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

Through the soft music of the cultured voices around her there crept an ominous hiss as the little green head parted the perfumed lace/ and, as the trunk opened. I shrank back. It was filled with a mass of mossy white-and-green mould from which cockroaches darted in all/ greens - eau de nil, vert-doré, aquamarine, and emerald/ for nearly two years, when the little fairy-man with the green suit again drew near the road where/ his overcoat was beginning to wear a greenish shade and look threadbare. When his toilet was complete he looked at/ the green time-stained panes of the windows looking upon each other with the cowardly glances of/ painful march. Assembled on the green, all was ready, when Major Pitcairn, remembering the little woman who/ saw through the mist a pair of keen, malicious eyes, which appeared to her excited brain to have a supernatural green light/ noticed some tall lilies, which grew on both sides of the way, with dazzlingly white flowers, set off by the universal green. It was now dark enough to see that/ I always had big green eyes.” “I love your queer eyes. They always look as if they/ may contain brain-substance (encephalocele) or brain-substance and fluid (encephalomeningocele)/ They both laughed, and he knelt by the table to light the lamp under the kettle, while she measured out the tea into a little tea-pot of green gauze/ to justify the alarmists who speak of the beverage as ‘the green peril’/ towards the end of the twentieth century. The meadows were no longer green.