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)
Kei Millerthe Fat Black Woman
In Praise of the Fat Black Woman & Volume

(PN Review 241)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Next Issue Sasha Dugdale, Intimacy and other poems Eugene Ostashevsky, The Feeling Sonnets Nyla Matuk, The Resistance Alex Wylie, Democratic Rags Brigit Pegeen Kelly, Two poems from the archive
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PN Review Blog
Monthly Carcanet Books

This poem is taken from PN Review 250, Volume 46 Number 2, November - December 2019.

True Vine Andrew Wynn Owen
My God, how I these studies prize,
That do thy hidden workings show!
            Whose sum is such
            No sum so much:
Nay, summed as sand they sumless grow.
I lie to sleep, from sleep I rise,
Yet still in thought with thee I go.
— Mary Sidney Herbert, ‘Psalm 139’

‘One should never go to God, as it were “on purpose”’
— Leo Tolstoy, ‘Thoughts on God’ (1900), trans. Vladimir Tchertkoff


1. VINE
The infinite is intricate, a vine
            That wanders and rewinds,
      An inexplicable design,
            One of those marvellous finds
That never disappoint, degenerate,
      Or fail to satisfy the mind’s
Demand for narratives commensurate
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image