Patrick Kavanagh's imagery is drawn from the life of the Irish country poor, which he shared at first hand, and an inner landscape of pain and self-knowledge. His is a unique voice in modern lyrical poetry―ferociously independent, by turns ironic, colloquial, lyrical.
Patrick Kavanagh was an Irish poet and novelist. Regarded as one of the foremost poets of the 20th century, his best known works include the novel Tarry Flynn and the poems "On Raglan Road" and "The Great Hunger". He is known for accounts of Irish life through reference to the everyday and commonplace.
When the Irish Times compiled a list of favourite Irish poems in 2000, ten of his poems were in the top fifty, and Kavanagh was rated the second favourite poet behind WB Yeats. The Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award is presented each year for an unpublished collection of poems. The annual Patrick Kavanagh Weekend takes place on the last weekend in September in Inniskeen, County Monaghan, Ireland. The Patrick Kavanagh Centre, an interpretative centre set up to commemorate the poet, is located in Inniskeen. [wikipedia]
I launched into this after recently reading Kavanagh's extraordinary biography by Antionette Quinn. This collection features some of his best poems, and some of the not-so-best... I was stunned by the delicacy of his poetry on the whole, as the man himself appears less than delicate. In fact, according to Quinn, very not so. There is also a biographical introduction in this volume which bears this out, and an 'Author's Note' at the end, both fascinating.
If ever you go to Dublin town In a hundred years or so, Inquire for me in Baggot Street And what I was like to know. Oh he was a queer one Fol dol the di do, He was a queer one I tell you. - From If Ever You Go To Dublin Town, 1953
For reasons that I have never been able to explain, the making of verses has changed the course of one man's destiny. I could have been as happily unhappy as the ordinary countryman in Ireland. I might have stayed at the same moral age all my life. Instead of that, poetry made me a sort of outcast. And I was abnormally normal.. -From Appendix A: Author's Note to 'Collected Poems' (1964)
I was introduced to Kavanagh’s work through several quotations in Christian Wiman’s My Bright Abyss: Meditation of a Modern Believer. Those lines convinced me I had to seek out Kavanagh’s poetry.
Patrick Kavanagh wrote of Irish farm life, which he knew so well, without romantic sentimentality. His poetry revealed undiluted truth, the good and the bad, the beautiful and the abhorrent. This stance and his undisguised disgust at the phonies and parasites of the literary world meant that Kavanagh was often treated as an outcast during his lifetime. In the years since his 1967 death, he has been cited as an influence by Seamus Heaney and his achingly-beautiful poem “On Raglan Road” has been set to music by Luke Kelly and recorded by Van Morrison and Sinead O’Connor, among many others.
Not every poem in the collection captured my interest, but even in a lesser work Kavanagh is capable of writing lines of profound lyrical brilliance. Masterpieces like “In the Same Mood,” “On Raglan Road,” and “Sanctity” earned him a place as one of my favorite poets of all-time.
In his introduction, Kavanagh writes: “A man innocently dabbles in words and rhymes, and finds that it is his life." A life well-lived, undeniably—and all our lives are richer for such verses as this:
“O unworn world enrapture me, enrapture me in a web Of fabulous grass and eternal voices by a beech, Feed the gaping need of my senses, give me ad lib To pray unselfconsciously with overflowing speech For this soul needs to be honoured with a new dress woven From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.”
A man with no reason or way to sing finds a voice. It's fashionable to knock Patrick these days as another mid-50s Irish bar poet, but his was one of the few live voices coming up from the mine disaster that was pre-60s Ireland. Let Us Now Praise Famous Men.
Within Ireland, Kavanagh certainly gets his due. Internationally his reputation keeps him behind the likes of Yeats and Heaney, though for Kavanagh's own time (between the other two) he was the preeminent Irish poet, and I'd venture that at points his work was far more affecting than that of Yeats. In fact, his long form works such as "Why Sorrow?" and "The Great Hunger" are among the greatest poems I've ever read. Any perception of his collected works is held back only by his very last poems, the final 1/5 or so of the overall work, which, in my opinion, stumbled over their form and lost all sense of urgency. But Kavanagh's views of the effect of "Irishness" as an anti-art, and his challenges to both the critics of his age as well as the perceptions by the public of Irish rural life, are apt and insightful, and his best work is among the best poetry of the 20th century.
Kavanagh's poetry as presented here is an amazing story of a farmer turned poet turned disillusioned voyeur. I strongly recommend his work for any aspiring poet, english teacher, student, or liver of life. He uses a blend of traditional forms with a modernist twist and even subversion of those forms, and his mastery of language and allusion is impeccable.
Of course, most readers probably already know this. If you don't, check him out.
Kavanagh has an angry, frustrated voice speaking in resistance to the prevailing notion of his time, that rural, simple, Ireland was the real Ireland. His long poem, "The Great Hunger," obviously has metaphorical value in its allusion to An Gorta Mor, but it is the story of a miserable clay-scrabbling man. The poem might be read along with William Trevor's short story, "The Hill Bachelors," as explorations of Irish men sacrificed to Ireland.
