I heard that too. Funny, light, ingenious and suddenly horrifying. A great poem. I love the way he reads his own work, Armitage, and I like him for having a slightly wrong version of my surname.

Green Card

Young Jim, what a lad! His latest squeeze,
( so he tells me ), works in a bar

on Lower East Side. Not Welsh if you please
but a real New Yorker! ‘Bit far’

I say, but he doesn’t see it. Shrugs.
‘Five, maybe six, hours on a plane’.

Cut to JFK, their wrap-around hugs
then, in a Hopper bar, disdain

for young couples not them in their kiss.
‘I’m moving. They’ll keep this crap job

open, I’ve got the visa. Wouldn’t miss
much. You should go mate’. I fob

him off with a smile. ‘I’m way too old
for all that stuff now’. I return

to my screen, tap jealously in bold
print ( I’ll re-do later ). ‘No, they earn

a fortune mate, and most of them tips.
Ah, Harlem’s great, the vibe. The streets

are safe- the people are so cool and hip’.
Jim, what, twenty? Twenty one? Sweet.

A film of his fast life would have stars,
great reviews, premiere, flashing lights-

whilst mine, half over, would be a big farce.
But, hey, ‘grass is greener’ ( and shite ).

Things are never truly that perfect
are they? There must be one small flaw

somewhere- a twinge, a scratch or a defect
to make it bearable in law.

Lying in their apartment at night
do they wonder where it will go?

Running out of things to say or do. Slight
lull creeping in? Hope not. ( Hope so ).

http://www.wordmagazine.co.uk/content/useful-poems-know-heart about favourite poems.

Simon Armitage is wonderful, isn't he? He's my very favourite poet.

I have really enjoyed the book since it came out , great to hear him read from it.

Thank you for the post.

That is wonderful. And I didn't see the twist coming, so in an instant went from feeling utterly romantic to guffawing horribly...

I like Larkin, reading his verse always makes me feel inferior though.

Back in Attic

Lift the trapdoor, step inside,
Unlatch the windows of your mind.
Breathe in the air of bygone days,
Odours, perfumed memories.
Remember golden yesterdays,
A book with all of Shakespeare's plays,
Pressed wild flowers, high hedgerows,
Steam trains, fairs and cattle shows.
A gramophone, that shellac smell,
Adventure books and William Tell.
Photographs, a cricket bat,
Cobwebs, comics, old school cap.
Roller skates, a crystal set,
A collar for a deceased pet.
Boxes, trunks, a packing case,
A broken clock with dusty face,
Stopped dead. So strange,
Just like the place, no change,
Where time stands still, no chime, no tick,
No talk, no sound, just memories thick.
Lives encompassed in a room,
Mementoes stored and bathed in gloom.
A time machine to step inside,
The perfect place for one to hide.
Escape for now, forget your age,
Immerse yourself - Aladdin's cave.
Take a pinch of ancient snuff,
Inhale the heady, powerful stuff,
Of bygone days and childish ways,
Pick up the bard's old book of plays,
And read, proceed, live for the day,
Reminiscence, come what may.

Here is one of my most recent efforts:

Chance would be a fine thing

Sometimes, usually after I’ve had a
Particularly bad day at work or
When I see a couple besotted with
Each other, I can’t be any sadder.
When I remember I’ve been single for
Most of my life, I think how much I’d give

For a taste of love, for just one minute
If that’s all I’m allowed. I’ve heard of the
Thrill, the excitement it brings to the ones
Who surround themselves with an infinite
Warmth and happiness, all through the pleasure
Of knowing how it should be said and done.

I‘ll start by pointing out I’d rather not
Have to pay for anything, unless it’s
A dozen roses, a romantic date,
Or a week’s holiday to somewhere hot
Where I can get the chance to kiss your lips,
Before time passes and it’s far too late

For me to even contemplate the kind
Of gesture that would be able to melt
Even the hardest-heart. I’ll wait my turn,
Because I’d rather have you on my mind,
Than have the memory of how I felt
Before we met. I have a lot to learn

From love, it’s not a speciality
Of mine. I want you to teach me how to
Survive, and maintain a relationship
Because, in the dark of reality
I’ll have to confess I’m lost without you,
And I’m not sure when I’m supposed to quit.

When it comes to building some confidence,
I don’t know brick from brick. I’ve made mistakes
On this Earth. I’m yet to feel a tingle,
Or sensation. Because my common sense
Tells me (and this is why my spirit breaks)
I’ll end tomorrow by being single.

...At the moment it's Elegies by Douglas Dunn - a collection of verse written after the death of his wife, that attempts to express his sense of loss.

Faber & Faber used to publish Ted Hughes’ animal poetry in four small volumes. They were marvellous anthologies. Hughes had exceptional powers of observation and an irreverent attitude towards the rules of language. In describing animals he would sometimes break down grammar and syntax to give a more accurate impression of his subject matter.

I also write poetry, but not well or often.

Crowstone

One evening on the cusp of midsummer
I rode my bike to the Crowstone.

From across the estuary
The fields of Canvey, as clear as day,
bent down towards the water.
A boy standing upright on his canoe
made ripples with a long paddle.

On Chalkwell beach, a group of old men
undressed silently in the shadow of the railway station.
They wore their skin like shrouds
wrinkled with the contours of old age
and walked into the flat still water.
The sea was kind and gave them back
without a struggle.

I asked one of them where he lived.
He said in one of the old people’s homes.
Then swam out - a head receding into the horizon
in between the boats that turn with the tide on their mooring buoys.
The masts a forest of swaying compass needles
pointing towards the north star.

The eighties were great.
Now leave it, mate
The big drum sound
Was rarely profound
(which was a good thing
Unless you were Sting)
And the fairlight stab
Was totally fab.

It wasn't Rick Astley
That made it nasty
But men with degrees
In cultural studies
Who just couldn't stop
Writing articles called things like "War On Pop"
Or made crap like Wood Beez
After reading "Mythologies".

is Wallace Stevens. Most of his stuff is deeply serious but here is one, called A Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock, that makes me smile:

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches Tigers
In red weather.