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

     12. Constellation somewhat resembling an onion? (5)

     13. Fish vessel used by motorists (3,4)

     What? She must have said something, or why would I have put down the newspaper? I wonder what she said? Maybe if I stare at her she will say it again. Tiresome woman, sometimes, immersed in trivia. I wonder how she lives down there, like a mud-bath or woodshavings —

     12. Constellation somewhat resembling . . . Orion, obviously, five letters, yes, ORION, ORIO . . . . . . . .

     What? She said it again. Waited till I was halfway through a clue, and then said it again. I suppose what she does is called nagging — that’s toothache pain. Trivia, yes, assuming greater importance than is . . . . . . . .

     Ah, so that’s it. I am terribly sorry, but wallpaper is Out of the question. It might be a sale, but I am a mere schoolmaster, and finance is not that . . . . . . . .

     3. Your initial salary will be at the rate of £ (Appropriate Burnham Scale) per annum, and will be payable monthly. Pay for incomplete months of service will be made pro rata for the days actually worked. Your salary will be reviewed annually in August, and any increase awarded will date from the 1st September following.

     Cerise? Match what chair-covers? Oh, for God’s sake . . . . . . . .

     Tuesday’s birthdays — You’ve no reason to complain about any lack of good fortune in the year ahead. You may even be embarrassed by the blessings heaped upon you and by the fantastic success of any financial scheme planned or ventured into during this period. Marriage ahead for the eligible. Very good year for parents . . . . . . . .

     Parents. Parents. That would be the last straw.

     The garden was still very green. Overgrown tangles of various rioting plants completely hid the footpath, making the route to the garden shed hazardous, and certain parts of the plot quite inaccessible. Enormous garden-spiders fattened down there, at the far end, behind the wild growth of what were once rose-bushes. Webs of incomprehensible size and complexity hung like futuristic architecture, layer upon layer, all over spiky, wiry green bushes of indeterminate species, and the trees were tied down by great sticky hawsers. There was a bicycle down there somewhere, weeping rust quietly at the memory of broad cool avenues, and the taste of summer winds, the tyres as flat as old ambitions. An ancient washing-line hung from a sycamore, embedded in the bark, and rotting helplessly. The ground, of which there remained little enough to be seen anyway, was being hidden day by day as the autumn leaves died and fell. The stones that bordered the path looked, where they were visible, as if they had been attacked by some sort of caries.

     Yes, I could do something about the garden, I suppose, but winter is coming on, and I could never finish before the cold weather froze the ground. Be stupid to do half now and half in the spring, and anyway I have lots of work to do. Very important term the first — pace not so hot after Christmas — oh, yes, G.C.E’s, certainly, yes, but listen, I’ll have them all in the right frame of mind by then, they won’t need so much supervision, and . . . . . . . . what? Hyacinths from Holland for Christmas? I don’t . . . . . . . .

     “The Dutch have spent over 200 years training their bulbs to bloom largest of all: hyacinths, tulips and daffodils, bright with living colours that dazzle away winter. It’s a magic the Dutch work with their smaller bulbs too — little masterpeices like the crocus, grape hyacinth and scilla”. 

     . . . . . . . . but . . . . . . . .

     “Hyacinths . . . . . . . . ”

     . . . . . . . . oh, Christ . . . . . . . .

     “. . . . . . . .  are excellent bulbs for forcing. They should be planted now in well-drained pots or pans. They don’t require the same sort of mollycoddling as Hippeastra, but they should be kept cool and shaded. They should also be kept moist. When the bulbs are sufficiently developed (about an inch of green) they can be brought into the room, but they should still be kept cool. This is usually around the beginning of December. When the bulbs start to bud, another cooling in subdued light helps their stems to lengthen, and at this time they may be taken into . . . . . . . .”

     She can probably keep this up for hours.

     The eaves drip with rain. A solitary shivering bird turns like a weathercock.

     Inside the gas-fire is half on.

