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 19, Volume 7 Number 5, May - June 1981.

Interim Report Christopher Middleton

So that is where he was, the gentleman,
upstairs with his ear
to the door. For days that is where

he was, with his ear
to the door, upstairs. Nobody came, nobody,
least of all, with a message,

a messenger. For days, confident
the message must come, later,
we might suppose, he shifted his ground

a little. Doubtless
he stood in the middle of his cold
room, with a finger

resting in its print
on the surface of a table. The one
wicker chair never creaked

under his weight. He stood
with his finger in its print, and still
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image