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

Did I?
or…
It must have been Doug.

Doug that dreamed the abbey.

An abbey of humps, just mounds
nothing you see
fields of fire-spawn, ‘lion-seed, morning-stuff (tragocanth)
like so much
land forget
sun-planned derelict

I never

yes you did

you

it was obvious

alerted the appropriate authorities

I said:
it was obvious
regular
symmetrical

we pretended them to be dragons’ heads
or boxes with horses

something a buried castle

we play
we provide

you could balance and run

it wasn’t just mud or tip-line
it was wall in it
solid, I could see it

we could all see it

nothing

until the men turned up, theodolytes, with yellow helmets, men

then

I told them.

*

To the escalator (on one side)
CRESS GARDENS…EARLY GRAPES…
             SUN PARADE OF HENRY VIII,
all that
and
TREATY OF... CHARTER... ABBEY
up the escalator.
also.

O omen.

*

There was the good news.
There would be an abbey and a shopping centre.

Like having twins.

Like two-for-the-price-of-one.

Like:

Oh.

(That is good news)

*

For we deal with a living landscape.

Not sweet sensuous hills, dips,
active hard-hat rivers
and purple-headed mountain!
figures
places sleeping myths

Not imbued
          meaning
          measure
          motive
          and maybe
          malice

with its non magnetic veins and sleeping/waking shifts
orifices, exits, that sort of thing.

No way.

(Me, too, called out Shim.
I found a sword in the river.
It was Anglo-Saxon.
At least.
Or)

Better to say,
a landscape we lived in.
conveyed life,
made to share our living
and every day

stones to jump
trawl rivers
knock the seeds out wide
at his gate

the playground
fittingly    burialground

merry-go-round

a Living Room
(sez Ulli)

thinking of all the past Living Rooms
it’ll be different this time.

*

Of course, we always knew there was an abbey there, said
                                                                                          officialdom.
The river site.
The proximity of the watermill.
Likely to be a traditional mill-site.
And again the river.
Some documents, but we lost them.
We didn’t expect to actually....

*

For the Sultan summoned his viziers.
“I want a map, a chart, a record of my kingdom.”
They began with the lines.
Soon they had to add symbols.
For accuracy, the scale got...
And after a heated meeting they agreed...
The only useful scale was 1:1.

In some ways the result was cumbersome.
They only unrolled a bit of it before the Sultan’s throne.
But he was delighted.
“Unroll it all!”

By comparison,
what is underneath
may now seem perfectly dull.

“Underneath - they said - there will be a series of stone
                                                                              foundations,
walls, that sort of thing.
Or there will be, when we finish.”

We like tangible monuments.
Maybe only outlines.
But it has to be in stone.

There were diggers and barrows,
lots of trowels freshening up,
bits of string (big square, little square)
and more informed speculation than a betting shop
at the eve a great fight
which is relatively simple compared.
To?
crockery and earthed iron,
obles of baked tile, stains of refuse,
anomalies of rubber....

Hang on - said the People of the Supermarket -
Can we move the whole thing six foot north?

*

Doug in the newspapers.
Probably not.

Went to look.
But not much to see.

Something of an outline?
Fat, wide edges, and
-not square-
a rounded wall termination
and then ditches and boxes.
The round eastern end is called AN APSE.
This was the Abbey Church.

*

Well,
the high towers
that held the gate to the Eastern view
are slowed
left no secure keepers.
The altar was long ago borrowed
dock & syrupy golden rod are rooted for where were stone claws
a house for the snail.

*

Imagine a meeting
History and Carpark would be there, vying
Mr Merton and the unfuential voice of Multistore.
Abacus, the Astrologers wth their charts, and Everyman.
Zo eez finish? Now we vlatten an’ beel? Much our patience, our
                                                                           reward eez arrivé!
I say, I say, what no call no flatten stubby teeth level off
                     standard look smart Ministry of Works,
No, no past, dig up, gone, went, start anew, economic miracle,
                                                                    enjoy, hey Everyman?
Rumours. Druids. The round bit. I like that.

Zod this. Here store. Here carpark. Here muddy hole. In middle.
                                                                                                Mad.
Historia lifted her veil, id est furor, and settled her jaw:
Quoniam mysterium -
But the Sucker of Centuries stayed unheard.
Everyman knew what Douglas wanted.
We want a moat.
We want a store, with lots of elephants and toys to ride on, for
                                                                                          kids.
Then a middle bit. The ground-plan, the foundations, roofed over,
                  and viewed with windows, that will do fine.
Leads to carpark.

Enough is enough.
The dormitorium is a petrol tank now,
The cemetery the foot of an escalator.
It has all worked out.

The little ring of tithes and vellum echoes at the check-out...