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

ANY HUGE AND REAL OCCURRENCE (thus impact) occurring in a human life (or other) can fit into the frame of fairy tale (I get mine from spreading out on the living room rug with a pillow because in the city I am huge and nearly fill it).

This one happens because someone who could preach about judgment day, did; not necessarily a born or chosen prophet (outside of the arguments about ecstasy and prophecy, meditation, music and chanting, union or communion with God [or even the question of God], and the methods and means of its production [I will meet you there, outside of right and wrong]), but one who can somehow articulate judgment, make it real and palpable, bring it to life in the eyes of those who see or even hear her, so perhaps a vehicle of judgment (and to a lesser degree [a preacher, a cantor, a maggid], the resurrection of the dead - every one believes in a sort of hell, it’s only the whole zombie fetish that’s new [the past thousand years]), the channel that, by nature or calling, or force, can be used by the people of the congregation to ascend, or for divine fruit, holy influx, decree, judgment or blessing to descend. The true cynics would say she could be suppressed / she could be stuffed in a small box in Minnesota and virtually never heard, a population of fifty-four; the frightened parents and ecstatic attempts among you may say she would still make an impression, those a little further along will feel the actual impression she makes, might have felt her churning; a number of you couldn’t care less... but she is not in a box; not in a box unless you consider the one she wears, that one she carries on a little shoulder strap and stands on, the ornate marble one she preaches from in her loft, the rectangular one with legs she sits on while at the piano; she is not in a box, unless you mean her ribcage, and even then you’d be wrong a surprising amount of the time: she circles the audience like a ghost, like a spirit, like the holy spirit, like the word like didn’t/doesn’t exist: in a very low, unmonotone pontification, inverbal vocal articulation (notes crossed between Blues and Indian), she exits with her voice and takes the crowd with sustained vocal cycles from her satellite dish, zigzags in one ear and out the other, and don’t take this too lightly -

She makes it to New York City, finds money, promotes herself, puts her voice on radio and television in short commercials, clips, almost inadvertently piped into Wall Street, inadvertently except for her... she lulled them into it, a singer, yes; showed a glimmer of her Self (aroused passion) and was requested for more, teased and waited until she had enough control, until she could get whatever she wanted, and then let loose -

judgment day.