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. |
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
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