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

1
Everything, the large darkness of her eyes,
the way she ties up her hair at the top of her head,
I was going to say reminds me of you, but no.

At sea the dusk brings out the mast lights,
small coasters lulling along; ashore
a slow flup and thump, grey wave-break on sand.

The things you wanted, my dear, fame,
special pots for making coffee, the Biba dress,
fresh orange juice in old glass …

She is like that painter’s wife, that
Jacqueline, the blue jeans, the cotton vest,
the strap that dips over her shoulder.

2
Red light going north, green going south,
coral smudge in the west as sunset breaks,

October, September, seven p.m., the corners of her eyes;
she looks at me. Stopped breath.

We had the kitchen cabinet purple-painted,
‘love in a cottage’ they said, and meant it.

But, of course, not for long. Imagine
the way she ties up her hair.

3
The way you tied up your hair and a kiss loosed it.
She is not you. And I, this late, still wait
in the cliff-top carpark, the hot chips wrapped,
the fridge at home full of beer.

4
The lime-tree leaves are yellow now and falling,
as also the fig (the last fruit, the last hornet),
I tell myself I should know, by now,
these images I make, her on the beach today
sea-bathing then drying her breasts,
these women whose feet don’t touch the ground who
skim about in bare toes, I seduce myself with them.

Her white Fiat in the car park.
She has her hair tied, she shakes undone the blonde bolt of it
salted from bathing.

You, round with child, tilt back your head
as I wash your hair in the sink,
then the rope of it, twisted in a towel to dry.

5
Time is all at once: I am still being born,
still dying, still seeing her untie her yellow hair,
still thinking her hair is salt, it will taste salt.

6
When will the pain get less? It has got less.
It has? If I speak about it, will it go?
Helping you choose a dress to impress your lover,
watching you dressing to be undressed.

The finger-fuck in the car, his little Mini,
I am not over it, any of it, I hold on,
the skin of my teeth is strong.

7
Yesterday the sea was grey as mercury,
a flat plain, good for walking on;
no horizon, a white sky; the gulls sat in the air.
Today it gleams and rolls, a north-east wind,
ice in the air, predatory sea birds, skuas,
chase up and wheel round, round, high to the east,
at last to go south, latitude by latitude
a circle of black wings. Forgiveness seems
absent from my bones. It is just a word,
pain I feel, love I feel, but this is not in there.

8
A maximum of forty lines on any subject:
the whip well aimed might lash
again, again, go deep; bare viscera, bone;

well aimed, be one broad line. Again,

again: also the vine leaves now are yellow,
the bloom on grapes like salt, salt the grey dust
on the cliff-top grass, salt on the car’s bodywork
and glass - corrosive and preservative.

Nothing here helps: same old story;
dog barking at storm light.

She has taken her pig for a walk,
she won’t be long.

He loves me is the line.

9
Winter. The bay is iced over, holds the ship.
She, warm still from love and bare, sits
while he paints. She is knitting a red cap,
a red cloak for the baby. He thinks
she is naked for him, for his gaze,
but David is somewhere with his telescope.
A free spirit, scantily responsible,
her feet are clear off the ground;
she sits naked in his lap.

10
Where is the love of my life? Friday, low tide
sea like blue oil, silent, tide’s on the turn
Dad would say, trying to lock out terror,
not a breath of wind, not a breath.

I hunt along the beach for jewel stones,
agates, cornelian, aware, two years back
the sea rolled down this pebble wall,
rolled easily over the grazing land
and on up to the village doors. The salt
is in the land, the grass brittle and poor.

11
So earnest, so sincere in their adultery,
keen to explain, be sure I understood,
consulting the Ching, the Tarot,
such nice people, such sophists.

The splinter festers, boils up in pus.
I want to be free, I am on my knees,
Lord, banging the pin back in my heart.

After the years of therapy
I still rage on -
‘Best friend stole my woman’
is a good old Country song.