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

This makes me wonder. That is why she was bitter enough to set her sisters things on fire. Did he really know it was coming, but just didn’t want to believe it? I had a very difficult time paying attention. They gave each other an outlet that no one can enter. It’s like plugging in those rechargeable batteries, though the connection is with an astral plane instead of an outlet. Those were the days that you always had butterflies in your stomach every time you saw your crush. I’m not religious, so was wondering, do churches allow people to take pictures of the stained glass windows? I’m guessing that they do not. I plan to show the intertwining, serpentine-like aspect of the moment with a twisting of metal pieces, perhaps connecting both mouths, either from the back of the piece to show all dimensions, or even the front. At our house, we rake our leaves.

When she stood on the porch, you could tell she knew from the way she put her arm on her hip. She looked off, too, into the mist.

Garments in which no-one has slept nor ever will. The invention of morning: hidden worlds in her veiled heart.

Yesterday’s kingdom is tomorrow’s war zone; storm damage our continual song. I regret the disputes between us, hand out burnt pages to survivors. Subsequent to summer is my comeuppance: the signs are among us. I have filed all my notes on lying in the memory tray; privacy is an urgent matter. After the expanding mirror contradicts proud knowledge, the jaguar of sweet laughter strikes. Night vision has deserted me, I am on another kind of mission, am trying to explain. You have to burn to shine; the door into the dark is just a gathering of ways. All varieties of religious experience share your questions and the astronomy of love: minus signs, hope and daring, fish magic, beloved things dying. No, I am not afraid, but should be. Lines of sight and voice-overs do not disclose the alphabet prior to meaning or a suitable language for the parasite poems we hope to write. You are travelling without a valid ticket, a stranger in amber sleep being walked by an imaginary dog. In the dream telescope, annunciations and echoes of the blues; a single folded leaf under the storm’s wing.