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

She was sketching Ophelia:  just one
Of boundless students, splattered around
Like hopeful fragments of an artistic
Explosion.  Most sat on the floor, or on
Stools, peering as if in worship from time
To time upward, before averting their
Pastel stare serenely down;  their pencils
Teasing out uncertain truths, cautious rhyme
(Most of the place was overrun -
Step carelessly back, you could tread on one):

But she was sketching Ophelia, and
Standing, as if she was brightly aware
That comfort here might be insult;  it could
Tarnish blooms more graceful than the garlands
(Daisies, weeds) that had been the last delight.
The sketch was just begun, for I observed
The page was mostly blank, the features faint,
The likeness with the subject only slight;
Though I could just discern her -
The student frowned:  I went to check out Turner

And more or less, forgot about the girl:
Until a few hours later, homeward
Drawn (a rash-houred journey;  the city flushed
Us out, spent materials of its day;  hurled
Us off toward suburb and seaside),  when
A pale wash cloyed my palate.  In some room -
Some study, studio, bedsit perhaps -
One deft brushstroke could capture this moment;  then,
Because of that, art might prosper:
But for me it was still a Chinese whisper,

A silent clamouring for focus.  Now.
As I grasped, retrospection telescoped
Out, and perspective sprawled;  at the deeper
End, a genius who pictured broad crowds,
And yet drew each man’s breath;  centuries away,
At this end, was I, stealing glances at
A young girl’s sketch, taken from a moving
Still of a character in the first man’s play,
Open-armed, reclining, resigned:
A life too short, and nothing left behind.