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About this Poem 

“I intend ‘Dämmerung’ to be ironic meditation on the financial rewards of poetry and a tragicomic lament on the passing of time and the changes in literary taste.  The other poets mentioned are my poetic cohort from the U.K.  I wrote the piece in situ, as it were, while making a television documentary about World War I in Germany.” 

—Simon Armitage

Dämmerung

In later life I retired from poetry,
ploughed the profits
into a family restaurant
in the town of Holzminden, in lower Saxony.

It was small and traditional:
dark wood panelling, deer antlers,
linen tablecloths and red candles,
one beer tap on the bar

and a dish of the day, usually
Bauernschnitzel. Weekends were busy,
pensioners wanting the set meal, though
year on year takings were falling.

Some nights the old gang came in –
Jackie, Max, Lavinia,
Mike not looking at all himself,
and I’d close the kitchen,

hang up my striped apron,
take a bottle of peach schnapps
from the top shelf and say,
“Mind if I join you?”

“Are we dead yet?” someone would ask.
Then with a plastic toothpick
I’d draw blood from my little finger
to prove we were still among the living.

From the veranda we’d breathe new scents
from the perfume distillery over the river,
or watch the skyline
for the nuclear twilight.

Copyright @ 2014 by Simon Armitage. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on September 12, 2014.

Copyright @ 2014 by Simon Armitage. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on September 12, 2014.

Simon Armitage

Simon Armitage was born in 1963 in the village of Marsden, in

by this poet

poem
Which reminds me. He appeared
at noon, asking for water. He’d walked from town
after losing his job, leaving me a note for his wife and his brother
and locking his dog in the coal bunker.
We made him a bed

and he slept till Monday.
A week went by and he hung up his coat.
Then a month, and not a stroke of work,
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