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

The public look upon the old lady as a kind of fetish or idol, and nobody will dare print a word not to her glorification/ or, if not possible, being contrite and invoking the name of ‘Jesus’, at least (if not able otherwise) in her heart, and accepting death in a patient spirit from the hand of God/ a series of pictures of the day’s doings passed before her imagination like the roll of a Kinetoscope/ ‘time-sense apparatus’, consisting of Baltzar kymograph, time-disc, set of contacts, and! the adventitial lymphatic sheath! of a woman who has died in child-bed. She haunts lonely roads, her feet are turned backwards on the ankles, and she leads men to/ imagine a white dress made with a fitted bodice fastened invisibly down the front beneath a strip of black-and-white embroidery, with eight-inch flat coat-tails behind/ the moon-calf’s shining sides. The girth of its body was some fourscore feet, its length perhaps two hundred/ she carried plenty of Brown Hair that she Built Up by putting Rats under/ waltz-like, rhythmic rotation from great country-house to great country-house/ dissolved all human and personal ties, and you endeavour, in vain, to replace them by the impersonal activity of/ gigantic incubators vomiting forth at pipping-time/ air introduced by breathing served to regulate, to maintain, and at the same time to refrigerate the innate heat of the heart/ blood ebbs away from the brain because it is time for the brain to rest.