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

                    “. . . what are we doing with our art?” – Tony Harrison

Leaving the office late / abandoning the boss
On the verge of tears / where he struggles
To summon sufficient courage
To face his family – bitterly
Blaming the bureaucratic
Liquidation / the “re-engineering” /
Of his entire department / on everyone
Apart from himself – I hurriedly
Stride into / and nearly
Knock over / a Spanish
Colleague / I’ve been unable
To prevent myself from finding
Attractive / so distraught that
She’s misplaced her car-keys / somewhere
In our exceedingly spacious / and
Correspondingly expensive / open-plan
Office / where more than keys
Have gone astray / and which compels you
To lower your voice / whenever
You want to gossip behind the boss’s
Or some unprepossessing colleague’s
Back. And she
Is also on the verge of
Tears. But this institutionalized
Meat-machine won’t miss
Us / and I stifle
An impulse to help her / mumbling
Excuses for having to dash / as I dash
Away down well-hoovered labyrinths
Of anonymous corridors. Outside the rain
(November it was / And the wind tore
At the leaves) cools me / as I
Glance up – as I usually do – in unwilling
Awe / at the glass-and-metal mountain of
The Hypo-Bank HQ / (how reassuring
It used to be / all
That money) / before hurrying on
Into Munich’s newest and shiniest /
Still thoroughly polished / and even more
Thoroughly policed / U-Bahn. But today
A small disturbance. The wife
Of a Turkish Gastarbeiter – or so she seems –
Is shouting and spitting venomously
At anyone coming too near. Angst
Essen Seele Auf / said Rainer Werner
Fassbinder – that mythical
Monster / sighted on rare
Occasions / bad-temperedly munching
Apples / along the Clemens-
Straße in Schwabing / before the heel of
Bavaria crushed him. Er war eh
Ein großes Schwein / smirked
A colleague by the name of Würstl. Und du
Bist ein kleines Würstel / giggled
Our secretary. But now I am
Embarrassed / to see my Spanish
Colleague / drifting along the platform /
As if in a nightmare / even
Closer to tears / with her hair
Distinctly wet / and wearing
A blouse and slacks. Could it be
Her coat is locked in her car? The wife
Of the Turkish Gastarbeiter / sensing
Her weakness / spits and shouts
At her / with particularly vicious
Aggression / so that she jumps
With fright. I heartlessly avoid her
As the train pulls up / by
Getting into another
Compartment. But I hope (I tell myself)
She won’t catch cold. Relieved
Not to see her / alighting
At Odeonsplatz / I’ve problems enough
Of my own / I catch myself
Thinking. At the top of the escalators
The rain is heavier. Beyond the Hofgarten
The Military Museum / until
Lately a bomb-damaged
Ruin / (Lest we
Should fail to remember!) / shines forth –
A bureaucrat’s paradise. Behind me
Is where (I find it hard
To forget) a line of policemen
Broke up the November putsch / only
Three score years and ten
Ago. The first to fall was
Arm-in-arm with Hitler / whose shoulder
Was dislocated. Within a minute / nineteen
Nazis and police lay dead. The Führer
Escaped to Uffing / where he was later
Arrested. And that
Was the end of him. Or so everyone
Thought. But if I’m not to be late
For the poetry reading / I’ll have to
Hurry again. I’m also hungry and thirsty and
Tired of my heavy
Briefcase. And everywhere’s
Closed: expensive shops / exclusive
Cafés: nothing for the likes of me / still
Stinking of office / not
A kiosk or McDonald’s / around
Here anywhere. I pass
The Hypo-Bank Foundation / which, like
It or not / puts on the best
Exhibitions in Munich / and hurry
Through the rain and darkness / of the empty
Pedestrian precinct / in search of
Food. In my rumbling ears
I only slowly perceive
The music – a piece for Spanish
Guitar and violin / by
Villa-Lobos, perhaps – emanating strangely
From nowhere at all / or so it seems
For a moment / until I realize
It must be buskers. And there they
Are: two students sheltering under
An arcade / between a chic
Boutique / and a glossy
Shop like a box of chocolates / displaying
Individually decorated
Pralines / Negerküsse / truffles
And other goodies / fit
For a Chancellor. They look
Too cold / and their jackets
Too thin / to be able to twangle
So warm an air. Yet only a couple
Of minutes further / and as if by magic
An invisible flautist
Plays Mozart from round the corner
Of another arcade / whose brilliant windows
Are crowded with Bavarian
Costumes / exorbitantly priced Leder-
Hosen / and Tyrolean hats with
Chamois beards. So much talent
Playing for no one! – not even me / who
Pass by on the other side / in too much of a hurry
(I tell myself) for hand-outs / and shortly arrive
Fifteen unbelievable minutes early / at
The brightly lit / multi-storey
Bookshop / where Sarah
Kirsch / who lives beside
The tar-black sea / in far-away
Schleswig-Holstein / is scheduled
To read her luminous poems. Clutching
My briefcase / despite official
Attempts / to consign it plus irreplaceable
Contents / to a heaped-up
Cloakroom / I join the audience
Of maybe two hundred / mainly middle-aged
To elderly / professional or executive
Persons / unlikely book-
Lifters anyway / I’d
‘ve thought. Once seated / I unobtrusively
Position my folded coat / in front of
My rumbling stomach / in the hope of
Muffling it / and glance again at
Schwarze Bohnen / which so beguiled
Me yesterday afternoon / Sunday
Afternoon / when I first read it
At home / that here I am
Today: