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)
Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
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)
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 208, Volume 39 Number 2, November - December 2012.

The January Man Beverley Nadin
The January man has turned away from the closing door.
Voices fade. He looks from a window over a city
offering snow, the whiteness of snow, perfectly placed;
snatching high-rise flats from the brink of nullity;
pierced by steeples, tall and blameless. He knows of darkness
under bridges where a canal and an underpass lay low
to let slip what we learn from snow, snow being aimless.
Since truth, he thinks, is a matter of taste. Others are being
born. Others have died. It is cold, a reason to stay inside.

The February man sits down on a wooden bench. It is cold.
Sparks from an early pint have dulled to an empty wait.
The park is blank. Lakes and swans are a kind of white.
Primed with not-yet night, sky is faintly studded;
water, slapping at watermarks. He can just make
out beside a muddy bank, fat tench - a murky stronghold.
Cold-blooded, they don't know what winter is. Breath
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image