Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
John McAuliffeBill Manhire in Conversation with John McAuliffe
(PN Review 259)
Patricia CraigVal Warner: A Reminiscence
(PN Review 259)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Christopher MiddletonNotes on a Viking Prow
(PN Review 10)
Next Issue Kirsty Gunn re-arranges the world John McAuliffe reads Seamus Heaney's letters and translations Chris Price's 'Songs of Allegiance' David Herman on Aharon Appelfeld Victoria Moul on Christopher Childers compendious Greek and Latin Lyric Book Philip Terry again answers the question, 'What is Poetry'
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
Reader Survey
PN Review Substack

This poem is taken from PN Review 279, Volume 51 Number 1, September - October 2024.

Elegies Lorna Goodison
You’re enough to sift into an oblong alabaster box.
Flesh and bone charred and ground into griege
gravel fallout from torched cobalt blue winding
sheet; sheer dust of light blue shirt; the fabric grit
of serge trousers and wool socks; blue and white
smoke ropes of striped school tie; big voicebox –
site of forensic eloquence – burned down to silence.
Your long limbs set straight by undertaker’s hands.
St George’s boy, you forward and face flame dragon.



For an Athlete

Slow jog toward the shade trees
of far pavilions; you run on vapors
from the roar of crowds when you scored
goals on soccer fields those game days.

On you move, past the stands where you
exhorted the crowd ‘get up stand up,
rally, rally round your own Black brothers’.
Mark the spot where they refused.

You wonder if this journey homeward
will take you through East Lansing.

For you always hoped to see her again,
she with skin the colour of sweet tea,
nursed on a sugar tit soaked in lightning
and moonshine, that gave her the habit.

Magnetic, she fixed her lips to your mouth,
then to your throat to drink of your youth.
Step in time past the bandstand where
a brass marching band on game days played

pump-it up songs. Recall an old rhumba joke:
Edmundo Rhumba and his Ross band.
Here come the Temptations to replace:
cornet kettledrum tuba and trombone.

For you David Ruffin appears to perform
that high/low tempting Temptations walk.
All play now on pause. Stadiums in the big ten
fall silent as you raise a clenched fist and exit.
13 April 2024

This poem is taken from PN Review 279, Volume 51 Number 1, September - October 2024.



Readers are asked to send a note of any misprints or mistakes that they spot in this poem to editor@pnreview.co.uk
Further Reading: - Lorna Goodison Picture of - Lorna Goodison More Poems by... (3) Articles by... (2) Interview with... (1) Review of... (1)
Searching, please wait... animated waiting image