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

1. The River in Winter

The river moves too swiftly and nights
are not yet cold enough for ice
to harden, except in jagged bite marks
along its tender edges, forming a filigree
of primordial lace. Dazed, it races through
the sluggish white landscape barely knowing
where it is, so changed is everything it’s known,
yet the frantic river itself is untouched,
unshakeable, a throbbing ribbon of mercury
taking the temperature of a stricken land,
temper falling with a reverse fever
that leaves the patient numb, delirious.
The river holds its own counsel
against naysayers and prognosticators,
those who read the worst into every shadow,
six more weeks of a frozen world. At night,
the river cries itself to sleep, tumbles
head over heels against itself and all comers,
relentless, unrepentant.


2. The River Considers its Future

In January, the river finds itself weighed
down by ice, the way a middle-aged woman
becomes girdled in fat if she lets herself go.
Ice encroaches from both banks, narrowing
the river’s course, and a slick of frozen froth
rides the darkened water’s surface, blocking
out the sun. The river gasps for breath,
its progress slowed, and begins to think
of theology. The water has a dim memory
of hibernation, of diving deep beneath
a transformed version of itself and finding
comfort in sleep. In its dreams, the river
hears mumbled words of a god who promises
thaw, further transformation. It has a vision
of its future, blindingly clear in its simplicity:
water, ice, fluid, solid, tears, salt, on and on
through the seasons, change the one constant
it can count on. There is a pleasing rhythm
to this pattern, a solace that soothes the fears
of jagged edges. It is, the river comes
to realize, as simple as breathing itself.


3. The River, Dreaming
                                  for Audrey Rich

The river fights off sleep. Just days ago, it was alive
to its icy surroundings, arrogant in its wanton run.
But its waist has been cinched, its shoulders laden
with downy comfort. Against temptations such
as these, it’s a struggle to keep eyes open.
Soon, the river will be dreaming its way
to a new sea, across the continental divide
into uncharted waters, waters free of fish
and crustaceans, weed and reef, any obstruction
to the river’s own muscular, musical course.
What bliss, to be free of the turbulent rock
and narrow passages that drive it wild, placid sand
to restore it, the dangerous sweepers that, in summer,
giddies the river with self-importance, as if it itself
was responsible for elevation and the physics of mass
and movement, liquid and solid, the equation
of finding its own level. Dreaming, the river sees
itself as it has never done before, a pure pulse
of forward motion, a propulsive narrative arc
leading to an uncertain ending. The river rolls
over in its sleep, shivering with anticipation.