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

i.
          Driftwood
              Driftriver
                  Driftsea
                      Drift suns

ii.

Tuesday evening. October 26th 1999

out walking against a very low tide
across the sands, golden and vermillion
evening light -

                     in the sky
             high mackerel clouds
      silvering low sun glints
striations of crossbeam lower bands
     of cloud         glowing from deep reds
          bruised purples      and stunning oranges
to deep red-orange
           beneath a horizontal translucent blue
   rising to glowing aquamarines above a deepening
close to ultramarine sky

- later, in the night, high winds
      and far out to sea
          the thunderous roar of waves.

iii.

Sunday, October 24th 1999

          found a tiny purple flower
       on a small succulent plant
          at dune’s edge

          many people visiting the low
       tide, children on half-term:
          are children ever half term?

iv.

Wednesday evening, October 27th 1999

High winds and voluminous clouds
scuttling, blowing out to a flimsy blackened vapour

open the window for a rush of fresh air and in come the huge bloody black marsh flies

the jet's return, those ‘roaring boys’ sky diving plunge over the spit at Pembrey, ak-ak of gunfire, bombing booms, looping at today’s low-tide the light flicks changing the exposed riverbed from a brown-grey mud-god to a fluorescent golden yellow sand-god

little flocks of sanderling
sweep over the edge of the dunes

v.

Thursday evening, October 28th 1999

Leaning out of the window in an attempt to describe the panorama of Llansteffan and the angular fronds of the autumnal golden dune grasses against this morning’s mill-pond estuary high tide in the soft gentle breeze on a blanket grey day, with all the words I can muster

and the post arrives, nothing for me
except the sight of the above knee skirted
beautiful post-woman delivering everyone else’s mail…

vi.

Friday night, November 5th 1999

for Deena & Jill

These winds take no solace,
these winds take no captives,
these storms lift the whole house.
Waves after waves crashing over the sands.

Orion sideways / Orion lengthwise -
Betelgeuse & Rigel guardians in the aftermath
of storm, wind rage, the velocity spray rains.
The estuary lies open with the terrible weather
descending north, as there’s a clear starlight
at the rivers mouth beckoning transformation;
it yields a moment’s peace from the torrent of atmospheric
                                                                                  negativity.

Way above the illuminated castle’s shadow
the Seven Sisters up there somewhere
and below Orion’s belt, that misty smudge of his nebula.
And then he says “Likewise moonless -
in Belgrade you’d see these sights,
in Llangranog you’d see these same delights.”

Exotic women from all over the World
starburn and starbright, seren, zvezde;
our children, your children, the transforming stars.

Then fireworks in the fireworld -
the innocent explosives - the fires
either side of the estuary - the calls
of excited children - holding ‘sparklers’
and then the “starbombs” and the “starbursts”
never diminishing Orion’s starlight

vii.

Tuesday/Wednesday, November 16-17th 1999

haunted day grey cloud bound blanket
short lit the god of the calm river dis-
appears into the sea like an empty breath

a day of boredom, sleep and nothing, too
empty in the spirit trough to sing out into
the urgent remedy for life beyond working

come afternoon the tv flickers into panacea
rescuing the nadir of persistent Welsh drizzle
into a news omnibus correspondent media mist

from the deep the semaphore of avoidance
enters into closure the parade of panic
suffocates pain depths into soft sleep...

(This section of the poem follows Armand Schwarner's poem 'the Tablets': ......... = text is missing; ++++ = text is untranslatable)

...at 2:30am            awake with an urgent energy
the river god bangs on my head,         out across
the bay      a luminous sepia night         the cloud

breaks                 rushing out to see the heavens
the boy              from the land called lost
he discovers the sky        falling with exploding lights

he whispers         ... save me O queen of the Leonids
the stars are                               falling from the skies
here, there  quicksilver sparks scoring starburnt eyes

                             as threads in the nights textile they fall
from the quilt                   of stitches, pearled into lanterns
of star bursts        igniting the night into meteor day

the heaven bound boy               is rescued by the lights
his land now       a quilt for dreams, the icy mist returns
the river god’s      breath condenses      into soft clouds

(next day the weather girl regrets that cloud prevented everyone seeing the Leonids, except she says just here at around 3am was a small gap in the cloud just above the Cower in South Wales...
“…Llansteffan darling, Llansteffan” I reply….)

viii.

Wednesday, December 15th 1999

The Little Dog Terrier

for Craigie Aitchison

Out at the beach
bleached white by winter
glowing with a million stars
called shells

there’s a little dog terrier
with brown pricked ears
wagging his tail
at a crow on an old drift
wood stump
barking at the low sun

arghk arghk arghk arghk
it barks
and the little dog terrier
wags his tail

as a woman in black
leather trousers with blonde
hair and a Fair Isle jumper
and green wellingtons
walks towards the glistening sea

she turns back and calls
to the little dog terrier
“Come Sparky, come!”
but the crow on the old drift
wood stump still barks

arghk arghk arghk arghk
at the low sun,
so, the little dog terrier
stays
and wag wag wags his tail

ix.

