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
PNR 277
PN Review Substack

This poem is taken from PN Review 90, Volume 19 Number 4, March - April 1993.

Three Poems Lauris Edmond

THE ARRIVAL

Death is a city more remote than all my arduous
imaginings. I saw only the leaving for it -

no, not even that; the place of leaving.
I hurried, frantic while there still was time,

but time itself had shut like a flower, a day lily,
folded quickly after sundown, and she with it,

leaving face and hair that were mere substance,
things of shape and colour; nothing. I turned away.

I had missed her then. She had already made
a home in the unimaginable town, the room

beyond rooms, place without place, cold where
coldness has no temperature. What business

had I with this stony replica? 'Barely an hour'
they said. An hour? A million years - it does not

signify. I can make up time and distance as I
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image