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This poem is taken from PN Review 237, Volume 44 Number 1, September - October 2017.

At the Brasserie Lipp Michael Edwards
Sitting in Lipp’s with this in-
fernal ticking in the ink I find myself
remembering the quiet of Manhattan, the low-slung
crooning cabs with Rolls-Royce engines
shushing the sidewalk buzz, gliding
on soft rubbers along the deep pile
of roadway like butlers in Wodehouse;
and did they really smell
so sweet? Was that Persian air
odours from the bay or whiffs of perfumed petrol?


In the church over there, which gave its name
to a whole way of life, and now squats
on a square devoted to the stars of the fifties,
I heard all those years ago the handsome voice
of Pierre Emmanuel. Did I understand
the poems, with my Cambridge French? Were there truly

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