Inniskeen Road: July Evening

The bicycles go by in twos and threes -

There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn tonight, 

And there's the half-talk code of mysteries 

And the wink-and-elbow language of delight. 

Half-past eight and there is not a spot 

Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown 

That might turn out a man or woman, not 

A footfall tapping secrecies of stone. 

I have what every poet hates in spite 

Of all the solemn talk of contemplation. 

Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight 

Of being king and government and nation. 

A road, a mile of kingdom. I am king 

Of banks and stones and every blooming thing.

-- Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967) Irish poet and novelist

On an Apple-Ripe September Morning

On an apple-ripe September morning 

Through the mist-chill fields I went
With a pitch-fork on my shoulder
Less for use than for devilment.

The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,
In Cassidy's haggard last night,
And we owed them a day at the threshing
Since last year. O it was delight

To be paying bills of laughter
And chaffy gossip in kind
With work thrown in to ballast
The fantasy-soaring mind.

As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered
As I looked into the drain
If ever a summer morning should find me
Shovelling up eels again.

And I thought of the wasps' nest in the bank
And how I got chased one day
Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,
How I covered my face with hay.

The wet leaves of the cocksfoot
Polished my boots as I
Went round by the glistening bog-holes
Lost in unthinking joy.

I'll be carrying bags to-day, I mused,
The best job at the mill
With plenty of time to talk of our loves
As we wait for the bags to fill.

Maybe Mary might call round...
And then I came to the haggard gate,
And I knew as I entered that I had come
Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.

-- Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967), Irish poet and novelist

Beyond the Headlines

Then I saw the wild geese flying
in fair formation to their bases in Inchicore
and I knew that these wings would outwear the wings of war
and a man's simple thoughts outlive the day's loud lying.
Don't fear, don't fear, I said to my soul.
The bedlam of time is an empty bucket rattled,
‘Tis you who will say in the end who best battles.
only they who fly home to God have flown at all. 

--Patrick Kavanagh (1905-1967), Irish poet, written in Dublin in 1943, from Collected Poems, 1964

Image: Pale Bellied Brent Geese migrate back to Dublin Bay (Inchicore is a suburb of Dublin)

Having Confessed

Having confessed he feels

That he should go down on his knees and pray
For forgiveness for his pride, for having
Dared to view his soul from the outside.
Lie at the heart of the emotion, time
Has its own work to do. We must not anticipate
Or awaken for a moment. God cannot catch us
Unless we stay in the unconscious room
Of our hearts. We must be nothing,
Nothing that God may make us something.
We must not touch the immortal material
We must not daydream to-morrow’s judgement—
God must be allowed to surprise us.
We have sinned, sinned like Lucifer
By this anticipation. Let us lie down again
Deep in anonymous humility and God
May find us worthy material for His hand.

By Patrick Kavanagh (1904–1967), Irish poet and novelist from Collected Poems.

The One

Green, blue, yellow and red –

God is down in the swamps and marshes
Sensational as April and almost incred-
ible the flowering of our catharsis.
A humble scene in a backward place
Where no one important ever looked
The raving flowers looked up in the face
Of the One and the Endless, the Mind that has baulked
The profoundest of mortals. A primrose, a violet,
A violent wild iris – but mostly anonymous performers
Yet an important occasion as the Muse at her toilet
Prepared to inform the local farmers
That beautiful, beautiful, beautiful God
Was breathing His love by a cut-away bog.

-- Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967) Irish poet and novelist, from Collected Poems

Click here to hear this poem read by Padraig O'Tuama from NPR's On Being's website.

Having Confessed

Having confessed he feels
That he should go down on his knees and pray
For forgiveness for his pride, for having
Dared to view his soul from the outside.
Lie at the heart of the emotion, time
Has its own work to do. We must not anticipate
Or awaken for a moment. God cannot catch us
Unless we stay in the unconscious room
Of our hearts. We must be nothing,
Nothing that God may make us something.
We must not touch the immortal material
We must not daydream to-morrow’s judgement
—
God must be allowed to surprise us.
We have sinned, sinned like Lucifer
By this anticipation. Let us lie down again
Deep in anonymous humility and God
May find us worthy material for His hand. 

--Patrick Kavanagh (1904–1967) ,  from Collected Poems, 2005.

On Raglan Road

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.

--Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967), originally titled "Dark Haired Miriam Ran Away," in 1948

This poem was set to music by Luke Kelly of The Dubliners; here is a cover by Joan Osbourne and the Chieftains, from the album Tears of Stone (1999).