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

She fell foul of the beautiful androgynous leader. Over the war. The rationalization; "We both care deeply." They went out to bomb. Her teacher in front of the primary desks raising her pitch for Mr. Churchill, who'd sent out the little boats, and for Mr. Eden.
 
The magician was carrying a lot of weight; had long silky hair, tucked out of sight for most of the show; his manner was engaging. There was tea or coffee and a biscuit in the interval: welcome because they'd been driving and were cold. It was warm in the hall. Very little had been done to the script except to insert a few local references; a fish shop, a pub, the swimming pool, the Spinnaker. Other little twists that would have been obvious in the metropolis had been overlooked. Such as mixing the genders of the jewels, so there would be masculine as well as feminine, cutting out the sacred from the nonsense recitation, and changing the Chinese Laundry Song. Sixty miles inland such things would not have passed. The man who played the widow in voluble drag, was, however, extremely persuasive.
 
One third of the total of children on stage at any minute filled the national quota. Plump and moving with no co-ordination. Accompanied at all times by a pleasant-looking woman with middle-aged hands. As if to encourage but also their minder. The costumes must each have been made to measure. Tyranny of the end-of-term performance. Her mother, trying to construct a beagle's tail in black spotted satin on a padded piece of wire. Why were the dogs from the hunting scene not in the finale? They were fobbed off with, "Better luck next year!" which was hardly the point. Sitting in their tutus in the stalls, and eating peppermints which had the magic property of making you less nervous - or so the school friend claimed.

Their waitress at dinner was wearing a mini-skirt and black suspender-stockings, welted top just visible. Unclear whether this was her regular uniform or, since it was New Year’s Eve, fancy dress. The man with son and daughter and six motor vehicles had suddenly lost his sullen expression (his attention as a rule on the nut to be adjusted) and turned up in waistcoat, watch and cardboard topper - following Tenniel to the stroke. A Dr Seuss feline with cut-out paper cheeks arrived a little late, arranging her cravat - a shame, but most people had voted by then. There were two Ali Baba's in Egyptian robes purchased 'for nothing' on Nile / Danube trips. One in a fez inaccurately sized, as if churned out by the hundred. Beneath it, his long English-bloodhound face perfectly enacting the retired ex-pat. That too was natural. There must have been real disappointment - given the effort expended on the clothes - at not being voted. Such children they all were! The winner not so much dressed up as grown into; fictional spinster, amateur detective. Her tweed suit a triumph of the understated.
 
On the wooden table outside a cafe, a large ginger cat, white patch beneath its chin. Comfortable, apparently, in spite of the damp (the surface must warm up with the heat of the body). Ears pricked up but otherwise impervious to barks or conversation, it twitches out a leg. Immobile for a moment with the one limb extended and its head thrown back - as if to verify the location of the itch - then swings into a quick-fire volley of a scratch.