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

Dear Arthur,

                   I have just got back from a drive
round the Vienna Woods and it is five
o’clock, which surprises me, but you know
how much I enjoy the air although
I hardly expect that you are pleased that I
simply sit there, and bump about, and smile,
or think I should. But I do. Trees
are trees, Arthur, they may please
an innocent soul, or none at all, and I
am not inclined to think that they might try
to get the better of my carriage. It rained,
but not on purpose, and my gloves are stained
somehow, but I do not take offence.
There is a certain joy in acquiescence.
I have to say I do not share your views:
that dismal book you sent did not amuse
me or my wife, who read it in the garden
but did not shoot herself. I beg your pardon.
Bomberger told me you have contracted
(the word suits you, Arthur) a protracted
cold, but did not tell me what the reason
was. I am afraid the seasons
take their turns with blind obedience
and will not change their order for your convenience.
You will make faces at nothing: if you say
that Nature has no sense, and we no way
of finding it, then I am lost. A mess
should not, if it is senseless, cause distress
and pain, and if our only joy is dreams
philosophy cannot be what it seems.
The heart perceives the absence of a purpose
in our lives - must this perception hurt us
if we remember our hearts? How can they be
so full of justice here, and so guilty
of the fatuous vanity of desire
there. You are hardly playing with fire,
Arthur, you are playing with darkness, and pride
betrays your vanity, to find inside
a whirlwind some sort of meaningless intention.
If there is nothing there, it must be your invention.