BOOKS / Contemporary Poets: 8 Simon Armitage
Your support helps us to tell the story
From reproductive rights to climate change to Big Tech, The Independent is on the ground when the story is developing. Whether it's investigating the financials of Elon Musk's pro-Trump PAC or producing our latest documentary, 'The A Word', which shines a light on the American women fighting for reproductive rights, we know how important it is to parse out the facts from the messaging.
At such a critical moment in US history, we need reporters on the ground. Your donation allows us to keep sending journalists to speak to both sides of the story.
The Independent is trusted by Americans across the entire political spectrum. And unlike many other quality news outlets, we choose not to lock Americans out of our reporting and analysis with paywalls. We believe quality journalism should be available to everyone, paid for by those who can afford it.
Your support makes all the difference.Simon Armitage was born in Huddersfield in 1963 and now works as a probation officer in Oldham. Zoom] (1989) was one of the most acclaimed first collections of the 1980s, and he has followed it recently with Kid (Faber), as slangy, downbeat and witty as his debut, and Xanadu (Bloodaxe), the poems written to accompany a film he made for television about a Rochdale housing estate.
HITCHER
I'd been tired, under
the weather, but the ansaphone kept screaming:
one more sick-note, mister, and you're finished. Fired.
I thumbed a lift to where the car was parked.
A Vauxhall Astra. It was hired.
I picked him up in Leeds.
He was following the sun to west from east
with just a toothbrush and the good earth for a bed. The truth,
he said, was blowin' in the wind,
or round the next bend.
I let him have it
on the top road out of Harrogate: once
with the head, then six times with an elbow
in the face, and didn't even swerve.
I dropped it into third
and leant across
to let him out, and saw him in the mirror
bouncing off the curb then disappearing down the verge.
We were the same age, give or take a week.
He'd said he liked the breeze
to run its fingers
through his hair. It was twelve noon.
The outlook for the day was moderate to fair.
Stitch that, I remember thinking,
you can walk from there.
Join our commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies
Comments