Patrick Kavanagh 21/10/1904-30/11/1968

This section is for any other poetry-related topics
merton
Posts: 237
Joined: Tue Aug 05, 2008 10:23 pm

Re: Patrick Kavanagh 21/10/1904-30/11/1968

Postby merton » Fri Mar 30, 2012 11:57 pm

Hi,

The Hospital - Patrick Kavanagh

The Hospital

A year ago I fell in love with the functional ward
Of a chest hospital: square cubicles in a row
Plain concrete, wash basins - an art lover's woe,
Not counting how the fellow in the next bed snored.
But nothing whatever is by love debarred,
The common and banal her heat can know.
The corridor led to a stairway and below
Was the inexhaustible adventure of a gravelled yard.

This is what love does to things: the Rialto Bridge,
The main gate that was bent by a heavy lorry,
The seat at the back of a shed that was a suntrap.
Naming these things is the love-act and its pledge;
For we must record love's mystery without claptrap,
Snatch out of time the passionate transitory.
lonndubh
Posts: 1208
Joined: Sun Mar 23, 2008 4:07 am
Location: Ireland

Re: Patrick Kavanagh 21/10/1904-30/11/1968

Postby lonndubh » Mon May 28, 2012 11:11 pm

merton wrote:Naming these things is the love-act and its pledge;
For we must record love's mystery without claptrap,
Snatch out of time the passionate transitory.
I love this poem merton .
He was a poet alright.
Here is another that caught my attention on this lovely May evening


Kerr's Ass

We borrowed the loan of Kerr's ass
To go to Dundalk with butter,
Brought him home the evening before the market
And exile that night in Mucker.

We heeled up the cart before the door,
We took the harness inside -
The straw-stuffed straddle, the broken breeching
With bits of bull-wire tied;

The winkers that had no choke-band,
The collar and the reins . . .
In Ealing Broadway, London Town
I name their several names

Until a world comes to life -
Morning, the silent bog,
And the God of imagination waking
In a Mucker fog.
lonndubh
Posts: 1208
Joined: Sun Mar 23, 2008 4:07 am
Location: Ireland

Another October

Postby lonndubh » Mon Oct 22, 2012 12:53 am

October

O Leafy yellowness you create for me
A world that was and now is poised above time.
I do not need to puzzle out Eternity
As I walk the arboreal street on the edge of a town,
The breeze too,even the temprature
And pattern of movement is precisely the same
As broke my heart for youth passing.Now I am sure
Of something.Something will be mine whereever I am.
I want to throw myself on the public street without caring
For anything but the prayering that the earth offers.
It is October over all my life and the light is staring
As it caught me once in a plantation by the fox coveret.
A man is ploughing groung for winter wheat
And my ninteen years weigh heavily on my feet.
User avatar
Diane
Posts: 3551
Joined: Fri Apr 08, 2005 9:41 pm
Contact:

Re: Patrick Kavanagh 21/10/1904-30/11/1968

Postby Diane » Tue Nov 06, 2012 11:22 pm

last year, lonndubh wrote: Hope you like this one where love that once shouted goes whispering
Of fearful mysteries.
Its funny you should ask about November poem as I was just contemplating Loves mysteries earlier.



November Song

He is training his colt,
The Man in the Moon
I can see where the hooves have beaten down
A clear round ring ,
Can it be this thing
Forbodes rainfall soon?

Now I must hurry away for the brown
Leaves fall from November's tragic trees
And love that once shouted goes whispering
Of fearful mysteries.

There shall be rain
Soon on the naked fields
Yet shall the Spartan's fight again
Here be their shields.

And Love shall come shouting in
The meadows once more.
But tomorrow -a mortal sin!
The rain shall pour.
And Love shall come shouting in
The meadows once more.
lonndubh
Posts: 1208
Joined: Sun Mar 23, 2008 4:07 am
Location: Ireland

Re: Patrick Kavanagh 21/10/1904-30/11/1968

Postby lonndubh » Tue Jul 08, 2014 11:55 pm

July evening

It's really marvellous this evening the first day of July
Nineteen-sixty-two,eight in the evening ,you haven't to try
For meaning ; all you have to do is state
A few facts ; the corn is shot out
And the swamp by Caffreys is a forest of yellow flaggers.
O Muse,today you cannot call us beggers.
Every man his own poet,walks down the lane
Ennumerate the same old things again
And they are not old at all,they only arrived
A few hours ago.How wonderful to have lived
To see these miracles,to feel the power
Of Pope or Milton living at this hour.
And gather round me fathers,mothers.daughters,sons
When we were twenty-two.
O let us just take notice from our pew.
Attachments
July.jpg

Return to “Other Writers and Writing”

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 2 guests