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

A common but not too way was first to wait, swinging even singing whilst awaiting any sort of song from pretty part to silly Sullivan to strawberrynose mild and bitter bawdy slipperysongs to rainbow dream and bluebird melodies it didn’t matter much whilst waiting swinging singing, skull in the clouds in your toes in your belly and between and stop when feeling fully. Ah, hot parsnips of anticipation! So out of the lovely buzz of the bum and onto the floor grassycarpet, zigzag, cunning cuniforms or panthers paws or paisley pattern didn’t matter and the wellswung stomach to the deck, a backwards beckon to the other, stomach up again and away on caps and palms, belly to back, the tuft and the clammy saddle and around and about and roly poly into the pit and the pile hooray the slippery dippery hickory dickory plungers.

Grimeygrit forefingernail prised picked lifted the words to peer underneath. Poor old sore eyes sitting in his sweaty secret. Pages as heavy as guilt. Will the words spring up in my eyes like a cashtill? Words. Littleblackfingerspiders quivering crawling all their crooked little goings on. Oh the naughty words and their grubby pants and prickles, every page a promise of more more more.

Perspirating paragiraffes, slidey slippery scentences, verbies all voluptuous wet and oh, the naughty nouns! Blueblackbook wallpaperwrapped and sticky as a cleric’s dreams.

But ah, wade the broad waters, reeds and rats. Sky in our hair good and healthy. Goloshes squabbling in the mud but onward, the wind in our throats, rain singing in our polished ears and there lazyhopes the bungalow wooden and wet. Clothes turned to steam round the stove and red rubadub with a towel. Goodbye for now windy birdwing, rotting cabincruisers and the endless seagrass, to mum’s face flat on the bedsidetable and down to the oysterbed hair in the eyes cold earlobehick and candlewick caper Jolly Collie tumblefumblemumbledowndo oh yes yes yes and through it all the wickerchair creaks, a moped blowflies past, and under the damp lace the dripdrops glide and giggle any way that’s how it was done in Cromer.

Drawing - Ian Robinson