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 Sharif Elmusa on Mourid Barghouti Lorna Goodison Christmas Poem Brian Morton Now Patricia Craig Val Warner: a reminiscence John McAuliffe Bill Manhire in Conversation
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PNR 250 Poetry Archive Banner
Monthly Carcanet Books
PN Review Blog

This poem is taken from PN Review 123, Volume 25 Number 1, September - October 1998.

Seven Poems Alison Brackenbury

Gold Cup

There is no one in the town.
The March skies have blown clear.
The rock-crowned hills loom round.
The sun is melted by the sudden roar,
As from a theatre, whose curtains soar.

The magpies pile their nest,
Unheeding, by the railway; they tear
Long, live twigs; pick the best.
I ought to build; but better,
Would write you one more letter,

But hear that roar instead
And feel the jar of stumble, rush of ground.
(A man is in the mud. The silks are red.)
I find no sun, no love; write, as before,
As from a theatre of distant war.


Homework. Write a sonnet. About love?
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image