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

This crusty July, blackfly
       And other small, moist flies —
              Whiskers so thin
              They are not felt on skin —
Liking a dry July
       Interrupted the performance
       Of the opening of some flowers.

Nasturtiums’ circus balance
       Of little heads and great wheels
              Went heeling sideways
              Under the puny flies’
Procession of slow advance —
       Who could be changed to grease
       By a thumb flicked over a leaf.

And as a leaf I picked
       I saw my fingers smeared with the dead
              And I hated this meek
              Giving-up of ghosts by black
Destructive pests, too quick
       To surrender their flash of daylight,
       — As if a cloud had wiped cows from a field

Everything is eating or eaten
       The compost heap drives its mill as
              Seeds in it sprout
              Castaway plants open out
Into the heat of the garden,
       While nasturtiums here big as umbrellas
       Wear a bright display of caterpillars,

Which have eaten between the spokes.
       Brisk as ponies, three abreast
              They scythe their lanes
              Through sweet and pepper greens
That chequered caterpillars make.
       No other leaf they like to taste;
       Nasturtium their nurse and hostess.

Transparent as your eyelid
       Is this tender leaf’s skin,
              It holds no reflection
              Yet in the sun’s direction
Is seen, in health, glittered
       With the tips of a pin
       That fade at the first bruising.

Green ivory the stalk
       Snapping with rich oils
              That pulse and push
              To a great umbrella bush
And thrust into gravel walk
       Long messengers on bicycles
       Balancing umbrellas at rightangles.

Of such juices are made caterpillars.
       I put seven in a tray
              With a window of glass
              To watch them ripple past,
Scything from the edges
       Of seven round leaves a day
       And growing — until the 28th of July.

Chosen as con jurors and given
       Cells that bloom like water flowers,
              They do not play
              But heartily try
To prove with perfect conjuring
       Dear life, if dear enough, allows
       A blind dive into a hatful of shadows.

They ate no more. A whisper told
       Them: ‘Caterpillars, all begin!’
              Through the night
              They dryly ran about
Until one spun a puff of mould
       To fix his end on, then, to plan,
       He spat a thread to fix him upside down.

Doubled back he spat
       And spun thirty threads in one
              Till he lay within a loop
              Tethered over his fourth hoop,
This thread to keep off bird or rat
       Or the wind or houses falling down,
       For he would melt and hope to live again.

Now all the bright ponies are still
       From Highgate to Angmering,
              For three days wait
              Heads bent in a praying shape,
Contracted and stiffened until
       They recede from the surface dizzily, with pain,
       At speed they take leave of their eyes, legs, brain.

Something has so altered in the night,
       Surely the wind changed to make this?
              The racking caterpillar gone
              And a pale nymph lightly borne
Under the old thread. Might
       It be a ghost? The mask on its face
       Has a beak of gold. It is like a little fish!

It is like a waxen fish
       Filled with green leaves
              With a veiny hint
              Of two wings’ imprint,
With a waist, with a twitch-
       ing tail, with a sheaf
Of yellow dots. It is hooded like a witch.

It has come among us hooded
       And it has no bones!
              It cannot walk
              It wears a long cloak
But is also naked;
       It is the skin round albumen,
       The caul, the bag about the yolk.

It is nothing but a bud
       Too late for the spring,
              It will wither away
              It will never be a flower,
It will shrink without food,
       It is a vegetable swelling,
       A cyst, a nodule that grew one morning.

It is just a bit of dirt,
       It never grew at all,
              The dropping of a hen
              Got in from the garden,
It will smooth itself out
       Like a table, like a floor, the material
       Of houses; it will spread into a wall.

Oh I cannot make it go
       Though I kill it with my eyes.
              It’s a castle of glass
              It’s a door I cannot pass
It’s a hill of snow
       It’s an aviary wrapping round the skies,
       It’s an aquarium; it’s a bed for butterflies

I have been a stalk, a leaf,
       A grub, a fish with beak of gold.
              I fear the dark
              With a double knock
And I hate intruders — that’s the truth.
       And here’s the truth: I am half dazzled
       By a fancy, violent and old.

Leave a frog and find a dove,
       Find a dish of blackberries
              Where a snake crept,
              Find an owl in a cobweb
Where a hare slept. Improve
       On these — no metamorphosis
       Awful as caterpillar to chrysalis.

Stare till you’ve insects in your eyes,
       To see will not this trick explain:
              Head in two
              Nymph bursting through,
Legs and face but worn-out clothes,
       Handsome skin rolled to a hairy grain
       By the faceless babe it could not contain.

A hairy grain is all I spy
       Of the caterpillar proud
              In his carpet coat
              Who so lovingly ate
The burning juices of July;
       Who spun his noose and cast his shroud
       And slept on the groundsheet of the dead.

Unborn are the butterflies of the south
       And the caterpillars gone.
              Images of August
              Are carried in these chaste
Cases which have no mouth
       To lap the rivers of the beans
       Tumbling up out of the ground,

Or touch the peas’ cool paste.
       Filled with the dying and the growing in the wrath
              Of their commission
              To achieve transfusion,
Then I can break but not awake,
       Nor hurry that congealing drop of breath
       To build myself one butterfly on earth.

As a face at window palely pressed
       Moves, leaving the glass dark,
              So now this bottle
              Darkens, though a full
Rigged ship awaits tomorrow’s test
       Of spindle spars and stays. The clock
       Tells fourteen days have passed in the ark.

Fourteen days, and then a crack!
       A skull-grey face with tendril-coiled
              Antennae; wet
              Wings, in folds yet
Of greenish gold with spots of black,
       And a grey fur back, walk like a child
       Unbalancedly into the world.

The involutions of her early wings
       Invite a finger’s cruelty
              To know the damp
              Place where she once dwelt,
Or to deface and itself win
       From each cold hollow, guiltily,
       Some of the dews and dustings of her beauty.

She walks like a boat on the beach
       Dragging her drying sails,
              While the last
              Memory of her past
Shakes from her tail: a bead
       Of amber dew, unnoticed as the shell
       That husked and housed her in its brittle walls.

Climber of curtains, long she’ll not hang there;
       Taut are her wings and head-dress.
              She will feed on sweet
              Slippets but will never eat.
She will find her answering angel in the air.
       She will lay her eggs upon nasturtiums’ crease
       And will not remember the taste of the leaf.

Suddenly she is soundlessly flapping across the broad
       Floor of the air without a trial;
              The sun takes her
              Across to the blue buddleia.
Out of her depths in air she is not afraid.
       When she reaches the tree she finds it full
       Of her own shapes and becomes indistinguishable.