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 76, Volume 17 Number 2, November - December 1990.

Brazil Bill Manhire

1.
All night Brazil approached you through the dark.
The light behind mountains
was the light in the silver-merchant's eyes
two villages down river, was the blade
his father's father gave him, years ago,
to help him strike a deal with strangers.
His great right arm struck you
once, struck you twice,
because you had no money.
He watched you walk towards Brazil.

Brazil was women buying food from men,
the directions water followed.
Brazil was stars above the water-raft,
the parchment and the livestock where you slept,
and in the morning you woke and travelled on,
Brazil was where you were going.
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image