PN Review Print and Online Poetry Magazine
News and Notes
Digital Access to PN Review
Access the latest issues, plus back issues of PN Review with Exact Editions For PN Review subscribers: to access the PN Review digital archive via the Exact Editions app Exactly or the Exact Editions website, you will first need to know your PN Review ID number. read more
PN Review Prize winners announced
Carcanet Press and PN Review are delighted to announce the winners of the first ever PN Review Prize. read more
Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Drew MilneTom Raworth’s Writing
‘present past improved’: Tom Raworth’s Writing

(PN Review 236)
Alejandro Fernandez-OsorioPomace (trans. James Womack)
(PN Review 236)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Kei MillerIn the Shadow of Derek Walcott
1930–2017

(PN Review 235)
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
Gratis Ad 1
Gratis Ad 2
Next Issue Peter Scupham at 85: a celebration Contributions by Anne Stevenson, Robert Wells, Peter Davidson, Lawrence Sail

This article is taken from PN Review 220, Volume 41 Number 2, November - December 2014.

A Woman Without a Country: A Detail Eavan Boland

I

It was winter. I was a student in the National Library, waiting for my call number. The library was a Dublin institution, managing its circular lending room with Victorian grace and delay. You found your book by searching through heavy catalogues. You scribbled its number in pencil on lined paper and handed it in. And waited.

I was starting out as a poet. I was beginning to publish poems here and there. Almost all my reading had been in the poetry of the Irish Revival. Especially Yeats. Sometimes only Yeats. Now I was beginning to see the gaps in my knowledge, especially of contemporary poetry.

My catalogue searches were not yet targeted to individual poets. The books whose numbers I pencilled in were chosen for survey rather than specificity. Most likely the poem I stumbled on was in an anthology and not a single volume. It was called ‘Pike’ by the British poet, Ted Hughes.

It wasn’t long. Eleven stanzas of four lines. In the first four, the pike – a fish I’d never seen – was described: its eerie grin, its gold-green stripes, its killer jaws. Later I would find it was a fish that could be found in Irish rivers, the Lee, the Barrow, the Erne. For now it only existed on the page.

In the second stanza the pike changes again. It becomes a creature of ‘submarine delicacy and horror’. In the third it holds quite still, ‘hung in an amber cavern of weeds’. In the fourth stanza ...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image