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

Michael O’Neill manages to make neat poems out of very little. I say that not in a derogatory way, because most of us have limited experiences and ideas, and originality isn’t in abundance among either poets or the populace generally. In O’Neill’s case, his subject-matter - drawn from his childhood, academic involvements, and domestic concerns - isn’t very exciting, but he does construct short, carefully-written exercises around it. He was born in Liverpool, but seemingly lacks the distinctive hallmark of the accent, something he remarks on almost wistfully:

Our Liverpool Catholic background?
We boast it like a badge, but
don’t share the nasal twang which warms
this pub to life. Just open your mouth
and it’s there, the spirit of a city.

     He moved on, to Oxford and then a teaching post in a university, so we get the appropriate references:

Today a student riled by Beckett left
me fuming, smiling.

     And, of course, he’s conscious of the clash between the attractions of the ivory tower and the demands of the everyday:

We’d meant to mooch off early that last Sunday,
broach some serious talk - Rilke, God…
Instead, we found ourselves wheeling the kids,
imperious in their buggies, to the Parks.

     I’m reminded of those 1950s American academics who, it was said, could change a nappy with one hand and write an ironic poem with the other. You had to smile wryly and admire their little achievements if you were in a similar position. And perhaps that is the assumption behind so many of these poems, that the likely readers will be familiar with the situations they talk about?

I’m tap-tapping words into this weird box.
Trowel in hand, you kneel beside flowers.

     The successful young academic at his word-processor, the good woman busy in the garden. All’s right with their world.