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

One: Morning

I
Plans past and plans future
both perhaps sour plans present.
What might have been and what has been
lead to one conclusion -
a mother’s place is in the wrong.

II
Round the still point of the manic morning
whirls the early Monday chaos -
homework, sick notes, hockey sticks,
racquets, morning snacks, back packs -
swirled from hall to fridge to bedroom,
the hunt for cartons of juice and lost trainers.
Distracted from reaction by reaction,
inoperancy of co-operation,
desecration of the inner sanctum,
the wail of disconsolate children.

III
That was a way of putting it - not very child-friendly.
At this point there is only the clock
- which says eight. Go, go, go say the kids.
Their voices in the back
scrabble, squeal, disagree. We’re late
moving yet hardly moving in half-filled jeeps
that block the slow flow over the bridge.
See the faces brushed by terror,
see the road rage simmering -
not here, not the silence of deep sleep,
not the dead hush of the empty house.

IV
I drop them on a double yellow
breathing relief into cold air.
To arrive is to undo all our worrying
and know we’ve made it for another day.

V
The pram is in the hall.
The fog is in the fir tree.
A gym-slip sleeps on the briar rose.
Sibling jeers and slaps echo in the mind
down the hours of sleep never taken,
the plans never realised.

Two: Afternoon

I
In my morning is my afternoon,
in my afternoon my morning.
What might have been - meditation,
sun-tanning, novels, working late -
and what has been
remain a perpetual possibility in a child-free world.

II
So here I am in the middle of my life,
entre les années de liberté,
having largely wasted the magic of motherhood
measuring out my life with school runs.
Missed dates and unfulfilled goals
point to one cause
which is always overload.

III
In my pink-paint-peeling kitchen
I had not thought so much undone.
Ketchup-smeared plates, discarded crusts,
half-drunk bottles, blobs of jam,
crumbs and whirled bits of paper
smear and trash the space.
Plans before and plans after.
Clucking from one appointment to the next
mother love cannot bear too much triviality.

IV
A time for the afternoon pick-up,
A time for tea and a time for television.
Quick, now, here, now, Mummy, say the kids
demanding complete absorption.
Quick! Quick! Quick!
Hungry children cannot wait,
not now with the wink of the microwave
and the flat face of the wide screen blinking.
A time for homework and a time for play.
The clash of voices and slamming doors
all lead to one end
which is usually crossness.
Muddy feet tramping,
up and down, in and out,
mirth of youth, before the crease of wrinkles
and the slow slide into stodge.

Three: Evening

I
After the tear-swept bedtime
when the bath-water’s chilled and
the last battles waged and truces struck
will small fingers encircle my neck,
clutch and cling?
Will these children
drift into angel sleep?
Makura Om. Peace upon the pillow.

II
I shall not cease from exploration -
byeways and back roads, rat runs and cut-throughs -
and the end of all my commuting
will be to arrive where I started -
home - and see it for the first time.

III
Here, now, in the failing light
destiny is homebound and child-centred,
destiny is drawn in peanut butter.
When tiredness and headaches are one
and the roar of lost tempers fades
I slump upon the bed,
a condition of complete depletion
not uncommon in parents.

IV
But all will be fine
and all sorts of things will be fine
when clouds pass and reflections in the pool deepen,
young faces smile like sunflowers turned to me
or wild roses opening under the apple tree,
when the house is filled with laughter,
the sound of mine infolded with theirs
and the joy and the journey are one.