PN Review Print and Online Poetry Magazine
News and Notes
PNR266 Now Available
The latest issue of PN Review is now available to read online. read more
Most Read... 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)
M. Wynn ThomasThe Other Side of the Hedge
(PN Review 239)
Jamie OsbornIn conversation with Sasha Dugdale
(PN Review 240)
Drew MilneTom Raworth’s Writing ‘present past improved’: Tom Raworth’s Writing
(PN Review 236)
Next Issue Stav Poleg Running Between Languages Jeffrey Meyers on Mr W.H. (Auden) Miles Burrows The Critic as Cleaning Lady Timothy Ades translates Brecht, Karen Leeder translates Ulrike Almut Sandig
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PNR 250 Poetry Archive Banner
PN Review New Issue

This poem is taken from PN Review 199, Volume 37 Number 5, May - June 2011.

Six Poems Lucy Tunstall
Home County

Sparrows caught and hung in the thatch. The South Downs hung over us.
In the neighbouring field, the heifers wept for their calves.

A bluebell-wood harboured logs in the guise of crocodiles, foul mud, which sucked in children's boots; and once free of
the wood, where to go, but the arid chalk heath winding wearily, unrelentingly on and up?
Pity the Romans, their blue knees, their fluttering tunics, the flat, grey light.

A child's cradle in torn white brocade decorated the corner of the music room.
At Easter, the land was blessed. The vicar's name was Canon Dagger.
The young crops lay down and shivered in the east wind.

Zenith Automatic

In a small flat by the Thames, my father hoarded silver and china, pictures of his grandmother as a young woman with my profile, Staffordshire shepherds and milkmaids, political cartoons of the eighteenth century, theatrical silhouettes, monogrammed napkin rings, glass-fronted bookcases, the family Bible, a coat of arms, a stone unicorn, a writing-desk, a good paperknife, a Chinese vase.

In the last few days, these things took flight. Nothing could be pinned down. That chap from the army watched from the curtains. It became important to fasten his father's watch directly on to my wrist from his own which, according to the evidence of the perpetual mechanism, had already passed to an empty plain.


Water everywhere.
Rivers brim and flood.
The fields are rivers.

Searching, please wait... animated waiting image