7.40am, Saturday January 1st 2000

to broker light, to
tessellate the dawn
with words & numbers
for peace & equanimity,

curlew calling oyster-
catcher piping, spent
out over estuary
and the firework case

silent murmurs between
the chorus of usherers,
then voices exploding
the gunpowder laden fog

in the sunball brilliance
on water’s celebrations,
a suite of sanderlings
flurry over waters’ edge

verb intransitive, verbify
nouns to twist tenses
to speak intuition &
vivfy the spirit’s senses

cold air, condenses
warmth & meaning,
& the river calends
another year’s square

x.

Sunday afternoon, January 2nd 2000

there are many people,
oh and there’s a sailboat, little heart

wave to the wavers
on the train, bark the dog, little heart

pick up driftwood
for the fire, carry home the tree, little heart

there are many birds,
oh and there’s a dead cow, little heart

listen to the children
singing - drum the oil-drum, little heart

I shall wear a piece
of the sea’s flotsam - recycle the world, little heart

there are many people,
oh and there are limits, little heart

xi.

Sunday night, Monday morning. January 2nd / 3rd 2000

deep night brings the justice of day, combined nations
devise a treaty against genocide: clearly nonsense

the communication of dolphin eludes; science poorly
adequate to explain too much: our arrogance astounds

digital pathways sure; vast swathes of data insure against
certain ignorances, but we do not touch intuition or

creative strokes that make little progress, much exploit
through the temptation is never far, greed commands

to denigrate a patience to alternative conscience: naked
commodity and prosperity must collude toward peace

yet how? when ethics and morality are compromised for
money to oil the gold-laden West: disproportions disperse

xii.

Wednesday morning, January 12th 2000

she levitates above his heat
brushing pubic hair
across his tip, stretching

the ache of selves yields
to the saturation of skin,
lover s immersion drops the body

the oral satisfaction of deep
kissing, the pleasure
and the giving, entwines

exquisite words breaking
silences to envelop passion
between inconfidence and confidence

release the safety to love
above the quiet and gentle space
to encounter dawning emotions

into a river of sensuality,
allowing harm to wash
into joy and desire -

trusting in gentle touch

xiii.

An escapee, February 2000

morning light
          across the night’s deep rains
                      produces a mirror film
                                  over the sands
man running
          in silhouette dog following
man throwing
          a stick the dog catches

          in the sunny glare
the dog stands
          & in the mirror glass
the trick

the dog, the man & stick
          become two herons

xiv.

Sunday - February 6th 2000

Hear a heart stop, hear the pain break
deep in the groin, persistent tears
and bruises - cold and white heat
as emotive impressions:

“What do you mean, i’ve gotta bloody hernia?”

My heart stops
            So I can hear the house
            sparrows, sing and chatter

about all that is Spring…

xv.

Sunday, February 13th 2000

Days of aqueous light, blackening
sands and hills enveloped in rain
drifts and cloud swathes. Brilliance
from light, breaks the sea’s edge with glare.

Birds grounded to pasture, keep
falcons in stalking stumps and posts.
Around dusk the goshawks rally
to the treetops, whilst buzzards alight

in trees for the night’s rain and gusts.
The weather rolls out the stars
and layers the ground with ice dust.
Inside the house of tiers I dream

of voices and children’s games,
connections to momentarily share
beyond that sunfilled day. Your
meditation from the red rocks

as I walked to the secret cove
where yellowhammers nest
and pipits foraged in the samphire,
I said your name like a falcon’s call.

Returning across the bay, you still
sit bathed in the falling sunlight.
I hurried toward you wishing
all your Irish kisses upon me.

Years ago one morning by a lake
a falcon came to visit; memory
keeps that day like crystal.
I stood underneath the cypress transfixed

at the banded barred breast and rufous
tail. On walking back I became that
hobby flying across the sands,
my eyes fixed on you for half a mile…

(The Hobby, falco subbuteo, a small swift falcon.)

xvi.

7.45-8.45 pm, Monday March 6th 2000

It’s the night of toads adorning the streets
croaking quietly in copulating couples -
I hunker down to watch their mating.
Nope not a voyeur, just out to post a love letter!
My torch switches the paths and gardens
to rescue the sandy-coloured critters
from the tombs of heavy boots and car tyres.

The little males hang on tight
to the fat sweet females, running
across the gravels, pavements and tarmac.
The torch beam stops them mid-flight
in coitus interruptus and suspended animation.
The rain’s fine wet juice sweats on their warty bodies.

In no more than one hundred yards I’ve counted eighty,
by the time I’ve reached the roads mile
all I sense is a toad-fast of Bufo calamita,
the Natterjack, out for that special night of lovemaking.
Returning, back along the dunes to the road
they’ve gone, scarpered to the spawn troughs of pools.

xvii.

Wednesday, March 15th 2000

Look suppositories on the beach?
No, no they’re sheep!

Dead ones. Carcasses of night
floods pouring down the Tywi
beachwrecked by the tide’s flight.

3 coastguard men survey the scene.
2 Environmental Health, then the JCB
from the council, them MAFF and the DoE.

1 Limousine bull, 1 Freisian cow
and 11 sheep and 2 lambs:
a landslide, barrenness and an insurance
job for 60p’s worth of unwanted rams (?)