Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

In darkness we descended to the next
Grim circle: here the space is more confined,
The pain intensified in goaded howls.

And here King Minos serves as magistrate:
Assessing the offences of the damned,
He judges and dispatches each in turn.

Believe me, friends, arraigned before this bench
The malefactors instantly confess -
And when the Justice-King has heard their crimes,

He knows the place where each of them belongs
And coils his tail around himself to show
How many levels they must now descend.

The court of Minos never sleeps. The crowd
Awaiting sentence never thins. They speak;
They learn their fate; and they are hurled below.

‘Now, visitor to this, the house of pain,’
Said Minos, seeing me and looking up
A moment from his stern, unceasing work,

‘Beware this entranceway. Think whom you trust.
And though the door is wide, do not be fooled.’
Then Virgil came to my defence: ‘Enough.

You may not interfere. The road this man
Must follow is his destiny, laid down
By Him who wills all things. Now hold your tongue.’

Just then the notes of grief began to reach
My hearing, and I came to where in waves
Vast choirs of agony broke over me.

This was a place where light itself was dumb.
It held the roar the sea builds in a storm
When two opposing winds contend, a storm

Which cannot cease, since it is brewed in Hell.
It snatches sinners up and hurls them on
Before it, spins them, whips them. Tortured souls

In this unending fury screech aloud
In pain and tears and lamentation - yet
In that same breath they curse the might of God.

I learned this is a penalty reserved
For those whose sins are of the flesh, who seek
To make the reason subject to desire.

As in cold weather starlings’ wings will bear
A broad dense flock of them along, so here
The storm conducts the spirits of the damned:

Here, there, downwards, upwards, on they go:
No hope will ever come to comfort them,
No moment’s rest, and no reprieve from pain.

Now when I saw these shadows veering close,
Borne on the warring winds eternally,
Like flocks of cranes strung out against the sky,

Delivering their mournful, long-drawn cries,
I asked my master, ‘Can you tell me, please,
Who are these souls the very air torments?’

‘The first of those whose names are known to you,’
He said, ‘could once command a hundred tongues.
She was an Empress, but one so depraved

By her indulgence in the fleshly sins
That she enshrined her lust among her laws
To mock the scandal that pursued her deeds.

Her name was Semiramis and we read
How she succeeded to her husband’s throne
And ruled the land which now the Sultan holds.

See Dido next, who killed herself for love
And broke faith with Sichaeus’ memory;
And Cleopatra, Egypt’s wanton queen.

And here is Helen, too, in whose account
Stand years of evil; great Achilles
Fought with love and found no quarter there.

See Paris, Tristan...’ Then he pointed out
A thousand shades and more who died for love,
And as he did so named them each in turn.

To hear my teacher catalogue these names,
The knights and ladies of the ancient world,
Awoke first pity, then bewilderment.

I asked him, ‘Poet, may I be allowed
To speak to these two fellow travellers,
Who seem to ride so lightly on the wind?’

‘Wait. Let them come closer,’ he replied,
‘And then invoke the love that leads them on:
They will accept your invitation then.’

So when the tempest drove them near to us
I called to them: ‘O weary souls, if God
Wills that you may, please come to speak to us.’

As doves when summoned by desire will seek
Their nest with poised and outstretched wings,
Borne down the sky by longing, so these two

Left the company that Dido leads,
Approaching us through that malignant air:
My tender voice was powerful indeed.

‘O gracious, friendly human creature,
Who travels through this filthy atmosphere
To meet us, though we stained the world with blood,

If that great friend of all were still our friend
Then we should pray to him to grant you peace
For taking pity on our dreadful plight.

Whatever matters you would speak about,
Or hear about from us, this place is best,
For here the wind relents a little now.

The city of my birth lies on the shore
At which the River Po and all the streams
That feed its course descend to meet the sea.

The fire of love is quickly kindled in
A gentle heart, and I burned for the one
Snatched from me. I am burning still.

The power of love spares nobody its claims:
Its charms imprisoned me so utterly
That as you see, I shall not be released.

And it was love that brought us to this death.
The pit of Cain awaits our killer now.’
So with these words the lost pair greeted us.

I heard these words and had to bend my head,
Unable to go on, until at last
The poet said to me, ‘What are your thoughts?’

When finally I spoke I said: ‘Alas,
What sweet thoughts and what intense desire
Brought this couple to their dreadful fate.’

I turned towards them then and searched for words:
‘Francesca, what you suffer makes me weep
With sorrow and compassion. Please, explain

How, in the midst of sighs and sweetness, love
Could give you signs, then opportunity
To satisfy your dark forbidden wish?’

She answered me: ‘No greater pain exists
Than to be damned and still remember joy.
Your master-poet understands this too.

But if you are determined you must hear
About the root of our forbidden love
Then I shall tell, and weep in doing so.

One day, to entertain ourselves, we read
Of Lancelot, bound hand and foot by love.
We sat alone. There seemed no danger then.

Our eyes met many times as we read on.
The drama made us blush and then grow pale.
It was a single line that ruined us -

When we read how a long-desired smile
Was kissed by that great lover, then my own
True love, the one from whom I’ll never part,

Reached out for me, and, trembling, kissed my mouth.
The pander Galahad devised that work:
That afternoon we set his book aside.’

While one unhappy spirit spoke these words
The other wept and I was overcome
By pity, and I fainted clean away

And like a dead man fell upon the ground.