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

We are peddlars of words and images.

Wrap a piece of brown paper
around your friend’s head
then whip it off

like one of those tablecloth tricks
where the dishes remain intact
and yet

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The fist came through
from an earlier generation to his.

The young lad could not believe
it had finally happened.

For so long he had had his way
with the world and its idiotic innocence,

now suddenly this hard thing
had struck out at him, here in the park

of all places, where the grass
and the stones were normally so subservient

and he’d always felt like
a king with the life of a beggar.

***********************

Birds and the river,
Always birds and the river

Carrying messages from clouds overhead -
Or what seem to be messages,

Things like moments -
Sudden glimpses of time

Standing solid behind shifting networks,
A continuous backdrop to rely on

When old labels and signs have faded
Or there are too many holes to fall through;

Threads gone from the fabric,
Stitches lost somewhere along the path -

Sometimes turning up again in unexpected places,
More often disappearing for good.

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Things -
The presence of things
Reading like runes in our days,
Or when missing -
More like curious cyphers
Bringing grey hair to our heads.
Scratching -
Forever scratching for meaning
Deep in the dust and cobwebs.
Possessions -
Clues perhaps to our purpose.

*****************

Wind
Shaking the trees
Blowing the sheet of rain away -
Suddenly
We feel that shift,
That movement from something hopeless
To a place of quiet.

**********************

Old.
Feeling suddenly useless.
Often it sneaks up slowly
and sticks like mist;
but this time it’s different.
Slates fall from the roof
and it is winter.

*****************

What can we do
to make ourselves useful?

How do we know
what is good, what is beautiful?

We have only a hint
to lead us from darkness to light,
only one small whisper

inside our hearts from a voice elsewhere.

**********************

Night is a numb creature -
its mouth stuffed with thick paper,
it mumbles and breathes through us and our books.
Out there are the stars all shrunk with distance
while the self-absorbed moon brings itself closer
by shining between struts of bridges
and dipping its face into the river -
Our river which carries the junk of history
through the city and away off to sea.
We can’t make up our minds if we want to
let it all go, or fetch at least some of it back.
Night lulls the lucky ones to sleep -
forget for a few hours in the shadows.

**********************************

Rain washes the streets.
Its forgiveness is simply astonishing.

People go home or go about their business
in shiny coats that gleam in the lamplight.

This is a painting with emeralds glinting in it,
the evening blues deep, the yellows muted.

My heart sings with the raindrops twisting down
and the lyrics trickle away into puddles.

I think I will spend a few hours alone
sitting in a café drinking coffee.

**************************

The sun is shining.
The intellectual and the pretender
             sit side by side on the grass.
Whoever said that ignorance is bliss
             was quite correct.
I want to throttle those newscasters
             when they tell us about death
                          in order to make a living.
I blink, throw my body back,
             then roll over onto my side
                          and prop my head up on one elbow.
A magpie struts across the path.
He looks as if he has death on his mind
             but I’m sure he doesn’t see it the way I do.
Children call out, playing games.
             They make up the rules as they go along.
They know how to do it;
             they see their parents make up new rules every day.
A little one stands left out at the side.
             A big one punches another on the nose;
                          he yells and runs home.
The sun goes behind a cloud.
It doesn’t look as if it’ll come out again.

*****************************

The early morning surface of the river
breaks into icy fragments at its edge.

Fragments we can melt like seconds
to re-invent the water, and our lives.

All things we see around us in these streets
of leaves and dirt could be used to build with.

We can take materials such as pine cones
and stones back with us to our work benches.

A birds claw, a crooked nail, two pigeon feathers,
a penny, a handful of sweet wrappers, a beer can.

The world can begin again in the morning
after the day we find the last vital pieces to fit.

***************************

It is quiet tonight -
All those rows and rows of windows closed.

It is difficult to imagine
there is anything going on behind that glass.

Why should there be?
Perhaps everyone has gone to another planet

or a parallel universe
where all the windows are thrown open

and the sun tumbles down
on a joyful blend of music and speech.

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