Wednesday, 19 October 2016

Another one from Simon Armitage.

This Simon Armitage poem is kind of how I'm feeling at the moment. 

It ain't what you do it's what it does to you.

I have not bummed across America
with only a dollar to spare, one pair
of busted Levi's and a bowie knife.
I have lived with thieves in Manchester.

I have not padded through the Taj Mahal,
barefoot, listening to the space between
each footfall picking up and putting down
its print against the marble floor. But I

skimmed flat stones across Black Moss on a day
so still I could hear each set of ripples
as they crossed. I felt each stone's inertia
spend itself against the water; then sink.

I have not toyed with a parachute cord
while perched on the lip of a light-aircraft;
but I held the wobbly head of a boy
at the day centre, and stroked his fat hands.

And I guess that the tightness in the throat
and the tiny cascading sensation
somewhere inside us are both part of that

sense of something else.
That feeling, I mean.                         

By Simon Armitage.

Neil Harris
(a don't stop till you drop production)
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