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

I have created a lunar procession out of the mad tree.   Forgive us
our transfigurations.
I am walking towards a grey woman, who is particular.   will you
grace my skin with pour intrusion, she asks the man of thorns, alive
with knots.   I invite you to mistake me for your bride, although I
wore iron at my funeral.
she is expelling the bird.   her womb is a lining of leaves.
why must you keep opening apples, she asks.   the garden is behaving
like a laboratory.   my purple dress is stained with effluence.   the
children applaud this performance under one star.   my cup runs red.

The mirrorland will not speak today.   birds tap their wooden hearts
for asiatic messengers.   I am wearing a spidery look and discourage
trespassers.   yet you are born out of my feathery skull.   I cannot
number the stars, but they are loyal.   they creep silently past my
shivering eye, bearing photographs, calling the wives, consuming
roses and martyrs.   I wait until they have gone, rejoicing over the
dark that pushes ashy fingers into me.   I have heard the noises of
all my mouths weeping, composing a mantra of tears.

Wife, you are lace-bitten.
my frost-mother is gone to earth, but you still ride the wounded
forest, gathering snow-flowers, bride of my cold communion.
you gave lillies.
you present an album of slaves.
you witness an inheritance.
and I have known that white knot where your flesh contrives to eat
convulvulus and a marble man.   where freezing fingers point above
our genuflection.   the white arch is a stone that arches.

Come to be made flesh.
such descent into rosedeath.
a crusader married into hypocrisy of linen.
that is what you foretold and I can see that your calico shirt is
bled.   your carrion wishes draw blood where they have chosen.
and I can see a black lace-bride rising out of the pearl.