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 225, Volume 42 Number 1, September - October 2015.

Tales from Shakespeare John Ashbery
It seemed like a huge part of our lives
revolved around the woodpile, all buzz
and splatter one minute, low wigwams the next.

He made a horse, like what was on the farm
at which end of the store they let
the young men practice. (The others dress funny.)
Kids used to hang around, queering the pitch for

the vanilla tower

following its pipsqueak editor out
into the brilliant day, of casings, undeliverable, unprogrammed
appliance scepters, more. High bleachers shut off
a section of downtown. It’s a part of France,

but I don’t drink at these fountains.

His sister writes back and
thick as the dust on these reports (that’s
my definition anyway, all enthusiastic,
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image