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

Houses at night,
especially in February,
have had all their natural colours
scraped away
                       and then covered
with thick black paint
poured
            from the moon
- all that easy conversation
underneath
the birch trees is then
forgotten
in favour of Hoffman’s (whispered) Tales

With the exception of mine,
there are always children in these houses
and so there might be some crying
but it is
soft,
       and accompanied
by the same carrying tune
- a small boy trying to learn
(through the thin walls) to play
the flute.. .he, in this way, gives me
a structure to my nights

    And that street vendor staggering
frozen
home -
               he’s a magician,
entering into the yellow dimness of his house.
shaking off the snow,
his wrinkles forming
- a kabbalah - and as always -
it scares his many children
but

          in the daylight
those wrinkles are simply tired
and FUNNY,

so when
another neighbour’s girl.
the littlest one who wears the pink coat, shouts
up to him
              “Two apples and that BIG ORANGE PLEEEA -SE”
then runs
              and hops onto
the 179
for school -
well,
she gives me structure to my mornings -

And then,
there is also this -
this
that I know,

                      that every day, at around 3 o’clock,
the street vendor’s pregnant wife
visits him at his work - and
he always stares - very deeply - into
her eyes
              and into the eyes on her belly too,

and She conjures too

(And)

then the night has come again -

you see,
it’s this couple who tip
the moon

                    the black paint...

PUT away
that ouija board
if you know what’s good for you...