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Showing posts with label Poet: Patrick Kavanagh. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poet: Patrick Kavanagh. Show all posts

Lines Written on a Seat on the Grand Canal, Dublin -- Patrick Kavanagh

Guest poem submitted by Frank O'Shea:
(Poem #1878) Lines Written on a Seat on the Grand Canal, Dublin
        'Erected to the Memory of Mrs. Dermot O'Brien'

 O commemorate me where there is water,
 Canal water preferably, so stilly
 Greeny at the heart of summer, Brother
 Commemorate me thus beautifully.
 Where by a lock Niagariously roars
 The falls for those who sit in the tremendous silence
 Of mid-July. No one will speak in prose
 Who finds his way to these Parnassian islands
 A swan goes by head low with many apologies.
 Fantastic light looks through the eyes of bridges
 And look! a barge comes bringing from Athy
 And other far-flung towns mythologies.
 O commemorate me with no hero-courageous
 Tomb -- just a canal-bank seat for the passer-by.
-- Patrick Kavanagh
Any poem about, or set at, a canal, has to remind me of Patrick Kavanagh.

What are known as his "canal-bank poems" come from a time when he was
recuperating after an operation in which he had a lung removed. They are
gentle and ruminative, in places self-deprecatory. This is my favourite -
how about that swan? Kavanagh showed that the mundane and the ordinary can
form the basis for fine poetry. In a note to Poem #971 ("Raglan Road"), I
pointed out that as requested here, he is commemorated by a seat on the
Grand Canal. There is now also a bronze of him on another seat - but you
cannot sit beside the poet for a photograph because he has placed his hat
strategically where someone might sit. He was a prickly character at the
best of times, so it is appropriate that he should be figuratively keeping
people at arm's length.

Kavanagh was in the news some time ago when Russell Crowe tried to recite
the following early Kavanagh poem at a BAFTA Awards ceremony and had to be
physically removed from the stage. It is said that this ruckus was what
caused him to be overlooked for the Oscar he should have received for A
Beautiful Mind.

 "Sanctity"

 To be a poet and not know the trade
 To be a lover and repel all women
 Twin ironies by which great saints are made
 The agonising pincer-jaws of heaven.

        -- Patrick Kavanagh

Frank O'Shea.

Raglan Road -- Patrick Kavanagh

Guest poem sent in by aravind
(Poem #971) 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
I first came across this poem while I was looking up the lyrics for some Mark
Knopfler songs... yeah, he has put this poem to music, and it is one of my
favorites. I have just one word to describe it... haunting... anyways, I was
surprised to find that it wasn't an original Knopfler song, but a poem by
some guy called Kavanagh... I loved the lyrics, so I decided to dig deeper
into his works... I'm not much of a critic, so I'm not going to try to be
one... I just love the poem, and I love the song even more... and I was
surprised to find that Kavanagh didn't have a single entry in the minstrels
list, so I decided to send this poem to the group. I'm also including some
links for more information on the poet.

About the poet:

  Patrick Kavanagh was born at Mucker, Inniskeen, Co. Monaghan in 1904,
  where his father was a small farmer and cobbler.

  He left school at thirteen to plough 'The Stoney Grey Soil of
  Monaghan' and also sit alongside his father at the cobbler's bench.
  Thought a fool by the villagers for his belief that he would become a
  great poet, and scorned by the local farming community as a bad
  farmer, Kavanagh left to pursue his poetical leanings in Dublin.
  Befriended by A. E. (George Russell), he soon began to establish a
  reputation for himself around Dublin's literary pubs, not only for
  his writing abilities, but also for his conceit, his rudeness, his
  colourful language, his caustic tongue and his drinking habits.
  The breakthrough he had hoped for came in 1936 with the publication
  in London of the autobiographical 'Tarry Flynn'.

  Patrick Kavanagh died in Dublin on 30th November 1967, bringing to a
  close the life of one of Ireland's most controversial and colourful
  literary figures. It is somehow ironic that while his lifestyle and poetry
  are virtually the alter image of Yeats, both men are today widely regarded
  at the most influential of Ireland's twentieth century poets.

Links:
  [broken link] http://www.harbour.sfu.ca/~hayward/van/glossary/kavanagh.html
  http://www.irishlinks.co.uk/pkavanagh.htm
  http://dir.yahoo.com/Arts/Humanities/Literature/Authors/Poets/Kavanagh__Patrick__1904_1967_/

~Aravind V