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 64, Volume 15 Number 2, November - December 1988.

Two Poems Sujata Bhatt

Yellow October
in memory of Herta Blieffert, 1907-1986

A tree can become like that only in New England's fall,
in Iowa's fall...
Not in Europe's autumn.

This maple made its own light:
clear yellow
as if its sap were singing,
smouldering alert
and preparing itself for something beyond winter.

Of course, I thought it was the moon at first -
but the moon was a sharp bitten-off
punky earring that night.
There were no street lamps
and the wide Iowa houses stayed heavily dark
with their 2:00 a.m. privacy.
So the tree made its own light
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image