it ain't what you do

Today I was reminded of one of my favourite poems by british poet Simon Armitage that I had not thought of for a while. Despite absolutely detesting his poetry when I was forced to learn them in school for my English Literature GCSE, I'm actually a big fan of his now it's not being force fed to me by an insufferably benign english teacher.

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 theTaj 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 stones' 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 have 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.

Now if I could only remember how to write. that would be nice.