PN Review Print and Online Poetry Magazine
Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
Mark FordLetters And So It Goes
Letters from Young Mr Grace
(aka John Ashbery)

(PN Review 239)
Henry Kingon Toby Martinez de las Rivas
(PN Review 244)
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 Subha Mukherji Dying and Living with De la Mare Carl Phillips Fall Colors and other poems Alex Wylie The Bureaucratic Sublime: on the secret joys of contemporary poetry Marilyn Hacker Montpeyroux Sonnets David Herman Memories of Raymond Williams
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PNR 250 Poetry Archive Banner
PN Review New Issue

This poem is taken from PN Review 41, Volume 11 Number 3, January - February 1985.

Poems Peter Scupham

LATE

Everything is left now to its own intent.
The hero stars are rubbed of nerve and sinew:
Only their blue bones glare through special spaces.

The leaves are shifting black stuff out, about,
Paws and eyes hook life into rough meat,
Little things collapse into brief stains.

Light leaches from the grass; marram and bent
Pester and hiss about the swollen dunes -
The North sea dragging, dragging at the land.

The moon slabs out the ground with shaky marble.
Coasting her skull across the sleepy wakers,
The objects of desire on tradesmen's altars.

Night watchers prop their eyes on light and silence.
Behind the patient screens, the tang and barb,
A question slowly rusts into its answer.

For ever, for ever: it is being worked out
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image