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

The poet longs to see Turkey & Korea, & at the same time
                     he is not unhappy to be a prisoner of a village
                     in Alberta.

The poet is wide awake to the politics & war of the present
                     moment, but he is also convinced that the Roman
                     Empire still has its legions in all of Western
                     Europe.

The poet tells the truth when he writes that his woman is
                     his whole Earth, but he also wants to go to bed
                     with every pretty girl he sees.

The poet knows that everything he writes is a failure & a
                     lie, but he loves all the poems he has made.

The poet knows that he can never tell the truth, but he knows
                     that it would be the worst lie of all not to
                     try to tell the truth with real hope in his soul.

The poet knows there is no God, & he prays to him; he knows
                     that Satan does not exist, & he prays to him as
                     well.

The poet does not believe in money, but he is frugal, & he
                     wants the poor of the world to have the world’s
                     cash.

The poet does not believe that truth can be discovered in the
                     academies, but he teaches in the academies, &
                     searches there for the truth.

The poet knows that perfection is silent, & fills the air with
                     words, exhorting the air to be perfect.

The poet hates war, & is the world’s best soldier.

The poet hates poverty, & deliberately makes himself poor.

The poet hates politics, & enters the election campaign with
                     his heart.

The poet hates laws, & finds law to be the highest beauty.

The poet worships beauty, & takes the ugliest animal or
                     person to his breast.

The poet worships art, & tries to breach its walls & tear its
                     buildings down to the last lonely stone.

The poet worships the naked human form, & sets about to clothe
                     it in the globe’s finest raiment.

The poet exhults with the winner, & lies down to bleed with
                     the loser.

The poet damns editors, & longs to be an editor.

The poet laments the death of the natural forest, & drives
                     down the superhighway at 100 miles an hour.

The poet breaks the Ten Commandments, & praises them as the
                     greatest poem ever to come down off a mountaln
                     top.

The poet writes all over his notebooks, & knows there is nothing
                     more beautiful than a blank sheet of paper.

The poet wants every man in the world to speak the same tongue,
                     & laments the death of a language he can not under-
                     stand.

The poet knows that death is the most terrible of possible
                     enemies, & he loves him.

The poet will not stand by & watch the death of poetry, but
                     he covers the poetry-killer with kisses.

The poet knows that the poems he writes make people say that
                     he is incomprehensible, but he writes his poems,
                     trying with them to make people understand.

The poet knows that governors hate him for his poems, but he
                     sends poems to the governors, looking for love.

The poet desires above all else to be the ultimate lonely
                     bachelor of individual liberty, but he enters
                     into marriage bonds every day.

The poet seeks to humble himself below every person & every
                     thing, all the time knowing that he is the sovereign 
                     of all domains.

The poet knows that his art, his body, his ideas, all live only 
                     in that they are on their course toward death, & 
                     yet he is always preparing for life.

The poet spends his whole life writing his long poem for you, 
                     & when he at last gives it to you, he hopes you 
                     will tear it to pieces without reading it, & clasp 
                     him in your arms, & then poetry will be no more.

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