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

Life
Its there with ice white colour, glacing frost and hot pools, wind howl, clinical haunting blue.
No print, no mechanic, fur brown and scraggly, barely allowing sight, enhancing the red in the wetness of paradise, huddle up to become unaware of any other existence.

Life
Its there in undulation of matted green, roaming cattle, farming control, battle of survival, beast and beast.
Trees high, deep fish-filled lakes of fight, birth current, eggs the rock under, naked men hunt with paint and a single earth weapon. Spring away from bigger thing, know your place within existence.

Life
Its there for millions to run and hide, no vision, forethought or plan, instant gain, robotic air, a day rarely differs from hideous humdrum and big yellow taxi.
Flags unite no-one, untie most, making laws not of survival, but of urban Jungle money fix. Slump over dead body, shot through In drug war desperado dig, colours to match the rest, clothes to cover the dressed, pills to run away from the sun and space of natural music and dance.

Life
It’s there in solitude, abstinence, commitment and creed, secret backdrop in mountain bell resound, the Inner gold of the mute world.
One man walks his pigeon step pilgrimage on built up grey paving, surrounded by swarm bags and hags of ‘Gucci’, he does not need to look to see whats on offer, the attention is on him for doing his shop of nothing, ding, ding, dong, along, the faces shit in fear, useless shoulder bags of crap to escape fully from within.
The silent carved wooden block, walking, flying the terrific and the traffic lights signal more and more death.

Life
Its the radiation deep death, underworld buzz of elemental passing, the megalithics, the cave hunts, standing, lying, chipped and wise, the growth legacy of human gold dust. Video-cam, evade what people don’t want to remind, knowledge is left at the backdoor with the dirty sports clothes and man’s best friend, tied tight to its hutch-kennel cage, with animal bone.
The telly is on and the Egyptian experience stays neatly packaged over the carpet, below the ceiling left of centre, positioned rigid and undaring.

Life
It’s the shamanic head, the dynasty of tree-people, love, love, love of being.
Tanned lithe bodies, jewels from the earth that hang up and down for spiritual worship. No soft skin, beauty in poverty, placed In country, not responding to order of order. People lump high, fixed, transfixed, focussed, careless, automatic breathing in receipt of power, environment and crops.

Life
It’s the river, dirty to others, spiritually clean with funeral sanctity and flower candle, floating nightly with dead oxen to wherever.
Petals at the feet on the edge of the world, submerging the faithful to another day in life. Skinny-boned, barely able to contemplate, they all watch the pyre claim its charred old victim, on the edge of the world, all over the world It changes the view for an instant, either retain or ignore.

Life
Its the one world beauty in all, it’s the rush and slow, colour and grey, the rain and drought, music in the still air of nothingness. It is everywhere, all the time and in time we place too much logic, we run from urges, it is a game of chance.
To be played in shakedowns, bingo-halls, cinemas, savannahs, sweat-shops, hotels, churches, sports arenas, temples, shops, markets, drinking parlours, fishing ponds, railway stations, houses and termite hills, in the sea-caves, sky worlds, in tree-dwellings, arctic caverns, under desert sand, in amongst piled up prison communities, life is so much the beat of the drum, inside dancing with the soul, inner lifes dependency on outer lifes existence . . . . . .