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 Alberto Manguel Selbstgefühl New poems by Fleur Adcock, Claudine Toutoungi and Tuesday Shannon James Campbell A Walk through the Times Literary Supplement
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PNR 250 Poetry Archive Banner
PN Review New Issue

This report is taken from PN Review 173, Volume 33 Number 3, January - February 2007.

From a Journal R.F. Langley

February 1998
Monday. Barbara and I walk up on the heath, to the Mumberry Hills, then to East Bridge, to eat at the Eel's Foot. Windy. The chocolate heather is grizzled by white patches and stems. Stepping off the path to look at the view down over to Middleton we find owl pellets on a bare place, the biggest thumb size. There are six or seven of them. They are pale grey, furry, packed and dry. Broken open, they reveal small bones, sharp as glass slivers, one of them a small triangle, almost toothed. Some owl that comes here often, then, on the ground. A short-eared maybe. Into the birch wood, up the slopes and down the dips we go. Pools are solid with small duckweed. Viridian moss shags fallen branches, which lie half submerged. I uncurl the dead leaf of a rush and an unidentifiable dark-brown spider drops out. I rip a blackened sheet of bark off a fallen birch and its underside is soft, smothered with webs. Among the bits adhering to it there is a small, rolled up carapace, with parallel grooves along it, and legs attached, but no head. There is a neat hole drilled through it, and it is papery and easy to blow away. A weevil. A fragment. The individual weevil, what is left of it. None of the infinite complexity is less individual than this. Nothing is less than particular. And, indeed, nothing is less than particular.

Quick, local ...

Searching, please wait... animated waiting image