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 157, Volume 30 Number 5, May - June 2004.

Hummingbird Peter Campion

Dim sycamores. A cinema parking lot.
I was sick. Had fainted. A metallic blue
had funnelled round me like a tunnel shot
through space: no idea where I was or who.

Only my body, throbbing while the force
of will combated what held it motionless.
Then mind finally managed to coerce
neck muscles to lift against the huge duress.

And I was out of there and standing here
by Bella Luna. People ambled in
past sliding glass. Each thing shone clear,
each thing itself, as the cold traversed my skin.

*

First early morning waking in our place.
First light extended on a single spoke.
Night blooming jasmine leaving its warm trace.
Only a fast, dendritic tremor broke
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image