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 1, Volume 4 Number 1, October - December 1977.

Four Poems Charles Boyle
FOREIGN

We've shared this place before-
there are moments, walking at night,
I could believe it. Then
your body turns, you slowly wake, you stare
as if you'd never seen me in your life.

Sour taste of olives and the sea true blue;
October sunlight on the passive ruins.
Questioned by waiters and a begging child
we lack the words for what we'd say-
this line, penned line, this shrunk horizon.

A white stone on a white road,
so innocent it seemed, so purely dead.
Out walking, early noon, you kicked that stone:
saw then what held you still, a world exposed,
as all the insects teemed towards you.
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image