PN Review Print and Online Poetry Magazine
News and Notes
Digital Access to PN Review
Access the latest issues, plus back issues of PN Review with Exact Editions For PN Review subscribers: to access the PN Review digital archive via the Exact Editions app Exactly or the Exact Editions website, you will first need to know your PN Review ID number. read more
PN Review Prize winners announced
Carcanet Press and PN Review are delighted to announce the winners of the first ever PN Review Prize. read more
Most Read... Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Drew MilneTom Raworth’s Writing
‘present past improved’: Tom Raworth’s Writing

(PN Review 236)
Alejandro Fernandez-OsorioPomace (trans. James Womack)
(PN Review 236)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Kei MillerIn the Shadow of Derek Walcott
1930–2017

(PN Review 235)
Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
Gratis Ad 1
Gratis Ad 2
Next Issue Peter Scupham at 85: a celebration Contributions by Anne Stevenson, Robert Wells, Peter Davidson, Lawrence Sail

This poem is taken from PN Review 119, Volume 24 Number 3, January - February 1998.

Wheels Gwyneth Lewis

I The Heir

After my aunt died,
I came in a car
to fetch the old clock with care from the house.
My small car was full
so there was nothing to do
but remove the pendulum, stretch
out like a corpse in the fine casing
and treat my inheritance like a coffin
all the way home.

                               Along the lane
the bushes bowed to show their respect
for the departed. Inside
the column, punctually, I rotted,
each second a tick in my elegant belly,
keeping perfect time. I slept heavily.

A curious journey. But when we got back
my resurrection was strange to see
and I could feel the swing of the lead
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image