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The Great Hunger
'I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided . . .'
By turns comical, grouchy and exalted, and including his tragic masterpiece 'The Great Hunger', some of the key poems by the writer who transformed Anglo-Irish verse.
Penguin Modern: fifty new books celebrating the pioneering spirit of the iconic Penguin Modern Classics series, with each one offering a concentrated hit of its contemporary, international flavour. Here are authors ranging from Kathy Acker to James Baldwin, Truman Capote to Stanislaw Lem and George Orwell to Shirley Jackson; essays radical and inspiring; poems moving and disturbing; stories surreal and fabulous; taking us from the deep South to modern Japan, New York's underground scene to the farthest reaches of outer space.
When great events were decided . . .'
By turns comical, grouchy and exalted, and including his tragic masterpiece 'The Great Hunger', some of the key poems by the writer who transformed Anglo-Irish verse.
Penguin Modern: fifty new books celebrating the pioneering spirit of the iconic Penguin Modern Classics series, with each one offering a concentrated hit of its contemporary, international flavour. Here are authors ranging from Kathy Acker to James Baldwin, Truman Capote to Stanislaw Lem and George Orwell to Shirley Jackson; essays radical and inspiring; poems moving and disturbing; stories surreal and fabulous; taking us from the deep South to modern Japan, New York's underground scene to the farthest reaches of outer space.
64 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1942
24 people are currently reading
902 people want to read
About the author
Patrick Kavanagh
45 books72 followersPatrick 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 The Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award is presented each year for an unpublished collection of poems.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]
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]
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 109 reviews
March 29, 2021
I picked this book up as I heard Kavanagh was a big influence on Seamus Heaney, whose works I’m currently working my way through. I’m glad I did as I really enjoyed this collection. Kavanagh’s poetry has a clarity to it that most poets lack and is laced with humour. I like the way he brings out the deeper essence of the everyday in a way that lacks any kind of pretentiousness.
Inniskeen Road: July Evening
The bicycles go by ion twos and threes -
There’s a dance in Billy Brennan’s barn tonight,
And there’s the half-talk code of mysteries
And the wink-and-elbow language of delight.
Half-past eight and there is not a spot
Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown
That might turn out a man or woman, not
A footfall tapping secrecies of stone.
I have what every power hates in spite
Of all the solemn talk of contemplation.
Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight
Of being king and government and nation.
A road, a mile of kingdom, I am king
Of banks and stone and every blooming thing.
My next book: Marvel Masterworks: Captain America vol. 9
Inniskeen Road: July Evening
The bicycles go by ion twos and threes -
There’s a dance in Billy Brennan’s barn tonight,
And there’s the half-talk code of mysteries
And the wink-and-elbow language of delight.
Half-past eight and there is not a spot
Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown
That might turn out a man or woman, not
A footfall tapping secrecies of stone.
I have what every power hates in spite
Of all the solemn talk of contemplation.
Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight
Of being king and government and nation.
A road, a mile of kingdom, I am king
Of banks and stone and every blooming thing.
My next book: Marvel Masterworks: Captain America vol. 9
March 5, 2022
I didn't expect to connect to this collection of Irish verse poetry. But in spite of my resistance, I did enjoy the epic poem "The Great Hunger" about a lonely farmer over many years, whose desire for love is unrequited. It is both tragic and comic.
Penguin Modern Classics
#1 - Letter from Birmingham Jail by Martin Luther King, Jr.
#2 - Television Was a Baby Crawling Toward That Deathchamber by Allen Ginsberg
#3 - The Breakthrough by Daphne Du Maurier
#4 - The Custard Heart by Dorothy Parker
#5 - Three Japanese Short Stories (3 authors)
#6 - The Veiled Woman by Anais Nin
#7 - Notes on Nationalism by George Orwell
#8 - Food by Gertrude Stein
#9 - The Three Electroknights by Stanislaw Lem
#10 - The Great Hunger by Patrick Kavanagh
Penguin Modern Classics
#1 - Letter from Birmingham Jail by Martin Luther King, Jr.
#2 - Television Was a Baby Crawling Toward That Deathchamber by Allen Ginsberg
#3 - The Breakthrough by Daphne Du Maurier
#4 - The Custard Heart by Dorothy Parker
#5 - Three Japanese Short Stories (3 authors)
#6 - The Veiled Woman by Anais Nin
#7 - Notes on Nationalism by George Orwell
#8 - Food by Gertrude Stein
#9 - The Three Electroknights by Stanislaw Lem
#10 - The Great Hunger by Patrick Kavanagh
May 17, 2020
A much better experience than the first two poetry collections in the Penguin Modern Classics series (Ginsburg and Stein), in that these poems were actually intelligible. Not necessarily easy, mind you, but letting the waves of words wash over me, I could picture clearly the rural Irish setting Kavanagh intended to convey.
