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)
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 Colm Toibin on Thom Gunn's Letters Allice Hiller and Sasha Dugdale in conversation David Herman on the life of Edward W. Said Jena Schmitt on Hope Mirrlees Brian Morton: Now the Trees
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PNR 250 Poetry Archive Banner
PN Review New Issue

This poem is taken from PN Review 106, Volume 22 Number 2, November - December 1995.

Poems Stephen Tapscott


Mud
It is early in the history of the season of humid freshness, herbs, and mud.
I walk across the sod of the meadow, which is after rain a bitter sponge.

I am almost afraid to see how weighty I feel to the earth, which has suffered me this long time
and still supports, imprinted with corresponding scars.

Many things I have thought and felt I am not proud of and are best not talked about, disgracing the body:
not even with God, who knows them as acts, having witnessed,

and who does not after all demand to be told them as a condition of forgiveness.
Therefore I print them here, setting my feet carefully where my body touches

the softer body of the meadow - as if to make them more exact,
a condition of the dark receptive soil:

as if prayer were a specific longing, and the forgiveness I pray toward
would be a specific forgiveness and I will know it when it comes.




Daylilies in August
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image