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

Like you I do what I don’t want to say.
Debased, in fashion, working without pay.
I have to face the therapy you faced.
Uncertain, barren, hesitant, disgraced.

War, politics, a Harvard president?
Mine have no such power but represent
the falling of the world to keys, locked doors,
to wax on endless, shiny corridors.

I’m in the doctor’s yard and once again,
bad, broken, sad and nothing for the pain.
This can’t go on.  It really has to stop.
And kindness falls like blood, bright drop on drop.

Stooped Caliban collects my fetid breath,
steals swift each feature of my face for death.
From sounds of bells, to shifting feet at night,
to demons in my eyes.  You’ll be all right.

My shoes?  I’ve never found them, never known
the edges of my step hurt as I’ve grown
but simply felt my mind too ugly, odd
and Hades-made in disappointing God.

I’m uncontrolled, two ties, my trousers rolled.
Death comes for kings, I know.  I’m growing old.
If I were home I’m certain I would know.
I’m certain I’d see nothing in the snow.

I am well trained to be the kind of whore
in pain, who, bleeding, gently asks for more
and when the pain’s too great whispers instead ,
my body’s wrecked but please try with my head.

Done it again.  Again in less than ten.
I’m frightened of the light, of time, of men,
of what I’ve failed to do.  Of what I’ve done
and yet I sit and read beneath the sun.

With tiny spoon and fags I measure life
yet long to dig my heart out with a knife
and place it in your hands with joy, and say
You keep it.  I don’t need it anyway.

I cannot join nor leave my drowning place.
I cannot face the world without more face.
Am I weak enough to enter heaven?
Am I strong enough to be forgiven?

At night, beyond the grave, how can I hear
your love, pain, loss?  How can I taste your fear?
I learn my execution plot.  Know well
the only event is death,

dear Mr Robert Lowell.