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

He is a cheap, a billion Niagara Falls light displays. He is like the waterfall itself, illuminated by a battery of coloured searchlights with over four billion candle power. I flew in from the Canadian territories with birds-eye view of the structure. It’s the shape of his face, his narrow blue eyes and high cheekbones, a truly spectacular sight. This nastiness that spoke of cunning and self-assurance, and yes it was his wonderful slender shoulders and tight little chest. I was prepared to overlook the fuck-ups and general dowdiness for a cable car ride over Whirlpool Rapid and The Gorge. He was the American falls viewed from the Canadian side. I was The Maid Of The Mist, as silly as a tourist boat bobbing up and down at base of falls, riding the pathetic simulated waves. I was dust one of the twenty five thousand plants that are needed for Niagara’s Floral Clock, with slow hands that will provide the countdown to the end of the world. What he saw was a spectacular view of the Canadian Horseshoe Falls, as viewed from Table Rock’s magnificent vantage point. He saw me in full illumination. My colourful nightly display as seen from the American side was truly an unforgettable sight. I was the solitary boat sailing towards the United States of the Apocalypse. He was deep and dangerous narrow Gorge and the long flowing Niagara River. Our promenade love affair leading to platforms within touching distance of the raging waters of the Whirlpool Rapids. With our naked eyes we viewed The Bridal Veil Falls with The Observation Tower in the background. Whilst most of nature retreats to deep rest for the winter or migrates south, the mighty Niagara lover of my dreams creates a sculptured wonderland of lasting ice. One hundred and fifty feet below the scenic lookout, Table Rock House provides the most spectacular view of Niagara power. Even from this vantage point, there is the fear that the destructive lover is too much inside the self. It tastes like a waterfall rushing into the throat. Niagara Falls, feeds into the river of the dilapidated city by the same name. The visitors to these awesome affairs say, ‘You’ve really got to cut everything else out of your mind and focus on the falls. Then they are truly beautiful.’ But I can’t do that, without being fully affected and fearful. Soon I am consumed by the commercial flood and the tacky surrounds. He is my Niagara Falls lover, like fifty bus loads of ignorant tourists arriving, who rush straight to the souvenir shop. He is a host of imported Disney World characters done up in lights. When we flared up the children inside each of us clapped their small hands together. When we first laid eyes upon one another at Bender Street, on the eve of The Casino, at ten Tourist Information Centres, I felt spiritually shaken. He meanwhile had been chain-smoking, lying naked on a hundred thousand waterbeds, throughout the mirrored saunas, in whirlpools afloat with cocktail trays and soapy champagne bubbles, spilling over from pink love heart shaped bathtubs. I approached him shyly from the honeymoon suite, surrounded by neon ceilings and helium lampshades. He was bolt-upright, captivated by my slinky laser light holographic Niagara Tower T-shirt and my golden Niagara Falls cap and money belt. My Niagara Falls lover, a product of good advertising. I’ve seen you on all those nature programs from North America. I thought it would be bigger, but nothing’s perfect. My Niagara Falls lover, don’t tell me it was all just a big splash through a concrete sewerage pipe, boats beneath it and helicopters above it. Don’t tell me it’s over and I won’t tell you. Superstition has it, that marriages that are brought here by honeymooners have shaky beginnings. Oscar Wilde described the falls as, ‘the second biggest disappointment on the honeymoon.’ It is predicted that Niagara marriages are bound to end in divorce, as couples flee into the paradise of the cascade gift shops and restaurants, in search of bigger and better and cheaper goods. Niagara Falls is as American as Leonard Cohen. The USA can never forgive Canada for having the best view of the falls, or for its line of light-up Canadian mounted police displays. Niagara Falls, I must say it is one of the most horrible places I have ever been to in my life. Sure people love it, but a lot don’t look at it. A lot drive past it and hold their cameras out of the car windows. The other hand steering the wheel or balancing a packet of cheese coated potato crisps on their laps. The only relief is the wild seagulls, afloat in the air currents above the Niagara Tourist Information Centre, where they can tell me about my love life’s future. Please reassure me quickly. Have I sought the best bargain? Am I on the right tour? It feels like I’m slipping under. I’m beginning to think that everything is a big rip-off. Like that compact disc advertising ambient music and wolf-cry recordings from Alberta, Canada. It turned out to be an excuse for some failed musician to play bad synthesisers for hours on end. There was a dry little yelp on the CD, as a single frightened wolf was shot with a camera or a gun. Or as it tried to get away from the sound recording equipment, and snagged its paw on some bracken half concealed in snow. Either way it made its clean escape from men like that, who travel the world playing the same bad music, and naming it every animal and every landscape. As disillusioned and confused I attempt my own escape from my Niagara Falls lover, and from lovers’ lane and love that was promised but never given, at the North Pole Gift Shop. The laser art glitters like something unsavoury beneath his coat, followed closely by the pop-up tower post-card. The casino shuttle bus is looking more like an Arm-A-Guard truck in this new light. It takes us to the enormous souvenir warehouse. You can become a member in order to obtain free Niagara Falls souvenirs at discount year round specials. Or pop along to the JFK assassination display or the ice hockey exhibition, at the old-style Canadian Memorial Art Gallery. Just something else to remember, so that we don’t have to remember each other. Without my delusion, the only relief were the light grey seagulls as polluted as the sky. The big dirty river going under the bridge and down through to the falls, is like the Great Lakes of Toronto. It had to be tested for the presence of a hundred thousand toxic chemicals before you dipped your toe in. But darling, we can all learn to enjoy pollution if we have to. My Niagara Falls lover, he was a paradox of being so hard that a diamond couldn’t cut him and so weak that you could tread on his face and you wouldn’t notice it. My Niagara Falls lover, on the surface he is torrents of refreshment, me crazily riding the currents beneath. Them he is mindless laser lights & trampling crowds that sicken me to my heart.