PN Review Print and Online Poetry Magazine
Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
Mark FordLetters And So It Goes
Letters from Young Mr Grace
(aka John Ashbery)

(PN Review 239)
Henry Kingon Toby Martinez de las Rivas
(PN Review 244)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Jamie OsbornIn conversation with Sasha Dugdale
(PN Review 240)
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
Monthly Carcanet Books
Gratis Ad 1
Next Issue Kei Miller Sometimes I Consider the Names of Places Kyoo Lee's A Close Up and Marjorie Perloff's response John McAuliffe City of Trees Don Share on Whitman's Bicentenary Jeffrey Wainwright and Jon Glover on Geoffrey Hill's Gnostic

This poem is taken from PN Review 141, Volume 28 Number 1, September - October 2001.

Four Poems Neil Powell

1 August 2000

The purple buddleia has outreached itself;
Distended tendrils clog the narrow garden;
Drab blackbirds feed their damp prodigious young;
A woodpigeon calls the cows in after rain.
A quarter century! Its shrubs and birds
Growing, declining in the seasons' dance,
As I find, baffled by a long wet summer,
An unexpected break, another chance.


My Chelsea

My grandmother lived in a first-floor flat in Chelsea:
10 Limerston Street, a staid unfashionable bit.
She would not have thought of herself as exotic.

But I did, marvelling at her innocent grandeur,
Knowing that she would always be right,
As resonant and inclusive as her radiogram,
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image