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David Herdin Conversation with John Ashbery
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Henry Kingon Geoffrey Hill's Oraclau/Oracles
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Dannie Abse'In Highgate Woods' and Other Poems
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Sasha DugdaleJoy
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Matías Serra Bradfordinterviews Roger Langley The Long Question of Poetry: A Quiz for R.F. Langley
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Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
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The Poetry Society
Next Issue Alex Wylie sponsors the Secular Games Emma Wilson quizzes Carol Mavor Anna Jackson's Dear Reader Freddie Raphael's Dear Lord Byron David Herd on Poetry and Deportation
Welcome to PN Review, one of the outstanding literary magazines of our time.
Keep up with the many worlds of poetry in this independent and always stimulating journal. For four decades PN Review has been a place to discover new poems in English and in translation as well as interviews, news, essays, reviews and reports from around the world. Subscribers can explore the complete, uniquely rich digital archive.

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Submissions to PN Review: Current subscribers may submit work by e-mail (word attachment). All other submissions should be made by post to: The Editors, PN Review, 4th Floor, Alliance House, 30 Cross Street, Manchester M2 7AQ, UK. Submissions should be accompanied by a self-addressed return envelope and should generally not exceed four poems/five pages.

PN Review 234
Featured Article
The Golden Ratio: Poetry & Mathematics Emily Grosholz IN HIS BOOK The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard talks about the house of childhood, the house we never leave because at first we live in it, and afterwards it lives on in us. The house of childhood organises our experience, first of all determining inside and outside, and then offering middle terms: the front porch and its steps are a middle term between the house and the town, while the back yard and garden are a middle term between the house and the wild. (In the proportion between two ratios expressed in A:B :: B:C (or  ‘A is to B as B is to C’, we call B the middle term, which brings A and C into clear relation.) It organises what is far away, because we measure ‘away’ by how far it is from home, how many hours or days of travel. Moreover, the windows of the house let in the distances, the dwindling train tracks, river or road, the fields and forest, even the cloudy-blue or starry heavens: they are set squarely on the walls within the window frames, as light comes through and we see what is outside. It also organises time.What lives in the basement or the attic? We ourselves do not eat or sleep or socialise or read there, though those rooms are part of the house: they are where we put the past, the discarded and the treasured. Finally, the house invites playing: the playroom with its gate and the fenced part of the backyard, enclosures where the toys are kept and children imitate the human activities of building and furnishing houses, ... read more
Three Poems
Laura Scott and Pierre?

With his ripe face like one of those pale freckled pears
you hold in your hand and his mind shuddering across it

like a bruise – he’s legible to all the world. With his great legs,
broad and strong as the trees, he walks in and out of chapters

smelling of eau de cologne, or an animal that sleeps in a barn.
With his long fingers running across the stubble on his jaw,

he listens to the black Russian rain before he picks up his pen.
With his eyes so blue you’d think he’d drunk the sky down

with all that champagne, he watches the soldiers (red epaulettes
... read more
Letter from Paris
Jennie Feldman AS THE WIND PICKED UP, a dozen scattered sailing boats tilted and gathered speed across the pea-green water. One with a Union Jack traced a wide arc around others flying the flags of France, the Netherlands, Japan; seconds later it was chafing against the stone wall and a small boy raced past me to prod it back into action.

On my previous visit to the Jardin du Luxembourg, the model boats for hire had still sported numbers for you to choose from. The wide octagonal pool was its own world. With the switch to national flags, the scene now suggests either inconsequential Olympic rivalry or (as I couldn’t help seeing it) a mad, if graceful, enactment of current affairs. When a German-flagged craft overtakes another – with, inevitably, a Greek flag – and almost collides with an Italian one, windblown child’s play comes giddily close to political realities. ... read more
Also in the magazine... John WilkinsonWays to Get About Busan Karen Van DyckWhat’s Found in Translation Tony Robertson Richard Holmes & Deaths of the Poets MaitreyabandhuPoetry in Motion Jay DegenhardtSwitchblade Roger Caldwellon Roger Scruton’s Wagner
Selected from the Archive...
A Lyric Voice at Bay Eavan Boland
Critics work in a text. Biographers work in the foreground and the background. And the critic's work is made much harder when the background has been overwritten by events, interpretations and frank and forgetful prejudice. At that point the critic has to do some double-jobbing in order to rescue the text from the biographical background and the reader's resistance.

Albert Gelpi has set himself a hard task.1 Cecil Day Lewis, at least at first glance, is a decidedly awkward subject. Before reading this book I would have said Day Lewis was a refugee from the 1930s: and Anglo-Irish Georgian, who admired Tom Moore and consorted with Auden. A gentlemanly Communist. A hopelessly lyric inhabitant of a hard-driving decade. A poet who didn't so much lose his identity as have it handed to him in fragments: national, poetic, ... read more
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