New Simon Armitage poem on our times

The current poet laureate, Simon Armitage, has recently published a striking, original poem on our unstable disturbing times, whose final vision is perhaps what he himself calls 'hope'. It is an imaginative response to the COP-26 climate summit taking place in Glasgow. I particularly like the powerful line, 'It's T minus zero/of the Petroleum Era' (T minus... is a term used for the countdown prior to a rocket launch). The short lines create a sense of impending doom, or perhaps of a world teetering on the brink of a new dawn, the central ambiguity of this poem. Here is his introductory piece, followed by the poem, published on the Guardian website today:

I wanted to react to COP-26  – so many of my friends and colleagues have been emboldened by the conversation it has generated. And strange times sometimes lead to strange poems.

I was trying to chart the peculiar dream-like state we seem to be in, where the rules and natural laws of the old world feel to be in flux, one of those dreams which are full of danger, but not completely beyond the control of the person who sleeps.

The speaker in the poem is watching a world out of kilter, and is full of doubt and distrust, but seems to pluck up enough personal courage to face the future. Let’s call it hope.

 

Futurama

I crawl out onto the rooftop

above the world’s junkshop,

lean against the warm chimney

and eyeball the city.

The vibe is … let’s say ethereal,

rows of TV aerials

spelling out HEAVEN,

spelling out ARMAGEDDON.

It’s T minus zero

of the Petroleum Era –

all my neighbours

are burning tomorrow’s newspapers

in their back-gardens,

getting their alibis sharpened.

As the hours evaporate

I say to my spirit

I can’t really pilot

this smouldering twilight

over the scars and crevasses,

but I’ll put on my best sunglasses

and steer the cockpit of morning

into the oncoming.

Poet Laureate's verse for HRH the Duke of Edinburgh

 This afternoon the funeral of HRH Prince Philip the Duke of Edinburgh took place at Windsor in the presence of thirty guests. Our thoughts go out to all the Royal Family, particularly Queen Elizabeth II, his wife for seventy-three years.  As is befitting for such a moment, the country's Poet Laureate, Simon Armitage, has composed the following poem:

The Patriarchs – An Elegy

The weather in the window this morning
is snow, unseasonal singular flakes,
a slow winter’s final shiver. On such an occasion
to presume to eulogise one man is to pipe up
for a whole generation – that crew whose survival
was always the stuff of minor miracle,
who came ashore in orange-crate coracles,
fought ingenious wars, finagled triumphs at sea
with flaming decoy boats, and side-stepped torpedoes.

Husbands to duty, they unrolled their plans
across billiard tables and vehicle bonnets,
regrouped at breakfast. What their secrets were
was everyone’s guess and nobody’s business.
Great-grandfathers from birth, in time they became
both inner core and outer case
in a family heirloom of nesting dolls.
Like evidence of early man their boot-prints stand
in the hardened earth of rose-beds and borders.

They were sons of a zodiac out of sync
with the solar year, but turned their minds
to the day’s big science and heavy questions.
To study their hands at rest was to picture maps
showing hachured valleys and indigo streams, schemes
of old campaigns and reconnaissance missions.
Last of the great avuncular magicians
they kept their best tricks for the grand finale:
Disproving Immortality and Disappearing Entirely.

The major oaks in the wood start tuning up
and skies to come will deliver their tributes.
But for now, a cold April’s closing moments
parachute slowly home, so by mid-afternoon
snow is recast as seed heads and thistledown.