The quintessential voice of rural Ireland. By turns, angry, nostalgic, satirical, philosophical, romantic or humorous, he never fails to impress and startle.
There are not many who can 'find a star-lovely art/In a dark sod' but Kavanagh does it every time.
Kavanagh is the third best Irish poet of the 20th century (no shame in coming behind Yeats or Heaney, though he would disagree). Kavanagh published a "Collected Poems" in his lifetime which has a better ratio of good to inconsequential verse, but this new edition features a couple of great long poems ("Lough Derg" and "Why Sorrow?") which were apparently unpublished during his life. The bitterness which Kavanagh constantly vents towards critics and other poets is tiresome, as is the doggerel he cranked out in the 60s, but there are some great poems here which get at the loneliness and desolation of life, and the unexpected joys brought by perceiving nature.
This is another collection I’ve carried with me through a few moves. From what I remember I picked it up from the bookshop in my small hometown over a decade ago. When I brought it up to the counter the clerk commented on how much they enjoyed Kavanagh’s work and that I’ll probably like it, too. At least that’s how I remember it. At the time I don’t think I paid the endorsement or the guess at my enjoyment much mind. I smiled, probably said something like “here’s hoping!” and left the shop.
Having finally read through this collection I have to hand it to that clerk, a complete stranger to me, for being half right. I half enjoyed this collection (more or less). Which half? The first, or thereabouts.
Why?
Easy.
The first half of this collection is filled with pieces, I’d argue, that are more about ideas and sensations and the vibrations of life as just about anyone might live it. From the 30-something comparing themselves to an old rusty gate, to a parish priest hearing prayers for love or money day in and day out, to a farmer entirely dedicated to their land because of a parents’ wishes, Kavanagh covers a broad swath of perspectives that, even if I am none of them, I can relate to in some way. But in the latter half of this collection his poems turn towards more directly satirical ends, skewerings and commentary on the place the arts have in Irish politics of the day and the place politics have in the arts.
The trouble for me with the latter half of these works is that those sorts of poems require at least a little bit of context. Unfortunately, the notes at the back of the book don’t really offer this context. Instead they mostly reveal where the pieces were originally published, and maybe detail the connection between poems or, in rare cases, will outline who might be the central target of one piece or another.
The collection’s introduction, however, does a decent job of sketching Kavanagh’s life and times. It also explains his trajectory from self-taught rural poet to star outsider poet to biting critic of how the arts were becoming commodified. Unfortunately, it also suggests that there are some “bad” poems in the collection since the collection’s aim is to showcase the breadth of Kavanagh’s work.
Now, I didn’t enjoy every poem I read in this collection. Some of the later ones, as mentioned above, I found dull and even pointless (satire only goes so far when you don’t know what’s being satirized). And some of the earlier ones either felt flat for me rhythmically or because they were a little too religious for my present tastes. But I don’t appreciate being told which poems are “bad.” I like some media that most would agree is “bad” (Kung Pao Enter The Fist, Aidyn Chronicles: The First Mage, even some of Jim Morrison’s poetry).
Maybe I like these things because of some defect in my own taste, or maybe because “bad” isn’t nearly as objective as some people would like to think it is.
Art is art because it shines a mirror back on us and true art, I think, offers an admixture of what it is trying to say and what we are willing to hear.
Bad art is maybe a filmy mirror, but sometimes you catch things you’d otherwise miss gazing into a cleaner mirror, or you see things in a distorted way that wakes in you some new idea or new feeling you’d never really experienced before. So, sure, there might be some “bad” poetry in the collection, but please refrain from calling it that. Call it something like “the product of a low point in his life and career”. This is partially why I avoid reading a lot of poetry collections’ introductions. Though I have to say, this one is otherwise well-constructed enough that I’m glad I didn’t skip it over in the end.
Refreshingly, unlike Seamus Heaney’s (in Kavanagh’s eyes no doubt one of the poets cashing in) pieces on outside perceptions of Irishness, Kavanagh keeps his to his themes of finding meaning, denied yearning, open-eyed looks at the world around him and its people, and railing against selected targets in an effort to keep the Irish arts going for Irish arts’ sake (he thought Yeats was basically an English infiltrator). Seek this collection out if you want to hear from an Irish peasant-turned-writer who watched the previous century thunder past.
“Rapt to starriness — not quite, / I go through fields and fens of night, / The nameless, the void, / Where ghostly poplars whisper to / A silent countryside.” Within Patrick Kavanagh’s Collected Poems — selected, introduced, and edited by Antoinette Quinn — lies the life work of significant twentieth-century poet, charting the development of his style from his earliest work in 1929 to his final poems, right up until his death in 1967. There are so many standout poems throughout the book’s chronological spread, from early works ‘The Long Garden’ and the fragmentary ‘Why Sorrow?’, on to the subsequent long poems ‘The Great Hunger’ and ‘Lough Derg’, and on to ‘Spring Day’, ‘To Be Dead’, ‘I Had a Future’, ‘The Ghost Land’, ‘Intimate Parnassus’ + ‘Thank You, Thank You’. In his work is “The dancer that danced / In the hearts of men”; elsewhere, “Far away beyond the water / The miles that are not miles / But ideas of death.” In such poems as ‘The Wake of the Books’, Kavanagh’s skill for voices and characters, his satirical touch, really shines. His long-poem ‘The Great Hunger’, in which “The birds that sing for him are eternal choirs, / Everywhere he walks there are flowers”, builds to a gorgeous, glorious conclusion, a glimpse at where Kavanagh’s early talent was headed. His later sense of being attuned to the world, to humanity, is palpable: “We are not alone in our loneliness; / Others have been here and known / Griefs we thought our special own”.
