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

Nothing ascetic in these stainless
glass figures, no trace
of denial in these
opaque eyes.

Though they be chipped, their plaster
feet gone, their noses
a rough gape
they smite their own faces, for nothing
here rankles these relics
of least introspection.

Turn pages. See pictures and statues
of angels, see fabulous
photos of angels
in granite.
See essence of ether and spirit
turned concrete!
Some angels seem stopped in the midst
of a sentence, or trapped
in a broad yawn,
or captured in idleness — no matter,
their airiness condenses and stiffens,
just as the angels would want us
to see them.

Take the blue one — the one with the fan
of a halo —
his thin hands fixed just so,
the long S
of his fingers in the pose of a
deaf mute.
Or wide-eyed as an infant, with smooth
placid shoulders
the Avenging Angel’s
only arm
raised above her.
Her robes flow like lava, while dead
pan, she dismembers
some horrified reptile.

There are angels of Antichrist,
angels of mercy, angels of vegetables,
angels of death.
In the Gs, one for St George to search for the
Grail with,
and all of our Guardians
smile out from this page.

There’s the Angel of Eden, who expells Eve
from heaven,
and on this side,
an Incubus, glad to receive her.
In the Js Jacob fights with an angel
with no face,
an oblivious angel.
But what of the Sorrowing Angel,
heaven’s failure,
eyes clouded, hands wringing, her tears like
stone bullets — flip the page.

There are numerous Virgins, and numerous
Virtues,
there are warriors and angels of winds;
there are angels of wishes, lost
in their gardens,
and finally Zophas, Genius of the
Eleventh Hour.
Not one has lost a trace of its innocence.
Not one, not
even the Piloting Angel, who
steadily escorts Dante
from the head
of the Tiber to the wide gaping
neck
of his Purgatorio,
not one sees itself as in any
way evil.
The Many-Eyed Angel still doesn’t see
tragedy,
not even the angel of mourning
understands us.

Still, we feel that we must
forgive our own angels.
Protect them from infamy.
Press them in books.