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

Do you think
-because it is pleasure-
it is any easier?
I tell you,
pleasure is harder than pain,
and this, Mark,
is what you do not admit
                                      yet,
fearing to tread
in water
            or on doubtful ground.
Take it
          as you take a woman ---
that is pain.
The pleasure comes
as well,
and afterwards:
in the remembrance
-incredible--
that it was done.
This is the whole of it.
It is not alloyed.
It is different
from what is thought of it.
No stereotype,
and no greeting card.
This way, sir,
this way, dearest,
with whom I sleep all night.

And you,
               Mark,
put both feet in
and do it---
whatever it is
you want to do---
no copy,
and no oneelse's
say.

At times I have wished
for kindness to match yours---
to be able to pay in kind.
But this is my embarrassment
hung
       over
from the ghosts
of all that New England,
those ancestors
                       who
pursue
and haunt 
               me.
It is not possible.
Some of us are made
to give
           as you are,
others to take.
It is rare
that both exist
coherently
in the same man
This is the embarrassment
we must deal with,
passing each other
in darkness---
those ships full-
                        rigged
and foundering
on rocks 
             or
on each other.
You are maimed in ways
that fit against
some wounds in me.

   It is an exasperation
at times,
more than kindness---
--- the giving---
my receipt.
I think we would not have it
otherwise,
my friend.
Before I had returned to
people,
you were an interpreter---
augured that return
                             correctly.
You are an interpreter,
rather than one who hears
exactly---
All to the good.
Now,
         weeks later,
I sit looking at sunlight,
how it catches
the flap of a box
left on the table.
Unhappy at numbers of things---
some of it mere
indulgence---
for that poverty
which is the lot
of those of us
who live outside the web.
Having made that choice,
there is no turning
back.
You are aware of it,
as I am---
living, as one said,
the most precarious life
of any---
and fragile.

It is not the season
for me to do
as I am urging you to,
somewhere I have fought
through,
and need not
indulge oppression,
any more than I need
weakness.
But for you
the very fragility
--- how you have lived---
asks for this---
a certain roughness
to laminate it
into living
as a means,
and meaningful.

Comes to say it:
Of Yegor's ghost,
or water witch---
(sprite)
something keeping,
and keeping itself
going.
Days I tell myself
that there will be
more done
than I can possibly do
in one day.
(Energy
(synergy
enthusiasm
dies
in a rose flame
which is not hot
enough to warm
us out.
Possibly this means little
to you,
though you know my
(wanderings
(gatherings
deeply.
Dreams of hotel rooms
of angers,
and a just sleep.
Well, Mark,
we've talked about
these things---
been places.

To put it all down
and in,
but not as it's the fashion
to put down
or in.
It is a grey, hard world,
and more than once
you'll get slapped
in the face
with a ton of dry snow
freezing,
and fifty miles of wind
behind it.
Don't try it
until you have to.

A year, all in all,
an era,
as Louis says---
better than most,
eroding in bitterness,
not at the innards,
but the mindless
necessary things,
simply to survive.

At times,
               sound
filters
           like
light
       or water---
  through closed doors.
The sound is gracious---
K. 575?
It would be good
if you were here
too.

And then, I am grateful
for that last day
of this winter's
bare ground---

Undercliff, Cape
Rosier--  
December 4, 1970 

when I scaled the cliffs --
-- walked the sea meadows
at the top---
brambles
and stunted birches---
looked off to sea
in three directions.
It was a good
and relaxed time---
broken
as if a shower
of glass and ice
had pierced me.
No matter,
it was.
You would have walked
there, as I,
and happily.
above the brooding
of the tides.
Dark in the sunlight,
spruce islands
swimming
out of a dream.
That dream
                   (perhaps)
my own.
Key motion,
and descent to frost.
Now, in the deep of winter,
that which dies
of its own despair,
a hand stretched
to you.
            What is it
that you do
                    there?
What would be the loss,
if I were
                to participate?
For us,
            a time of discontent,
a darkness
                spreading over,
coated on all surfaces---
a freezing rain.
No way in, and no way out.
Conflict/
                /disjoint/
but here
             surviving.
Out of it
               you might make
a better show,
a season of it.
Timing is the sum,
as you will know.
Threading the path,
perhaps
to go over it
in new ways.
It is not such
that I can ask
or say---
direct you.

Now I watch
the snow
settle- - -
compress a little
in the winter
weight
and wind
that smokes out
cold/northwest--
day and a night
and another--.
Still it flows:
the bitterness
of such a season.
I am at a loss
to put it evenly--
nor do I say
it
offhand---
(one hand in
another.)
How our wills
sap strength---
put forward
and then lost---
the headless waste.
Well, we must talk this out---
one night following another.
That which follows:
Frost pearled on branches,
ice struck in,
smoke held down.
It is hard country you seek,
and so you will know it
in due time---
the fears,
heart-eating doubts
of these long winters.
Still, to survive
is mettled challenge---
a good one.
Take it up.