The title poem is lengthy and frequently beautiful. Its title evokes the potato famine, but in fact it describes the feelings of an Irish farmer whose life has passed by and left him with no one for company but his overbearing mother and bitter sister.
I'm not a poetry guy, but this was an engaging and poignant collection from a poet of whom I'd never heard before.
The title poem is lengthy and frequently beautiful. Its title evokes the potato famine, but in fact it describes the feelings of an Irish farmer whose life has passed by and left him with no one for company but his overbearing mother and bitter sister.
I'm not a poetry guy, but this was an engaging and poignant collection from a poet of whom I'd never heard before.
September 6, 2020
4 out 5 stars
This has been a very pleasant first experience with Kavanagh's work. Other than "The Great Hunger" which was the main event, the peoms I liked best were "Shancoduff", "To the Man After The Harrow", "October" and "Canal Bank Walk".
While reading the book, I was reminded of Heaney's own naturalistic style. After some research, lo and behold! Heaney himself has admitted to being influenced by Kavanagh's poetry, after Michael McLaverty introduced him to his work.
Back to "The Great Hunger" now. It is a poem in fourteen parts that follows the life of Maguire a farmer of the Irish countryside. It becomes evident that the protagonist is disatisfied and unfulfilled in his life, which consists mostly of taking care of agricultural activities and looking after his land. In "The Great Hunger" Kavanagh gives ua some of the best rural imagery relating to land I've come across; harrowung has never seemed more interesting. Maguire is trapped in his predicament, but unwilling to change as years go by. In this vicious circle, he hungers for the different, the exciting, the unknown, an escape that doesn't come.
In this way, Kavanagh goes in great length to refute the archetype of the romantic-ish Irishman peasant, which had been very prevalent in the country's literary cycles, and to highlight the internal tragedy of such a futile existence. He gives us a sense of life as it is, rather than how some like to look at it. I read somewhere that the quest for authenticity was a central theme of Kavanagh's work, going as far as to be openly critical of the affected ways of some of his contemporaries.
Anyway, this review is entirely too long because I am excited. I'm looking forward to reading more of the author's work, especially "Tarry Flynn".
Happy reading!
P.S. I will link some resources about Kavanagh and his work and The Great Hunger in particular.
This has been a very pleasant first experience with Kavanagh's work. Other than "The Great Hunger" which was the main event, the peoms I liked best were "Shancoduff", "To the Man After The Harrow", "October" and "Canal Bank Walk".
While reading the book, I was reminded of Heaney's own naturalistic style. After some research, lo and behold! Heaney himself has admitted to being influenced by Kavanagh's poetry, after Michael McLaverty introduced him to his work.
Back to "The Great Hunger" now. It is a poem in fourteen parts that follows the life of Maguire a farmer of the Irish countryside. It becomes evident that the protagonist is disatisfied and unfulfilled in his life, which consists mostly of taking care of agricultural activities and looking after his land. In "The Great Hunger" Kavanagh gives ua some of the best rural imagery relating to land I've come across; harrowung has never seemed more interesting. Maguire is trapped in his predicament, but unwilling to change as years go by. In this vicious circle, he hungers for the different, the exciting, the unknown, an escape that doesn't come.
In this way, Kavanagh goes in great length to refute the archetype of the romantic-ish Irishman peasant, which had been very prevalent in the country's literary cycles, and to highlight the internal tragedy of such a futile existence. He gives us a sense of life as it is, rather than how some like to look at it. I read somewhere that the quest for authenticity was a central theme of Kavanagh's work, going as far as to be openly critical of the affected ways of some of his contemporaries.
Anyway, this review is entirely too long because I am excited. I'm looking forward to reading more of the author's work, especially "Tarry Flynn".
Happy reading!
P.S. I will link some resources about Kavanagh and his work and The Great Hunger in particular.
February 7, 2022
Youtube video review here
I think this is a 3.5*, in my video I say 4* and when I read it I say 3*. Ultimately I'm a little conflicted, and being a bit lenient, because it's so rare that I find a male poet I can enjoy and also I have a soft spot for Irish writers. The Great Hunger as an epic poem is quite memorable and unique and with time after reading it I still think back on it being one of the poems that stays with me although, unlike many poems, it's not dramatic and yet it still leaves one world-weary.
The collection has grown on me with time, it's not perfect, and it's not something I'd revisit.
It is hard to deny that has something that needs to be reinvigorated in modern poetry that seems to be missing — the timeless and peaceful yet monotonous and deathly nature of the natural world found deep in the countryside.
Could've been 4*, rural Irish poetry is new to me.
Taking a break from Penguin Moderns (now 10 done) as I'm picking up my signed copy of Jonathan Franzen's Crossroads from Waterstones tonight!
