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

The projectionist is about to speak     lightning X-rays him
suddenly     he falls dark again, and resumes: the sapling, a
friendly slim personage just slipping out of the brickwork
he is so sensitive to the weather that when he dies the elements
will simply move him apart     like a game of draughts     a pride
of white lions     with ivory dung     shot with gold     a mirror
full of ponderous clockwork     a pond full of mirror-fish
a clockwork smoke     a flying custard, very svelte     a great
tree falling like a feather, without sound     a flowering fern like
a moth's antenna     made stones singing with a high voice that
turns into a misty rain     in the deserted churchyard     rain in
which all vehicles dissolve     except ambulances     the voice of
God like brushstrokes coming up off the canvas     the caterpillar's
eggs set in the grey hedges of the brain     impart chrysalis-dreams
of horny chandeliers     turn the light on     butterflyshadows
wing through the ballroom     through the wood whose presiding
shade dapples him with shattering queries     her tongue in my
mouth is branching like an antler     now the circle's broken
the mirror is sliding in     something white is caught in the
valves     I can hear it crying out     a quietly chiming peacock
feather made of dew and thin metal   that rings aloud like churchbells
in the frost as the bird walks in under the waterfall     his chunky
flesh lying curled up around him     hugging the crystal ball
reflected in the mother o'pearl walls and ceiling     a silver-tailed
mermaid with grass turf mask     seen from the randy promenade
under the gallows     the complex sea-gates like a lobster's jaws
    like a salivating mecanno-set the key to the gates
is an Ordinary Seaman, rigidly at attention     my eyes the blue
attic of my head     my seascape, one half of which is paralysed
a shell on the beach made of gunfire and thunderstorms     angels
turn above the sea     scorching their wooden dresses     electricity
crackles and flames among their bunches of keys