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

I just upped and went, slammed the door
till it shook in its jamb — that old gag.
I just had to get out. Loaded
silences can trap you as much
as harsh words. What I needed most

was innocent noise and lights, strings of them
by the lake. So I wandered along
the Lungolago Zanardelli, telling
over to myself this name like a poem,
watching the evening steamers arrive,
sipping at glasses of Bardolino,
a different vendemmia each one,
me the oenophile! But later
I drank like a champion until my palate
seemed painted over, wondering how
the Duce felt in this spot, a dwarf
republic his last throw: which building
near me did he pretend to govern from,
a dazed wrecker, at loose in his
mountainous reservation, courtesy of
Berlin? I keep asking people
this question, bar to bar, until
someone tells me, the lines of his
mouth madly realigning themselves,
tells me in good English that Mussolini
actually lived in Gargnano, was rarely
seen in Salò. No, he was here, I insist.

Further along the lakeside, a man dips
a giant metal loop into a soapy bucket, and
then casts it around in the air like a net,
drawing huge bubbles like temporary worlds;
an audience mainly of small kids,
their awed delight which almost softens me
into stumbling back to the hotel, trying
a touch of apology. But there are other sites,
other trails of lamps ; I’ll stake out
the palaces, still try to find
the balcony Mussolini last strutted from,
imagine a great bubble that descends
on his bald pate, count the seconds
before it goes a silent, mocking pop.

There’s a crashing sound behind me somewhere,
like a ragged refrain of slammed hotel doors,
hiding those resentfully on watch who,
when your mind is full of lights and soap-globes
and wine and quest, always try
their level worst to play at conscience,
dun you for moral debts you can’t allow,
impose on brilliance a tame regret.