Those places where we
cannot take each other
seriously,
and yet the matter
is serious to those
outside.
The way to achieve
is to know this,
to accept it.
You will,
               as I
tossing for both sides
of the coin.
In lieu of
what other?
just as the words
sound
           and fit---
a morning I will be
up
'betimes'
              an old form
for it.

Times we bleed for it---
the day and the night
with wind---
the bitterness
that scales off
snow
        and the skin
of our own dreams.
Do we move
other than on the skin?
of dreams?
                of selfhood?
the barest integument
that covers up?
Hard to answer.
A mere nod
                   assent
will not do.
(exeunt on that one.)
Now,
as we think of it,
this too passes,
and we
             through it,
or as
          (at)
                  a station
we may seem to move---
go nowhere
with the rest in flux.
This, you know,
though you might not put it
as I do,
looking for sense
at the beginning,
which is not
to sense it.
It is other,
and on another side.
Well,
you will know
what you know
as I.

The letter,
in from you,
is heartening---
that you will attempt it---
through that dark beginning
which is any winter
to the place where it
becomes bearable,
if only through retrospect---
and a shorter time ahead.

A high wind---
in that
it stays on the ridges,
and what I hear
is in the trees,
but not around me,
perhaps the temper
of both our lives,
unaffected by much
that tears and scatters
all around us.

The 'thanks when night is spent'
comes through the grip
of day---
               frost edging
from the windows
against a pale-eyed sun---
The winter sun
that swings
small are
far to the south.
Compressed excitement
in it---
but the weariness
that cuts with cold---
below the bone.

As once:
"Cocks as in spring,"
the chickadee's
spring song---
                       hi
lo.
But it relaxes
only in relevance
to what has been.
Now is the time
to test
metal on metal---
the ice
striking
            into
the ice.
The way is perilous,
yet straight through.
The plunge is always
safest.
I have said this to you
many times,
learning that you might my own caution
destroyed as it
could not save.
Well, we'll begin there,
and you, too,
wind a country clock.
(Winding---
                   a devious word
for clocks,
                   distance,
the country mile
we go down,
as we do not---
in
   and around it.

A series of things---
and our impatience
with each other---
somehow to constitute
that deep bond
dependent upon my fire
and your levellness.
The need goes further
than friendship,
although that has to do
with it.
Breaks heart and mind
at times
                the
depths
           and disappointment.
I would not say,
                           actively,
that I set out to use you,
but it works that way
too often, perhaps---
that you are more able
to given than I am.
The breaks
are uneven,
yet they level out
at places,
and we are assured
of each other
just at the point of loss.
We cannot approve
each other's actions---
only in retrospect---
that it seems to become
right.
I imagine, and you
take the tools in hand.
The skill implied
is not for nothing---
yet it exasperates.
I will not be there
when you come.
Dreaming or wrestling
on my couch.
And you
will not be ready
when the tide is.
Hurry up!
We will never reach
the same time
or conclusion---
clocks timed
and tuned to rhythms
unlike each other.
Wearing away the secret
doubts we have
applied to each other.
The strength is there
for all of that---
a certain perilous thrust.
(In cold
            warmth is not always
a comfort.)
                   (smoke settles
and hangs
                heavy
in the valley---
brushed against cold trees
on the further ridges---
a morning after snow.
The frost lies deep---
grasps the branches---
as if to break with grip
or weight.)

Mark,
we live on the edge,
some of it
is dream,
some the reality
of a terror 
               monstrous
and uncertain.
At times it does to look closely,
at others, to ignore
the brink.
We will come through much,
and go back for more,
time after time.
We will despair,
think of the end
as the only solution.
Then, reaching that place,
find that there is more.
The even mornings
open out around us,
and the unquiet evenings.
Sometimes it is good
to ride with the storm,
sometimes against it.
You have a way,
as I do;
we will know only in part
the one that applies
to the other.
In miniscule doings,
or in great wanderings,
the account is the same,
if not by quantity.
Tensing against it---
guessing at hazzard---
we go through
                        a wall.
Whatever is picked up
the other side
is what we find
of use.
           Always we pick up
the things that lie closest
to our needs---
at hand.
"How many times have you found
a spoke shave
lying on a railroad trestle?"
I remember this from you,
but the point was
both of us needed the tool
at the moment I found it.
Perhaps this knowing---
that what is necessary
lies open before us
is that pivot
that pulls us though.
And the lack of that knowing,
what destroys so many
who could do as well.
Survival is in timing---
-actual-
              that time
which prompts your winding,
and mine, as any man's.
Remembering this, it is bearable,
if no easier.

