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)
Kei Millerthe Fat Black Woman
In Praise of the Fat Black Woman & Volume

(PN Review 241)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Next Issue Sasha Dugdale, Intimacy and other poems Eugene Ostashevsky, The Feeling Sonnets Nyla Matuk, The Resistance Alex Wylie, Democratic Rags Brigit Pegeen Kelly, Two poems from the archive
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PNR 250 Poetry Archive Banner
Monthly Carcanet Books
PN Review Blog

This report is taken from PN Review 225, Volume 42 Number 1, September - October 2015.

Ciao 2 Frank Kuppner
1 How amazing! It didn’t last forever after all! And everything is just something else that happened. What else? What else could it be? Stars, gases, galaxies – or whatever they might more properly be called in a better-fitting language – all of them going on, up and down, to and fro, forever, from everywhere else. Or from here: forward, back and sideways. For instance, people for example riding on, for instance, horses. Yes. Rarely if ever the other way about. (Eh?) Snapping. Talking. Tears. Hearses? Tears? Or trees. Sunlight through a billion or pavillion windows and a million voices nearby. Huh. All those (unknown!) languages! All that mere (unnecessary?) stuff falling out of the skin – no – out of the sky. Perhaps all physics is a mere anachronism? Or politics, perhaps? (Take, for example, this brief history of (surely ridiculously over-priced?) underwear. (Not underwater. Or is this perhaps what history itself is?)) Getting other people to do it for us by the thousand. (Insects – to name but one!) How it all falls together. Or how largely it falls apart. Perhaps into darkness. Darknesses? A single promising bright spot rather too far away. Or very like a plant here (or simply hereabouts?) a moment ago? Yet: but what is a moment? (Not another moment?) Or what, for that matter, is anything else? Look! Love? Dust. Dusk? And now more dust. Absence, itself absent. Trying to work it out. Which of these two or more ought I really to choose? But perhaps I should say nothing more about it until ...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image