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

V

Happiness
                        strikes
at the oddest moments; like
a stinking cold;
                        like a lightning insight.

Here,
in this carriage,
                    on a train to Krakow,
listening to 'Mrs. Robinson'
                                        being sung
in Polish,

                           I'm happy.
                                             I can feel
its welcome lump
                          in my consciousness;
like a coin
   in my palm;
                      a phone number
in my pocket.

VI

Hungary welcomed us:
greener than Austria;
flowerier than Slovakia;
a fertility blown in
from Turkey and Romania.

                    *

As we glided towards Budapest,
loosened blossom
from apple trees and cherry trees
met the train in a swirl
like tickertape.

VII

The lights of Split are trembling
in a row of watery candle flames.

To my left, a lighthouse blinks.
To my right, you sit.

Your ponytail looks black
against your sleeveless orange T-shirt.

I can see that you're writing
from the movement of your shoulder blades.

My book is open in my lap.
And she sat there playing

with the fire-irons,
or watching the rain falling.

Here, on the Dalmatian coast,
I'm having the kinds of adventure

that poor Emma Bovary
could only read about.

For a moment, I miss your laugh -
catching, pugnacious.

I tiptoe up behind you;
I'll hear it soon enough.

VIII

You said Slovenia
looked like Tennessee -
except for the cloud-haloed mountains.

I said Slovenia
looked like Hampshire -
except for the glacier-blue rivers.

The difference was the butterflies -
winged white rose petals.
On the butterflies, we were unanimous.