We have talked to each other
at cross
            (odd)
purpose,
but those times have been
mainly through others,
not as we see ourselves
talking freely---
seeing each other
across a cluttered table
with your work---
the endless cups of tea.
Perhaps this was needed,
at times to point up the need
which each of us has,
and which no ordinary linkage
can give.
The sense of all within us
comes to the fore---
dropping the masks
which are comfortable
in private talk.
Many of the days we wished
to flare in anger,
come through as more than that
by other means
and eyes.
It is exposure---
laying us open
to the weathers
that will set us apart.
We will know
what can only be guessed
by those protected
in a lie---
an insulation
from their proper lives:
Cold, heat,
they will know about these things
only by hearsay.
Well---a shrug---
in such fashion
we take our days,
and they lose theirs.
Pity is their word for it---
they pity us.
But the smile rises,
and we know---
'Pity's
            pushed
off
       shore.'

The feeling of fear
and wonder--
much like greeting someone
on the last day of life,
and then hearing of death---
something that happens,
is not strange,
but will not rub out.
Chance phrases---
again and again ---
the same ones to fit
the differing case.
It is hard to use words
to express what lies
deepest and inside
a man.

Out of the confusion---
our identity
is lost---the key
to knowing---
and there is nothing
predictable.
We're cast up,
and down,
out of ourselves,
as not ourselves
to the other.
Let it pass.
Hard, that at times
I do not know
where to put tread ---
the footing is
treacherous---and I do not
test to please anyone---
least a friend
who must take me
as I am---
or prove no friend.
It is reciprocal.

That you respond at times,
and only your own times,
proves the impingement---
that we do touch
where it is most needed.
The passing annoyance,
those places
where we cannot reach others
is the natural result
of co-respondence---
that as friends we must
contend---
pass through a neutral ground
to that which is our own.
I am aware
--and you--
of dark places crossed
to meet
where lights are
fitful and capricious,
but show the face
full on.

At times the anguish
that our consciousness
goes no further
than the flesh
                      or
does it?
Will it elude us?
Can we break back
to it?
Are there ghosts
rattling on back stairways,
that we pass dimly?
I think so---
at times
refuse to end my doing
as a heritage.
So must you,
and what the bond is
between,
lasts that much more.
Or
     does it?
To come clear
of all illusion
is not our hope.
We do not
build our references
to what we are---
must be.
But there is no
imperative.
It must not be
so easily---
or
    it is not made.

The thought of making:
What is made
is spurious---
at least is suspect.
Lies with that which is,
and does not change,
even as it does.
Does not begin.
Cannot end--
has no middle ground.
Mark, where are we?

The odd scrap of Greek,
picked up,
macaronic,
from another context.
But we do go through the wall---
daily---
as if it were open to us---
not merely the crack through,
where the eye sees
another room
-empty-
what would be good to have
in secret,
to extend our living.
Through! Through! Through!
And wall after wall
is there- - -
to be found, if we will,
and entered.
At times I have wondered
if it might not be better
to stay inside them---
if the thickness might not
hold and hide me
away from the spaces
of these rooms.
It is, I suppose,
an escape;
but I see no wrong thing
in that.
Neither of us takes
the bright counsel
of a world that clamors
for our conformity,
easily
       or seriously.
What if we did
just
        that?
No, I will not speak for you.
You are more public
than I,
and more private
in your own ways.
Hold off, then,
it will be time to decide
when you see
the edge of the wall
dissolving,
               but
face on.

Well, a bright day,
this one,
and one to look 
                       in
to.
         Danger in it:
Always that we enter danger
as we step away
from all the tissues
we have made
to protect our pearls.
Try to hold on,
if you want to lose.
The sure way.

I thought of a tune
might help pass time---
no sound of it
closer than where
it started
          with the wind
and the silence---
and the wind again:

Cold again---
the nights seed promise,
and the days bear frost.
Wind on these ridges,
over and over.
The answers are there,
and the answers
                       are here.
(Blowing awhile
to keep one hand warm.)

To jig to.
Or step on the shadows
of conscience.

A raven once more.
High in the pale mist
(snow shower against snow,
was Danaës gold)
Croaked once and went on.
The news for you.

Broken apart---
the words and the flow
of words.
We say clearly
what we do not mean---
or use the words
to hide what is clear
in gesture
or least breath.

Language will never be
the ideal claimed
for it.
Better to listen
---its music---
and let be.
The fire strikes,
and the hammer.
The word is deflected,
goes through the changes
of our minds
and comes out shit.

Mountains of cloud
against the sun--
but you would see it best
from your own vantage.
I do not tell you
except through my own
perverse frailty.
You may listen,
but I think it is not words
you pick up.

If we could empty out
sound---
open it in some way,
so that it had nothing
of our context---
only its own---
it would have been real---
sound as reality.
                          Now
it can't be.
It is perverse as snow
that holds off
during lowering cloud,
and comes in sharply
with full sun.
Hardly a parallel,
but it points up
with a real thing,
what I say:
unreal.
Reality is its own magic
It is not made
it is not held
for long.
It spreads along nerve
and vein
into and from the heart.
Take it as you can.
It will come
and go again.