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 50, Volume 12 Number 6, July - August 1986.

Tourists Grevel Lindop

A chisel nudging stone, chasing a curve
Out to the corner of the block, an eye
Slant to the line that draws it and the grain
Running its whorls to ripple in the face,
The mallet tapping measure, measure, measure,
Chipping an echo from a distant wall.

I walk along a flat beach where flat shells
Blink up to light under a spill of wave
And cloud back into sand. My footprints fill
And melt, fill and melt. Into the surf
I wade and dangle shoulder-deep in blood-
Warm water. Fish embellish the glass depth
Under me, dodging fissures of sunlight,
Winking and darting, and I think and think,
Treading the water, wondering how far
Jakarta is, whether there is a doctor,
Or will the fever burn itself away -
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image