Patrick Kavanagh: Всі вірші поета | Poetree

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March

March

There's a wind blowing

Cold through the corridors,

A ghost-wind,

The flapping of defeated wings,

A hell-fantasy

From meadows damned

To eternal April

And listening, listening

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by Patrick Kavanagh

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.

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by Patrick Kavanagh

April Dusk

April Dusk

April dusk

It is tragic to be a poet now

And not a lover

Paradised under the mutest bough.

I look through my window and see

The ghost of life flitting bat-winged.

O I am as old as a sage can even be,

O I am as lonely as the first fool kinged.

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by Patrick Kavanagh

Gospel

Gospel

We are the children of light,

Wise, not companioned

By goats

In a condemned graveyard.

Backward blowing

Blizzards of memory

Flatten out

The genealogies.

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by Patrick Kavanagh

To the Man After the Harrow

To the Man After the Harrow

Now leave the check-reins slack,

The seed is flying far today -

The seed like stars against the black

Eternity of April clay.

This seed is potent as the seed

Of knowledge in the Hebrew Book,

So drive your horses in the creed

Of God the Father as a stook.

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by Patrick Kavanagh

Primrose

Primrose

Upon a bank I sat, a child made seer

Of one small primrose flowering in my mind.

Better than wealth it is, I said, to find

One small page of Truth's manuscript made clear.

I looked at Christ transfigured without fear—

The light was very beautiful and kind,

And where the Holy Ghost in flame had signed

I read it through the lenses of a tear.

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by Patrick Kavanagh

Peace

Peace

And sometimes I am sorry when the grass

Is growing over the stones in quiet hollows

And the cocksfoot leans across the rutted cart-pass

That I am not the voice of country fellows

Who now are standing by some headland talking

Of turnips and potatoes or young corn

Of turf banks stripped for victory.

Here Peace is still hawking

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by Patrick Kavanagh

On An Apple-Ripe September Morning

On An Apple-Ripe September Morning

On an apple-ripe September morning

Through the mist-chill fields I went

With a pitch-fork on my shoulder

Less for use than for devilment.

The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,

In Cassidy's haggard last night,

And we owed them a day at the threshing

Since last year. O it was delight

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by Patrick Kavanagh

Wet Evening in April

Wet Evening in April

The birds sang in the wet trees

And I listened to them it was a hundred years from now

And I was dead and someone else was listening to them.

But I was glad I had recorded for him

The melancholy.

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by Patrick Kavanagh

Having To Live in the Country

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 of place but of people;

Wordsworth and Coleridge lived apart from the common man,

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by Patrick Kavanagh

Advent

Advent

We have tested and tasted too much, lover-

Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder.

But here in the Advent-darkened room

Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea

Of penance will charm back the luxury

Of a child's soul, we'll return to Doom

The knowledge we stole but could not use.

And the newness that was in every stale thing

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by Patrick Kavanagh

Stony Grey Soil

Stony Grey Soil

O stony grey soil of Monaghan

The laugh from my love you thieved;

You took the gay child of my passion

And gave me your clod-conceived.

You clogged the feet of my boyhood

And I believed that my stumble

Had the poise and stride of Apollo

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by Patrick Kavanagh