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)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Kei Millerthe Fat Black Woman
In Praise of the Fat Black Woman & Volume

(PN Review 241)
Next Issue Vahni Capildeo The Boisterous Weeping of Margery Kempe Paul Muldoon The Fly Sinead Morrissey Put Off That Mask Jane Yeh Three Poems Sarah Rothenberg Poetry and Music: Exile and Return
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PN Review Blog
Monthly Carcanet Books

This poem is taken from PN Review 32, Volume 9 Number 6, July - August 1983.

Queen Cruach John Heath-Stubbs

The Queen, my lord, is dead.

They say I walked last night (anxieties,
Our enemies mustering like a moving wood,
Rob me of healing sleep) it must have been
The castle galleries, but in my dream
I tred a long rock-passage, winding down
Into a central cave. And there a light gleamed,
A cauldron boiled and bubbled. A woman
(Was she our Saint Bride?-but there were three,
A triple goddess, triune guardian of wyrd)
Leaned over it, stirring. The cauldron seethed
With broth and oatmeal, venison,
Black game, red grouse, hare and leveret,
Pork and bacon, kale-each finds
That which his palate savours best,
Nor will it ever boil a coward's meat.
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image