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
Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
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)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Alejandro Fernandez-OsorioPomace (trans. James Womack)
(PN Review 236)
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 223, Volume 41 Number 5, May - June 2015.

Two Poems, translated by Paul Muldoon
Translated from the French by Paul Muldoon
René Char
With Braque, Maybe, We Would Say

When the snow drifts away, the night calls off its hounds.
 
Fruits, you hold yourselves at such a remove from your tree
the stars in the sky begin to look like your reflections.

We go astray when the straight line that hurries ahead of us
turns into the ground beneath our feet. We’re brought low
by mere happiness.

The tang of waves that don’t fall backwards. They force the
sea into its own past.

There’s a residue of blood in the arrow’s fletch, not in its
point. The bow has willed it thus.

A storm has two abodes. One takes up a little space on the
horizon. As for the other, a whole man is barely able
to contain it.

Dew has it hard early on. On a low morning it sets itself
against the vault of night, the harshness of day, the rough
and tumble of fountains.
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image