited. I ran to the toilets
to be sick and for the last time, at a tiny head, in the giant
mirrors, worried I would never be the same, I looked at it a 'goodbye'.
Where the village had cried us off, daddy alone took us on
a bus of staring strange faces: Was it because I was losing my
colour? But I would learn to piece myself, to put the colour back
into my cheeks, after the indigo night, I bleached, under my
little apple tree, soft white balls into my dirty paki skin."

 Buthi: A mother-in-law takes on
           the westernising bride

"I remember our teemi - a mouse under the purdah, frying
chappalless feet run fast over hot sand to fetch sticks for the
roti fire; or cowed by the hawelli wall, working dung buns in
the sun before the syrup dries. Now look at her. It is so
unnatural - they say she waves the men from her Datsun
Sunny as she takes the big roads like a bunda; they say she
raises a shrubby eye: Come on friend, I'm letting you in! or
throws out a claw if her car is in danger. Her nasty kohl
coloured eyes - dark slaves whose spirit has crowed away,
with burnt voice, late at night, return, from Terminal Two
(she says) to mutter: Mummy-jee, why would my husband
say the children run to you only?"

 Babu Kang - years later - on the marriage ceremony
                    with Moondy, the eastern bride

One of your four cornered brothers
whispered in my ear
the congregation was coughing so loud
I sped with the sash
almost leaving you unheld.

How glad I am
I slowed for the final journey,
feeling your hold around the Granth,
going backwards to gain
what you forwards sought to find.