"Football prowess in Ireland, as in Hungary today, has always been a path to political success." (p. 117)
The poems being organized in roughly chronological order by writing, if not publishing, date allows the reader to trace Kavanagh's development and evolution as a writer. Possibly due to this, possibly due to the normal bedding-in time often required for a first-reading, the poetry began to become more and more compelling and evocative as the first book became the second, however the logic of the internal numbering scheme is a bit of a mystery with two different sections being headed by Roman numeral one, and the latter parts of the collection following with Arabic numbers, starting again at one.
As poetry is wont to do, some pieces struck more soundly than others, but any and all will be worth revisiting at a different time and circumstance. There is a lot to digest here, practically an entire career in one slim volume. That portability is a strength of this publication which would keep good company for any traveller.
"Shakespeare and Blake, where are they now, or Keats?" (p. 98)
Irish poetry is a celebrated literary genre, and rightly so. Between WB Yeats, Seamus Heaney, and Eavan Boland, the island of myth and wonder will always produce literary gold. The poetry of Patrick Kavanagh is also a literary event for Irish poetry. Kavanagh’s poems are personal, but they are not confessional. The restraint his verses possess are to be studied and revered. This collection is a good place to start if you are interested in Irish literature. Remember the name Patrick Kavanagh. “Irish poet, learn your trade.”
Caution — I am about to blaspheme here — I find Kavanagh much more accessible than Yeats. There you have it. Yeats is frankly more intellectually interesting because he had all that other stuff going on with Irish mythology and folklore and mysticism and politics, but Kavanagh’s poetry is definitely up there. I’ve had this in my library for decades and pulled it out as a complement to the more recent volume of Selected Poems I read for a recent class. Loved having the larger collection and God in Woman!
I had been wanting to read Irish poet Patrick Kavanaugh for quite sometime, and it was an absolute delight to find a paperback collection of his poems at a used bookshop recently. These poems explore bitterness, religious hypocrisy and fundamentalism, the beauty of the Irish countryside, loss, love, spirituality, joy, the ancient Bardic tradition, and the importance of art and poetry in daily life.
starts off very strong (some weird takes, but i can appreciate the work nonetheless) then he gets vain (he says so himself) and i couldn't really enjoy those as much. his later work is alright. i think it's probably quite good, but just not for me.
i did love In the Same Mood, especially "The violin is not more real than the music played upon it. They told me that, the priests - but I am tired Of loving through the medium of a sonnet;"
Such an interesting literary departure from other contemporary poets at his time like W.B. Yeats. He speaks to such a different perspective of the Irish Diaspora. Very simplistic and effortless yet gushing with emotion. Learning more about his upbringing and what influenced his poetic prose was also very interesting.
Favorite poems: To a Blackbird March In the Same Mood The Irony of It Primrose Spraying the Potatoes Why Sorrow? The Great Hunger Temptation in Harvest On Raglan Road God in Woman Prelude October Birth
He was a beautiful poet at times, but more often than not I found I couldn’t hear his music. He moved along with a rhythm that I just couldn’t find, especially towards the end of his life. His great poems are certainly great, though.
Definitely like me some Patrick Kavanagh, especially his pastoral poems. Particular favorites include: Address to an Old Wooden Gate; Ploughman; last lines of My Room; Memory of My Father, Auditors In (first lines), and Threshing Morning. Worth a re-read.
A mixed collection but containing some of the greats. The poems vary from the delicacy and grace of the canal bank poems to the anger and frustration of the great hunger to the more dated reflections on Ireland tine h 1950s. A fabulous cross section of this work.
Kavanagh is a wonderful Irish poet. He writes about Nature primarily, and the Self, as well as the interactions between the two. He writes things that seem perhaps trivial - almost common sense investigations of how we find ourselves in the world around us. But I found it extraordinary the way he writes the ordinary, somewhat in the vein of James Joyce, though their topics and writing styles differ immensely.
It was heart-warming to hear about Irish country and common life, something not too often written about as much as it should be, but is something great to hear. Kavanagh's poetry puts me there. That's his mystique and power - is conjuring up and bringing the reader to a locale that they otherwise wouldn't inhabit mentally.
I like that Kavanagh has a poetic voice distinct from W.B. Yeats - a poet who had a dominant influence on Irish writers in the 19th and 20th Centuries. You definitely see in Kavanagh where Seamus Heaney comes from in certain aspects. Great poets and writers who are always going to be worth a read.
A lovely collection of poems that I happened to find in my local library. I was primarily interested in his poem The Great Hunger but was pleasantly surprised by most of the poems I read.