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

It was my mother who really started it;
She told me if I didn’t eat my greens I’d get a squint.
Now that was a terrible thing to say to an eight-year-old boy;
It so impressed me,
That I’d practise squinting in front of a mirror.
Just to see what I looked like.

Having gurned and grimaced manically for some time,
And feeling that perhaps I ought to reveal my talent to an
                                                                      unsuspecting world,
I tried out my squint on the cat.
She wasn’t impressed, just yawned and went back to sleep.

Having no younger brothers or sisters,
I was at a distinct disadvantage when it came to refining my
                                                                                          squint.
The cat wasn’t interested,
My only brother was older than me and in the army,
He’d probably be less interested than the cat.

There was nothing for it but to take my squint to school;
Not that I wore it all the time, you understand,
In fact, for most of the time the squint was hidden behind my
                                                                             ordinary face,
Brought out occasionally to impress friends or frighten girls.

The chorus of “Cor! Look at that!” convinced me that I had it
                                                                                    almost right,
And that for much of the time I was glaring into my own earhole,
Or perhaps out of it.
It was difficult to tell at the time.
I counted it a real success if a girl screamed.

But the novelty wore off as imitators copied and cheapened my
                                                                                                  art,
And eventually I had to stop.

It was sad putting my squint away for the last time,
Like saying goodbye to an old friend that I wouldn’t be seeing
                                                                                           again,
Or finally becoming a man and putting aside childish things,
But still clinging on to one faint hope, by not eating my greens.