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

At work his arms wave like a windmill
Slapping designs on crisp pads with a thick soft pencil,
A girded grin next morning at his desk, but
No cross words once the pencil gets slapping,
Shying out our luxury. No cross words.

Silk dressing-gowns and wine-dark coverlets,
Grey hair bushing on my shantung lap,
Remorse, and sheep-eyes spinning water,
Remorse, the cord smiles deeply in his girth.
A glass of water then; quick comfortable speech;
We step from silks; the cords hang loose and heavy;
I catch his breath. His teeth stained tawny with tobacco
It is rank and vicious, like menstrual blood.

Buffing his nose with a forefinger,
Sipping tonic-water at breakfast,
Relaxed and special out of the bath,
He twinkles, and I twinkle back,
Pantless, under a slim formal skirt,
Ready for work. He holds my stocking
Like a hoop in two fists as my foot flies in
And lays his palms flat along my thighs
And kisses me. My skirt is creased
And beard-rash twinkles on my thighs
But I sit up and catch the notes
He flings to me grinning,
Fly for files and mend my shoulder-strap.
They send him north occasionally
My beaked fingers pecking meanly at the keys,
And he sends me letters; I’m drawn naked
On wine-dark coverlets on crisp pad-paper
The letter scribbled down my whiteness
With XX at customary halts. Could I cook a meal perhaps?
Or change the coverlets to creamy candlewick —
Anger booms among the giggling dressing-gowns
And I sit beside the bed holding water
Until grey hair bushes on my lap
And a hand collects itself to sweep my buttocks;
He feels really close to me if I forgive him
Constantly; I watch for the rewinding of his spring
And arms begin to whirl like windmills.

Wine, restaurants, dancing, creased skirts, beard-rash,
Pleasure just this side of painful fun, and a look,
A finger laid along his rummaging nose,
That makes me laugh down into my notebook,
Keep us young; a money-spinner
Twenty years my senior with a body
Just the age of mine, for the moment.
The maid dies first, then the young woman,
But the secretary keeps growing all the while
Into perfection and exemplary service,
Sharp-pencilled, clean-typer, indispensibly informed,
The memoranda ticking down the page,
Footage filed away, and yellowing miles
Accumulating in the dust-proof cabinets
Signposted in her careful lettering;
I shall have to tout myself elsewhere, trim personnel.
What is sincerity anyway, flat on one’s back?