Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
John McAuliffeBill Manhire in Conversation with John McAuliffe
(PN Review 259)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Patricia CraigVal Warner: A Reminiscence
(PN Review 259)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Tim Parksin conversation with Natalia Ginzburg
(PN Review 49)
Next Issue Gwyneth Lewis ‘Spiderings’ Ian Thomson ‘Fires were started: Tallinn, 1944’ Adrian May ‘Traditionalism and Tradition’ Judith Herzberg ‘Poems’ translated by Margitt Helbert Horatio Morpurgo ‘What is a Book?’
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PN Review 276
PN Review Substack

This poem is taken from PN Review 252, Volume 46 Number 4, March - April 2020.

Three Poems Leeanne Quinn
Smoke

Winter fills my lungs with smoke,
I breathe in the new year
in this old house. Winter of locked doors,

empty rooms, winter of ill winds,
thrashing rains. Winter,
was I always this afraid?

Smoke billows from the bonnet,
I think ‘house’ not ‘car.’
I think beautiful bonfire. I think

your blood into flames, your charts
into char. I think with your precision.
O how we both know precisely

more than the other now – you,
how to go, me, how to go without.
Yet, here you are

asking from across another winter’s
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image