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

Signatures of all things I am here to read,
seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide
that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust... *

From deep in this film of Joyce’s Ulysses, out to the bright lights along the Liffey and the breeze from the sea. River of consciousness. A pebble in my shoe, but can’t put a finger on it. Maybe just overdosed on Bloom, Dedalus, Molly and the rest (especially Molly). I rattle back to Dun Laoghaire on the Dart, and take my ill-at-ease for a long, bracing walk.

All night
in empty suburbs
the busy traffic lights

Turn into the Eagle for a pint of Beamish. Bartender delicately scalps the froth with a silver knife. In the snug, sober late night drinkers show a mild interest as a barmaid with a bare midriff stirs the fire. I settle deep into red plush.

Heart’s ease
a pint of black porter
and a moonlit mile

Off along the promenade to Sandycove. Not a soul about, apart from my alter ego, still with that limp of his.

From lamp to lamp
a rakish fellow
striding forward, falling back

Out there is the great sweep of Dublin bay, curved in lights. A faintly illuminated ladder runs up each of those two tall smoke stacks. I am one of the few who know it was Maeve O’Sullivan’s father designed them. A warning about Big Waves. But down concrete steps I feel my way in shadow to listen

Blue black
lap of wave
sift of sand

Above is the Martello tower where the novel begins. Now floodlit granite and well-scrubbed heritage, ‘only open by special arrangement’. Inside is a plaintive letter from Joyce to Nora Barnacle, ‘treating me as if I were simply a comrade in lust’.

So back to the beginning, and my bed in Glenageary. Can’t feel that pebble any more …

River of moonlight
shadow of duck
drifting backwards