     . . . . . . . . but I AM cold . . . . . . . .

     “On your salary you can’t afford to be cold”.

     Well, I can’t afford to be warm by your reckoning — no, I’m not trying to be clever. What’s for supper?

     Tierra del Fuego. Casablanca. Bali. Zanzibar. Madascar. Dar es Salaam. South Bromley. Christ.

     “Hippeastra need a high winter temperature of around 60 to 65 deg.F. (15.6 to 18.3 deg. C. day and night if you want them to bloom early — but they will flower in a cooler atmosphere later in the year. These bulbs need the most pampering; they should be lightly watered for the first fortnight; never stand them in water. Hippeastrum bulbs which are specially prepared should be potted around the middle of October. Ask for Christmas bulbs and full instructions from your dealer: different varieties often demand different methods. After your bulbs have flowered and died, cut oft the withered blooms and leave the bulbs in containers with water. When the foliage withers, store in a dark place for replanting next year”.

     “. . . . . . . . and what about those hyacinths? We could . . . . . . .”

     (Hyacinthus. a beautiful lad, beloved of Apollo, was accidentally slain by a blow from his quoit. From his blood sprang the flower that bears his name).

     “. . . . . . . . keep them in the larder”.

     Stuff ‘em up your nose for all I care.

     Quiet here. Nobody comes around anymore. I remember when I was a young student — eager-beaver scientist, bushy black beard, chattering excitedly about all the things we were learning — research, that was where it seemed to be leading me.

     Long, long evenings with coffee and chess and chat. An enormous circle, all knowing and understanding. The private shorthand of fellow students — running the whole gametes from M to F — Callum was a strange one, passionate to hysteria almost, and Williams, a drunken oaf, brilliant in the seminar. I wonder what happened to everyone. Why does no-one keep in touch? Is it her and her strange ways, her meaningless proprieties? I remember “Don’t invite him again, will you; I won’t have people using language like that in front of me in my own home”. How bloody trivial.

     Sometimes I feel like sending her into the street naked and cursing her foully from the bottom of my heart at the top of my lungs . . . . . . . . 

     8. You may be dismissed without notice or payment in lieu of notice for misconduct, or conduct prejudicial to the good name of the school, or for any other urgent cause.

     Pure research, yes; do a bit of teaching until . . . . . . . . but I thought she was with me    just a bit of teaching.

     Well, not really a biology teacher, headmaster, but I suppose I could . . . . . . . .

     It was stated in chapter 1 that perhaps the most remarkable activity of living organisms is their ability to create new ones like themselves. Plants and animals are not immortal and must, therefore, reproduce before death overtakes them in order to ensure the perpetuation of the species. This process of reproduction is characteristic of all living things; it is achieved either as the result of two special nuclei from different sources meeting and fusing, or by the separation of some part from the parent. The first type is known as ‘Sexual Reproduction’, and the . . . . . . . .

     Just a bit of teaching before the setting up in pure research . . . . . . . .

     “Er . . . . . . . . Mr . . . . . . . . er . . . . . . . don’t you think that beard is a trifle shall we say, florid, for an establishment of this nature?”

     Yes, headmaster, let’s say florid. Over and over until we’re all sick to death of it.

     What do you mean ‘What have you done to the toaster?’ I haven’t touched the bloody toaster. I will use whatever language I please in my own house . . . . . . . .

     Not like it should be at all. I should be surrounded by admiring assistants, discovering elemental truths never before suspected. The Nobel Prize. I keep getting to the wrong prize-giving — Bullivant of 4B, for Good Attendance — not the same at all — and this bloody woman, used to be a girl — quiet, thoughtful, even beautiful sometimes. And I lost everything, right down to the beard, the finest of my props.

     She shouldn’t still be talking. Playground duty at 8.45 a.m. I have to get some sleep. I suppose she wants me to make love to her.

     We sweep the refuse of our days under the carpet of our nights. Is this all the conjugal bed is for?

     I am a household rabbit.