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

‘Oxford’ to me means shoes, not spires,
Oxford lace-ups, dung-coloured, sensible,
embarrassing shoes, for long walks or school -
not for a party, not with blue satin,
my brand-new, hand-me-down blue satin,
cerulean blue, the blue of Paradise,
the Queen of Heaven’s heavenly blue colour.

But I had no sartorial rights,
being a child, although cursed with taste
and I didn’t know, then, about the incident.

The Church of Our Lady of the Visitation
was a sort of shed church with bad ventilation
and a short priest in a varnished, cardboard pulpit.
He was preaching about the lilies of the field
and of God’s interest in and care for sparrows,
telling his congregation not to worry,
God would provide and all things would be well.

His voice moved softly among the candles
and the statues of St Joseph and St Anne
which were muffled up, purpled for Lent.
Each Station of the Cross was burnished bright
for Good Friday and the all-night Vigil.

And it was worse than someone fainting
when my mother stood up, shouting in the sermon
‘When will He provide my kids with shoes, then?’
and stamped out, banging the draughty doors.

It was worse than the theft of the collection boxes,
worse than the May Queen laughing
when she crowned Our Lady’s statue.
It was worse than the statue toppling,
when they took the corner too fast by the Odeon.
It was worse than running out of Communion wafers
on a clammy Easter with the Bishop waiting.

But it wasn’t as bad as when the Presbytery caught fire
after the feast of St Patrick one March evening
and they said it wasn’t even much of a party.

Meanwhile I went to my own party glumly
in Oxford brogues and hand-me-down sky-blue gown.