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 Hal Coase 'Ochre Pitch' Gregory Woods 'On Queerness' Kirsty Gunn 'On Risk! Carl Phillips' Galina Rymbu 'What I Haven't Written' translated by Sasha Dugdale Gabriel Josipovici 'No More Stories' Valerie Duff-Strautmann 'Anne Carson's Wrong Norma'
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PN Review 276
PN Review Substack

This poem is taken from PN Review 258, Volume 47 Number 4, March - April 2021.

For Anne Stevenson (1933–2020) Peter Scupham
Lament for a Maker

Dear Anne, our shooting star, you’ve left us all
your lovelies weeping on a faraway shore’:
husbands, friends, loves, admirers – a host
who suffered your hilarious devastations
tense with quaking joy. I see your hands
compassionately poised above my birthday cake,
the steel plied deftly. Though it winced
the blood was swiftly staunched, and we were left
with crumbs of sharp, sustaining comfort.

Oh, attic nights, when salt could lose no savour
rubbed in the wounds your rapier-talk inflicted.
As hours grew smaller, your imprecations
and efficacious ‘fucks’ rose up the chimney
to make Orion blush, or Father Christmas,
as poets known, unknown, yet to be born,

Searching, please wait... animated waiting image