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

Augustine preferred the peaceful life.
Each sermon is enriched by my reference.
people understand and fit their ways
to the law and militia around us.
So I keep my hand on my mouth,
I say I do not understand this act;
rash, murderous, a flailing flare
igniting the traders' stores and awnings.
Now the authorities will be at my gate
with demands, sanctions and remonstrations
and I must explain.

We are calm. There are spring blooms
beside the altar. We are eager to sing,
to receive God's word like precious glass.
We are well-attended, the meetings happy.
Keeping faith with one another,
shaking hands and smiling, smiling.
We pay the tax and make donations.
Those who are trained care for the sick.
We all pursue our business ventures:
army supplies, short-term loans,
food stores at the arena.

But these inside their smoked apartments,
wiping the oil from their blackened hands,
making their vulpine huddle;
they exclaim at their head's invisible flame,
they speak new tongues, cry in the markets,
are an embarrassment of flesh
gathered inside the windowless prisons.
I hear them raving like reckless Stephen
for stones to fall like gifts upon them;
a clean, unshadowed judgement
on this sinful world of trade and war.

They queue at the Minervan festivities
for the bored Centurion's blade.
Martyrs fly to the arms of God,
jumping off crags, diving from quays,
joining armed bands so the tied authorities
pass the quick thrust to be rid of them.
And their golden names enter the list
as drink for the lost and the dying,
the raised torch of the assembly rooms.

A burning man on the Cardo Maximus.
I am not too young to remember
my teacher smiling upon the pyre,
requesting more faggots for his simply refusing
one routine temple sacrifice.
Now I would lie. I would keep my appointment.
The prayer would be hollow but I'd gladly repeat
the safe and appeasing slogan.
They say the burnt man was laughing out loud,
but I keep my sombre demeanour.
To this deputation it is clear disapproval,
to me it is simply remembrance,
the scar at the side of my mouth.