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

If in truth, the quality of the stillness
 Lies in the passing,
By what rituals are we meant to restrict our lives
 In pursuit of the quiet
From which no-one returns?
 The examples are clear and loud:
Back turned, shoulders straight, face sharp;
 These are the only prescribed refuge
From the fires of destruction.
 But what’s left, what’s human within us,
Understands only too well the attachment of children
 Who were brought up knowing they were
Cast out. This was our only home
 And this was the place that loved us.

Truly, if it were meant as a lesson to be taught,
 How inadequate and less apt
Is the punishment of salt
 Which tastes of the most yearned for within us.
How gentle the picture of a woman’s lovely face, hands wrapped
 On the wrinkles and folds of a flowing dress,
Neck straining, a half-turned cheek
 Laying one last, tender, parting nudge
On a burning city.
 Eyes full of salt were always our downfall
And the aspect of others
 That made us love them the most.
In all honesty, what sweeter end could we pray for
 Than to be petrified, crystallized, split,
Broken into specks that are disparate
 And yet full of flavour.

                                      Perhaps heaven
 Was only ever meant
For the bloody-minded. After all,
 We were often warned that the door
Is narrow. But if desire is our only sin,
 (And love our only symptom of desire),
Who can resist these soundless, these statues of salt
 Frozen in God’s eyes and in God’s tears?