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)
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
Reader Survey
PN Review Substack

This poem is taken from PN Review 100, Volume 21 Number 2, November - December 1994.

Five Poems Brian Jones

At Great Tew
thinking of Cary, Viscount Falkland (1610-43)

…and would passionately profess that the very agony of the
war took his sleep from him and would shortly break his
heart. He was weary of the times, he said, but would be out of
it ere night.'

As he could not heal his country's disease,
he longed for death. Dressing himself cleanly
as one going to a banquet, he drew the flap
and stepped into the tented field. An army
stirred, and small fires through the morning mist
blossomed. A nervous boy
fidgeted fingertips on the war drum.

He stands and gazes. The morning light
gathers like elegance at wrist and neck.

Searching, please wait... animated waiting image