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

Shattered by devastating news,
Leaving at 5,
the next morning, amongst hurried misconceptions.
We check out, but not before I indulged 5 minutes’ silence.
Half a country away from being dashingly atop ancient kingdoms’
worlds.
Creeping through multi-marketed pansies on
Kathmandu’s once-nightly video evening.

Looking south, really, for the 1st time in 3 weeks,
openly presenting away from frustrated buyers
but main-manned sellers. For their hand-shafted trinkets they want
exquisite sales - but I’m skint, and I show it … fumbling
3 and a half chequed-up guarantee cards, loosely changed copper and
rich
pics of estranged family lenders. At 3 o’clock,
Asian hoteilers edge right to it, cry wolf, and slump.
Poses are one for the camera:
better make 2 for Nepal’s Rising-Son. Haze-of
mid-afternoon sonstress neck snatches,
and has it craned downward at awkward angles. Literally,
they’re begging for one-course meals, served without or with
bedazzling chapatis, on exempt sauce.

The mountains tower north,
north-west, bloated American-Express users abuse privileged
trust, and head south on game safaris. Juxtaposing
laid-lines atop a 7-floor hotel called ‘UTSE’, knowing nothing about
the other. Descending sun’s the only dippy thing a rude moon’s got
in common. In law, us world-weary are obliged.
To do what? I ain’t sure ... but up there,
the silence, warmth and widescreen panorama
Over and out of the city’s edge made for a gentleman’s lazy sight.

I took half a film of building-drenched photos. And I’ll show him.

Arrived at my own instrumental devices; those who like to taste food and
                                                                                                     drink
chew-back a story of bolstered heroism near Everest, in the rooftop
pavement’s basement. Cross-cultural pomposity would have had me
outstretched across the shambling rooftops, lending vein hands as they
faffed, joked and smoked, in my over-grinning face. No
jewel-thieving or bare-naked Shetland Pony hiding,
the sixties’ dopey high
niggles Vietnam veteran made lepers. Telling me homemade lies about...
Such heavy shit, that was well-ended ‘fore my time. Sure,
up there - alone - on that roof. Half-starved Nepalese know little of drama,
letting-rip closer than most, I don’t even wish I could fly. Beyond Rangoon,
schematically into taking-off landings. Looking back,
I wished I’d tellingly cried, but that just ruins the subtle intensity of
                                                                                            dazzling
impact. That’s selflessly cracked. ‘namaste’…

head home.