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

It’s really quiet. A low hum from the fridge-freezer. A child’s voice in the distance. Hardly any movement. The notebook almost still-life. Or maybe an album of snapshots. Self-portraits. Self-stalking. Self in repose. Self eating. Self gazing out the window. I’ve always been the man alone in a room. Even whilst out walking. Or in the company of others. Only now have I realised it. Perhaps some knew it all along. Sunday afternoon. A man alone in a room by the window. A couple walk by outside. He smiles at them. Perfect, they are each other’s room. I am the man inside the room. And I am the room itself.

. . . . .

You’re on the corner. Rain splashes down. You can hardly see a hand in front of you. Rain drips from your hair, over your eyes, into your mouth. I want to touch you, but can’t get within reach. You’re beautiful. An image in my mind and an image before me in the cold wet night. I want to touch, want to hear words fall from those lips; but you will remain forever silent, forever lonely. Always standing in darkness. I watch you shiver in the street. If only I could touch you - the way you touch me. If only.

Something behind me. Footsteps. The man crossing the street seems to be taking forever. My gaze is fixed until his left shoe hits the kerb opposite. He turns, raises a hand, waves then disappears through a door. Something strikes me. Very odd that I actually saw him at all, the fog so thick. Was he really there?

I turn to the spot where you are standing; how could I see anything here at all? I raise my left hand but there’s nothing except the coldness of the wall that destroys my vision.. It’s hard to breathe now. The fog chokes me. I’m numb. Numb and blind. Can’t see a hand. Who was that man I saw? Can’t think when or where I’ve seen that face.

Lost in this place, stumbling through the fog I feel as though I’ve aged one hundred years In one hundred seconds. Dizzy. Disorientated, like a drunken fool who can’t remember the way home, can’t tell you his own name. Sinking through something into nothing; drifting nowhere within the cold, wet night.

. . . . .

Summer confuses me. I never know quite which way to turn. The words Sunshine Filled With Love spin round in every corner of my mind. Every year. without fail. Conflict. An Aquarian. I once read somewhere that we tend to frequent every planet in the solar system except little Mother Earth. Don’t believe a word; if there’s a way out I can’t find it

Arrive home at approximately 5.15 pm Out of breath and soaked with sweat, pulse racing. The last of the energy gets the mountainbike over the doorstep, out of harm’s reach - thieving hands have sharp eyes. Rip of f the shirt, turn on the cold water tap, give myself a cool off. Collapse onto the couch. Or sleep on the nearest chair for an hour or two.

Once I’m awake again an intense hunger forces me to the kitchen. A little music and a cup of coffee. The room fills with steam. Carrots and potatoes boiling in a large pan. The lid rattles, the stomach rumbles. Monday to Friday I always eat alone, I know my place. Summer confuses me. The feet dance and the fingers Itch, begin tapping the table-top. Restless, restless, restless.

No rain falls. The sky isn’t grey. Laughing children a reminder there’s a world beyond the four walls. A reality beyond the one I’m facing. The mind wanders down by the riverbank. A boy is looking at a large stone, smooth save some carefully chiselled Initials and a date. 1952. What would it be like, being alive forty years ago? He hops up onto a rock and peers down into the murky water, still cold-looking despite the July heat. He takes out his small leather purse and lets a new pound coin slip into his palm. He looks closely for the date. 1992. Then he throws it into the blackness. The water breaks, there is light in his eyes.

He hears a noise. Something rustles the grass behind him. Turning sharply, he sees me squatting by a fallen tree. His face, something about his face. Recognition. We both realise who we are. We both run forward to greet each other. I see that his face is my face. “I have found myself at last!” we cry. A moment later the image fades.