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

(PN Review 241)
Henry Kingon Toby Martinez de las Rivas
(PN Review 244)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Next Issue Jen Schmitt on Ekphrasis Rachel Hadas on Text and Pandemic Kirsty Gunn Essaying two Jee Leong Koh Palinodes in the Voice of my Dead Father Maureen Mclane Correspondent Breeze
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Welcome to PN Review, 'probably the most informative and entertaining poetry journal in the English-speaking world' (John Ashbery)

'If one of the defining characteristics of most magazines is that, like most bands, they have a short shelf life, then PN Review is immediately uncharacteristic. It's been going so long that many of us have all but forgotten what the P and the N stand for. I think of them as opening and closing the word Provocation. And that's why I so love the magazine.' - Paul Muldoon

Keep up with the many worlds of poetry in this independent and always stimulating journal. For over four decades PN Review has been a place to discover new poems in English and in translation as well as interviews, news, essays, reviews and reports from around the world. Subscribers can access the complete, uniquely rich digital archive. Poet-subscribers can submit their work by e-mail.

'The most engaged, challenging and serious-minded of all the UK’s poetry magazines.' - Simon Armitage

A PN Review subscription makes an excellent gift, with six issues a year and full access to the archive. Reduced rates are available for students.

To purchase the latest issue of PN Review, follow this link.
PN Review 254
Featured Article
Essaying in the Old Music Room... An adventure in timekeeping, composition and conversation Kirsty Gunn Since the beginning of this strange year 2020,  as the Northern hemisphere has inched, day by day, out of a mild Midwinter into Spring, I  have been at Merton College in Oxford where, despite everything that has been going on in the wider world, life has continued in its calm unchanging way – much as it has continued, I imagine, since the College was founded in 1264. Bells have been calling me to Chapel, to Work, to Lunch and Dinner, to Study, to the Library, chiming out a day as in a series of Les Tres Riches Heures; each enclosed by borders of flowers and the patterning of quads and lawns within a medieval wall.

And every week, three times a week. I have been coming to a small but perfectly formed Georgian building – a grand sort of playhouse, I suppose is how I’ve been thinking of it - set at the end of a long path in the corner of the Fellows Garden.  This is The Old Music Room, where a group of us – colleagues and students – has been meeting to talk about a particular form of and approach to writing... An essay.

Or should I say, essai.  For the way we have been writing, reading, and thinking about this particular form of writing has been guided more by the ‘drawn from life’ observations of a Michel de Montaigne than those teaching and ‘Aims and Outcomes’ learning documents so beloved of educational bureaucrats  and politicians. For sure, the essays demanded by Humanities departments that are to be created in order to homogenise assessment procedures and regulate course content have little in common with the ... read more
Exactly Where We Are, Roughly
Frederic Raphael The Pope delivers blessings to an empty St Peter’s square. The Archbishop of York talks with lengthy admiration about a rabbi who said something worth listening to. Churches are closed; clerics offer the pious no priority channel to the strait gate. Reliance on God’s mysterious ways is not prescribed. Before science became the measurer of all things, the plague and/or Black Death could be blamed on the you-know-whos who poisoned the wells etc., thus saving St Augustine’s claim that God favoured Christians. The stiffening of theology, in the Middle Ages, into hierarchical orthodoxy chimed with lethal epidemics. Centralisation of the creed and the Vatican’s treatment of the Albigensians rallied the apprehensive to Mother Church.

Isolation promotes heterodoxy. Sequestered in his Girondin château, Michel de Montaigne, soon an indexed heretic, advanced singular notions of tolerance while the plague decimated late sixteenth-century ... read more
on Edwin Morgan
Robyn Marsack
And time is torn from its rings, and the door of life
Flies open on unimaginable things

Edwin Morgan wrote this back in 1952, in ‘Stanzas from the Jeopardy’, and like many of his lines it feels uncannily apt.

He was determined to reach 90, which he did, despite a cancer diagnosis that suggested his years would fall short of that target. The Edwin Morgan Trust was determined that his 100th birthday should be celebrated appropriately, not just on 27 April but over the whole year. There has been so much planning, and so many willing partners, whose activities have been stymied by the pandemic.

So the Trust has had to swerve online; just as we were preparing to sit back and hand over responsibility, we find ourselves being the ‘ion engine’ after all. The University ... read more
Also in the magazine... Gabriel JosipoviciTo the Source John Robert LeeThe Poetry of Kei Miller Maya C. Popain conversation with Caroline Bird John McAuliffe‘Confessional’ and other poems Sean O'BrienAn Arch Wherethro’ and other poems Gareth ReevesJules Laforgue’s Pierrot
Selected from the Archive...
in conversation with Natalia Ginzburg Tim Parks After a hopeless night in a couchette the train was two hours late arriving. I had to rush across a Rome I don't know to get to my appointment on time. My tape recorder had already decided not to work and I was relieved. My motive, anyway, in arranging this interview had been more to have an excuse to meet a writer whose work I admire than to achieve a journalistic scoop, and tape recorders are embarrassing. Thus the interview was noted down immediately afterwards between showers of spring rain on the steps of Piazza di Spagna.

Ginzburg was not disappointing. Small, white-haired, bright-eyed and modestly dressed, she met me in her office at the publishers Einaudi. Forthright in general and self-effacing as far as her own work was concerned, she was quick to say she didn't know as ... read more
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