Patrick Kavanagh

Patrick Kavanagh

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Patrick Kavanagh (21 October 1904 – 30 November 1967) was an Irish poet and novelist. His best-known works include the novel Tarry Flynn, and the poems "On Raglan Road" and "The Great Hunger".
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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 th...
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Upon a bank I sat, a child made
Of one small primrose flowering in my mind
Better than wealth it is,
I said, to
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We are the children of light, Wise, not companioned By goats In a condemned graveyard
Backward blowing Blizzards of memory Flatten out The genealogies
But here a point, The objective essence We work in
We shall not drink from the st...
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In Memory Of My Mother

I do not think of you lying in the wet
Of a Monaghan graveyard;
You walking down a lane among the
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I have lived in important places,
When great events were decided, who
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims
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Kerrs Ass

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

Leafy-with-love banks and the green waters of the
Pouring redemption for me, that I
The will of God, wallow in the habitual, the banal,
Grow with nature again as before I grew
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Inniskeen Road July Evening

The bicycles go by in twos and threes -There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn to-night,
And there's the half-talk code of
And the wink-and-elbow language of delight
Half-past eight and there is not a
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The Great Hunger

Clay is the word and clay is the
Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scarecrows
Along the side-fall of the hill - Maguire and his men
If we watch them an hour is there anything we can
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On An Apple-Ripe September Morning

On an apple-ripe September
Through the mist-chill fields I
With a pitch-fork on my
Less for use than for devilment
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Stony Grey Soil

O stony grey soil of
The laugh from my love you thieved;
You took the gay child of my
And gave me your clod-conceived
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Having To Live in the Country

Back once again in wild, wet Monaghan Exiled from thought and feeling,
A mean brutality reigns:
It is really a horrible position to be in And I equate myself with Dante And all who have lived outside civilization
It isn't a question...
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Memory of my Father

Every old man I
Reminds me of my
When he had fallen in love with
One time when sheaves were gathered
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To the Man After the Harrow

Now leave the check-reins slack,
The seed is flying far today -The seed like stars against the
Eternity of April clay
This seed is potent as the
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A Star

Beauty was that    Far vanished flame,    Call it a star    Wanting better name
And gaze and gaze    Vaguely until    Nothing is left    Save a grey ghost-hill
Here wait I    On the world's rim    Stretching out hands    To Seraphim
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My black hills have never seen the sun rising,
Eternally they look north towards Armagh
Lot's wife would not be salt if she had
Incurious as my black hills that are
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