Seeing Stars by Simon Armitage

Simon Armitage was born in 1963 and lives in West Yorkshire. He has published nine volumes of poetry, including The Universal Home Doctor and Travelling Songs, both published by Faber in 2002. He has received numerous awards for his poetry including the Sunday Times Author of the Year, one of the first Forward Prizes and a Lannan Award. His collection of poems, Tyrannosaurus Rex Versus the Corduroy Kid, was published by Faber in September 2006, followed by his bestselling and critically acclaimed translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (Faber) in 2007. In 2010, for services to poetry, Armitage was awarded the CBE. Upon Opening the Chest Freezer From the last snowfall of winter to settle on the hills Damien likes to roll up a ginormous snowball then store it in the chest freezer in the pantry for one of his little stunts. Come high summer, in that thin membrane of night which divides one long day from the next, he'll drive out in the van and deposit his snowball at a bus stop or crossroads or at the door of a parish church. Then from a discreet distance, using the telescopic lens, he'll snap away with the Nikon, documenting the awestruck citizenry who swarm around his miracle of meteorology, who look upon such mighty works bewildered and amazed. Damien, I'm through playing housewife to your 'art' and this brief story-poem is to tell you I'm leaving. I'm gaffer-taping it to the inside of the freezer lid; if you're reading it, you're staring into the steaming abyss where nothing remains but a packet of boneless chicken thighs and a scattering of petit pois, as hard as bullets and bruised purple by frost. At first it was just a scoop here and a scraping there, slush puppies for next door's kids, a lemon sorbet after the Sunday roast, an ice pack once in a while for my tired flesh, then margaritas for that gaggle of sycophants you rolled home with one night, until the day dawned when there wasn't so much as a snowflake left. And I need for you now to lean into the void and feel for yourself the true scald of Antarctica's breath. The Christening I am a sperm whale. I carry up to 2.5 tonnes of an oil-like balm in my huge, coffin-shaped head. I have a brain the size of a basketball, and on that basis alone am entitled to my opinions. I am a sperm whale. When I breathe in, the fluid in my head cools to a dense wax and I nosedive into the depths. My song, available on audiocassette and compact disc is a comfort to divorcees, astrologists and those who have 'pitched the quavering canvas tent of their thoughts on the rim of the dark crater'. The oil in my head is of huge commercial value and has been used by NASA, for even in the galactic emptiness of deep space it does not freeze. I am attracted to the policies of the Green Party on paper but once inside the voting booth my hand is guided by an unseen force. Sometimes I vomit large chunks of ambergris. My brother, Jeff, owns a camping and outdoor clothing shop in the Lake District and is a recreational user of cannabis. Customers who bought books about me also bought Do Whales Have Belly Buttons? by Melvin Berger and street maps of Cardiff. In many ways I have seen it all. I keep no pets. Lying motionless on the surface I am said to be 'logging', and 'lobtailing' when I turn and offer my great slow fluke to the horizon. Don't be taken in by the dolphins and their winning smiles, they are the pickpockets of the ocean, the gypsy children of the open waters and they are laughing all the way to Atlantis. On the basis of 'finders keepers' I believe the Elgin Marbles should remain the property of the British Crown. I am my own God – why shouldn't I be? The first people to open me up thought my head was full of sperm, but they were men, and had lived without women for many weeks, and were far from home. Stuff comes blurting out. Poodles They all looked daft but the horse-dog looked daftest of all. The cute red bridle and swishing tail, the saddle and stirrups, the groomed mane. The hair round its feet had been shaved and fluffed into hooves. Close up, on its hind, there were vampire bites where the clippers had steered too close to the skin. Skin that was blotchy and rude. I leaned over the rail and whispered, 'You're not a horse, you're a dog.' It bared its Canines and growled: 'Shut the fuck up, son. Forty- five minutes and down come the dirty bombs – is that what you want? Now offer me one of those mints and hold it out in the flat of your hand. Then hop on.' I was six, with a kitten's face and the heart of a lamb.