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

1
Somewhere there is Grace, Lord,
Was I not told it as a child
When the sound of the sparrow
Filled my heart with delight
And the rain fell like friendship on my head.
     Now the call of the cuckoo
Cannot calm my aching heart
And my soul is tormented with fear.
     Have mercy, Lord, for I have travelled far
Yet all my knowledge is as nothing.
My days are numbered. Time titters
As I stumble down the street.

Forgiveness, O forgive me, Lord,
Close my critical eye
Take me to your breast
For how else may I die.

2
The tree waves in the wind
But does not break unless
The bough is over-burdened.
When spring disrupts the dead days
Buds, leaves, and birds praise God
In song and silent sound.

     The dead dock, stiff
With last year’s pride,
Leans unwillingly in the gale.

     My heart, Lord, is unyielding.
My joints are stiff
The knuckles of my knees
Refuse to bend.
The knife is at my neck,
My back breaks.

     I will say my matutinal prayers
From a crippled position,
Perhaps the Lord will hear?

3
I lived among lewd men
Beneath the Crouch End clock
Waiting for God to speak.
But my ears were dull
And what my brain received
My mind misunderstood.
So I took my mean heart to the hills,
Beside the Palace of Alexandra
Gazed on Barbican and grieved.
     Lord speak to me in the morning
     Or the night will be everlasting.
Now all the dogs of Dewsbury
Bay about my heels
And the foul water of the Calder
Weeps into the sea.

4
On the estate, Lord, the people
Take counsel one with another
And in the public house
There is lamentation.
The cost of living soars
Like wild duck rising
After morning feed.
Man has neither means nor meaning.
The cry of the young in the street
Rouses a protest in the market place.
     What shall I do, Lord?
Though I bring my sad soul
And place it at Your feet,
My mouth is bitter, for fear
Infects my hand and heart.
The pit of hell yawns wide
Before my floundering feet,
I slip, I slide, I fall,
I try to grasp a skylark
But it flies south for summer.
     My mind is melancholic,
     I cannot praise my maker.