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Christmas PN Review Gift Subscriptions 2016!
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Most Read... Daniel Kaneon Ted Berrigan
(PN Review 169)
David Herdin Conversation with John Ashbery
(PN Review 99)
Henry Kingon Geoffrey Hill's Oraclau/Oracles
(PN Review 199)
Dannie Abse'In Highgate Woods' and Other Poems
(PN Review 209)
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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.

Featured Article
The Book That Ate Itself: Travels in Surrealist New Zealand & Some Remarks on Surrealist Poetry in Britain Gregory O'Brien THE DROWNED PAGES, 1985
Rowing an aluminium dinghy out onto Auckland’s Waitemata Harbour, I was heading for Brown’s Island, a.k.a Motukorea – a whale-shaped volcano, two kilometres offshore. Stashed atop a bundle of provisions near the prow was a recently acquired copy of the 1978 Penguin anthology English and American Surrealist Poetry, edited by Edward B. Germain – my designated reading for the day’s outing. Mid-voyage, the wake of a passing ferry struck the dinghy and, along with a few other items, the Penguin went hurtling into the choppy harbour. After some flapping about, I managed to recover the book on the end of one wooden oar and deposited it back inside the dinghy. There it remained for the rest of the day, a drowned creature, bulging grotesquely with salt water. I considered abandoning it, but the wretched anthology had cost me three dollars (a princely sum at the ... read more
An Unforgettable Series of Journeys on the Glasgow Underground
Frank Kuppner 30 • Also, Leo, as I rather think I was just saying, one might learn [more] about the allegorical element – and then wish one hadn’t done so: perhaps because the allegory as such is so strained or uncongenial to one’s own world-view? (But I dare say the word ‘good’ [‘good allegory’] is there to allow one the bargain value-for-effort / ergonomically highly efficient resource of claiming that any allegory in which such considerations obtain cannot, ipso facto, be a good one.)

31 • After all, is one really to doubt that one gains more pleasure from such propositional content as a poem might contain if and to the extent that one shares the beliefs that are expressed in it? Or is there an equal (surely not greater?) pleasure in thinking something along the lines of: ‘Beautifully put – but, no: I don’t agree with that ... read more
Sir Geoffrey Hill
Rowan Williams The following sermon was delivered at the funeral of Sir Geoffrey Hill at the Chapel of Emmanuel College, Cambridge on 25 July 2016.

                                         *

VERY WELL, you shall redirect the pain –
May already have worked this – towards paean.
      Nothing bereaves
      Precisely; yet
      Lost springs of loves
      Turn things about
      Upon the stiff axis
      Geared by bow staves      [Clavics 25, p.    35]


‘A trimmed rod of wood’, says the definition, ‘to be made into a bow.’ Loss is ‘imprecise’, nothing serious, grievous, in our humanity allows us the satisfaction of being exact, wrapping it all up. What we do with bereavement is to find words that ‘turn things about’, labouring at a vehicle where the tension and slowness are in fact building towards an arrow flight.

So today, sitting ... read more
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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