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 267, Volume 49 Number 1, September - October 2022.

A History Dan Burt
I. Visit 1 

I was not her high school sweetheart
(though she was mine), merely a sans culotte
strayed from the wrong side of the city
dated for a spring, dropped, forgot.

By chance we met again fifty years later.
In that span I reared a seaside pile
on a granite cliff Down East
with cedar shingles and tall glass to watch  
the North Atlantic gnaw its rock,
laid down claret, vintage port,
lined the walls with unquiet post-war art –
at the foot of the grand stair, sixteen feet tall,
Kiefer’s poisoned Rhine flowed across the wall –
and in that company dwelt on my sawdust past.  

Searching, please wait... animated waiting image