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)
Jamie OsbornIn conversation with Sasha Dugdale
(PN Review 240)
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
Monthly Carcanet Books
PN Review Blog
Next Issue Kei Miller Sometimes I Consider the Names of Places Kyoo Lee's A Close Up and Marjorie Perloff's response John McAuliffe City of Trees Don Share on Whitman's Bicentenary Jeffrey Wainwright and Jon Glover on Geoffrey Hill's Gnostic

This poem is taken from PN Review 104, Volume 21 Number 6, July - August 1995.

Three Poems Cate Parish


Winter Landscape with Me on It
Sticking out of the ground like one dry twig in a thicket I
do hang on though the hills hurry off and sink
into the North Sea, that cesspool. My insides I
think were pulled out in the last tide.

Still something's churning in there, industrious
as a cement mixer. The smooth white
fixative pours out pyramids, carbuncles, roads, that set
hard on the crumbling hills, a cast

of thought. While human spawn encased in metal slides
awhile over the surface, then sinks beneath. I
want to think something else. I'm dreaming of a white
Christmas, just like the ones I -

it's an upsidedown Resurrection, this snow, angels
in tutus falling from their cloudy graves, spinning
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image