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

Sometimes things are what they seem.

On my father’s side, my grandmother
Wore pints of Gordons’ heavy green,
Always ‘Steppin’ Out’ to offer us cherries,
Her memories, and all those bingo dreams.

Her old man (as she called him) sat in their
Smoked flat, a pair of lean dry slippers amidst
Wallpapered junks and his souvenired life
From strife in the East, barking at the dog.

My uncles were two quart bottles of ale and
Portobello crabs on Sundays.
Their cabbage water made us pale as we saltily
Ghosted with them through other people’s lives.

Dad told me he’d once seen a man called Bull
Eating panes of glass for money, for foamers.
After, Bull would toast the health of the market.
My throat imagined the russet beer biting red and
I could almost see his bloody smears of thanks.

In those days my father was a reel to reel; we once
Had an ‘Ugly Duckling’ session, then he had to go -
Ali or the Brown Bomber? Reputations - he just had
To know. We were ‘sugar’, he said, too little for any of it,
So, for two pennies, we became ice creams again.

Mother was Marilyn Monroe, ‘platinum’ blonde -
I knew that; she was on t.v. in a fish-tail dress and
The film was something ‘Hot’, Dad said. “Mum’s
Not like other wives,” he’d tell us, “she’s a real
Mermaid, pouring love into our lives,” he said, “fact.”

Once at a fair, he hoisted me onto his shoulders:
Inside a glass tank, in a slopping greeny-brown
Haze I saw a twisting, chained ‘Manfish’.
Appreciation dribbled from the crowd,
But I don’t remember seeing him surface.