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 Hal Coase 'Ochre Pitch' Gregory Woods 'On Queerness' Kirsty Gunn 'On Risk! Carl Phillips' Galina Rymbu 'What I Haven't Written' translated by Sasha Dugdale Gabriel Josipovici 'No More Stories' Valerie Duff-Strautmann 'Anne Carson's Wrong Norma'
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PN Review 276
PN Review Substack

This poem is taken from PN Review 92, Volume 19 Number 6, July - August 1993.

To Leigh Hunt Peter Sansom

'I see even now
        Young Keats, a flowering laurel on your brow'

Millfield Lane, Hampstead. You shook my hand,
that last time, as Coleridge did just here -
the handshake he said of a dying man,
but today I walked the heath, admired the Turner

and understood the distance I had travelled.
The house is a monument. I went instead
to spend an hour with a slip of a girl
in a damp room, no sheets on the bed

but enough claret inside her to be sure.
Indeed she passed out and I was obliged
to finish by myself. Now I am certain
of nothing but the colour of her eyes.

You praised me, half-proud of, half-amazed
at my posthumous reputation -

Searching, please wait... animated waiting image