I think this is a 3.5*, in my video I say 4* and when I read it I say 3*. Ultimately I'm a little conflicted, and being a bit lenient, because it's so rare that I find a male poet I can enjoy and also I have a soft spot for Irish writers. The Great Hunger as an epic poem is quite memorable and unique and with time after reading it I still think back on it being one of the poems that stays with me although, unlike many poems, it's not dramatic and yet it still leaves one world-weary.
The collection has grown on me with time, it's not perfect, and it's not something I'd revisit.
It is hard to deny that has something that needs to be reinvigorated in modern poetry that seems to be missing — the timeless and peaceful yet monotonous and deathly nature of the natural world found deep in the countryside.
[original thoughts below. Aw this is before I read what turned out to be my favourite book, look how excited I am!]
Could've been 4*, rural Irish poetry is new to me.
Taking a break from Penguin Moderns (now 10 done) as I'm picking up my signed copy of Jonathan Franzen's Crossroads from Waterstones tonight!
April 25, 2018
I’ve never read any of Kavanagh’s poetry before, so this was a great way for me to get into him and to discover what his work is all about. He’s a bridge between modern and classical poetry. Awesome!
April 2, 2024
i never thought i could fall in love with a piece of poetry regarding a topic such as this one… well i guess we seek in order to discover hidden truths about ourselves we never knew about
(also… i am pretty sure taylor swift is quite familiar with the great hunger because having “tortured poetry” and “mad woman’s signature” right next to each other cannot be a coincidence:Dddd thanks for your attention)
(also… i am pretty sure taylor swift is quite familiar with the great hunger because having “tortured poetry” and “mad woman’s signature” right next to each other cannot be a coincidence:Dddd thanks for your attention)
August 4, 2023
Pleasant surprise this one, will read more; strewn throughout the larger poem, you'll find little nuggets of poetic bliss like this one:
Tranquillity walks with me
And no care.
O, the quiet ecstasy
Like a prayer.
Tranquillity walks with me
And no care.
O, the quiet ecstasy
Like a prayer.
April 5, 2022
My poetically inept mind found this one marginally better than the last two poetry offerings in this series. Sweeping fields, ailing crops, and melancholic farmers all contributed to my slightly piqued interest and engagement in verse.
Kavanagh’s tragic depictions and comments on regret and a futile life were beautiful, and depressingly familiar. His words did connect with me at surface level, and I found some breakthroughs, particularly in his descriptions of nature.
Despite those small wins, I still remained encased in a murky fog; perhaps I find poems frightening for their imperceptibility, or perhaps I simply do not have the patience to learn. Whatever the answer, I’ll continue my quest to understand and appreciate poetry.
Kavanagh’s tragic depictions and comments on regret and a futile life were beautiful, and depressingly familiar. His words did connect with me at surface level, and I found some breakthroughs, particularly in his descriptions of nature.
Despite those small wins, I still remained encased in a murky fog; perhaps I find poems frightening for their imperceptibility, or perhaps I simply do not have the patience to learn. Whatever the answer, I’ll continue my quest to understand and appreciate poetry.
May 5, 2018
I’ve never read any of Kavanagh’s poetry before, so this was a great way for me to get into him and to discover what his work is all about. He’s a bridge between modern and classical poetry. Awesome!
December 7, 2021
The Great Hunger is a collection of poems by Patrick Kavanagh. He goes into detail about thelife of a potato farmer in Ireland and how his life goes by. It tells a story about this man's relationship with his mother and sister, the passing of time, and the beauty of it all.
This was my first Kavanagh and I was not disappointed. At times it was a little hard to understand some of the poems and the language being used was extremely dated. But I enjoyed his lyricism and the way he wrote. My favorites had to be "Consider the Grass Growing", "In Memory of My Mother", "October", and "To Hell With Commonsense." I'm not the biggest fan of poetry but I can genuinely say this book made me smile at one point.
"The girls pass along the roads
And he can remember what man is,
But there is nothing he can do.
Is there nothing he can do?
Is there no escape?
No escape, no escape."
This was my first Kavanagh and I was not disappointed. At times it was a little hard to understand some of the poems and the language being used was extremely dated. But I enjoyed his lyricism and the way he wrote. My favorites had to be "Consider the Grass Growing", "In Memory of My Mother", "October", and "To Hell With Commonsense." I'm not the biggest fan of poetry but I can genuinely say this book made me smile at one point.
"The girls pass along the roads
And he can remember what man is,
But there is nothing he can do.
Is there nothing he can do?
Is there no escape?
No escape, no escape."
May 29, 2018
Not bad, not bad at all. An enjoyable first encounter with this highly regarded irish poet.
More please!
More please!
December 28, 2023
Picked this up when asking for a job at a bookstore so I wouldn't go up to the register empty-handed, and now I used it to cheese my way into reading 50 books this year. Everything happens for a reason.
June 6, 2021
Maguire’s mistake is taking the things too literally, believing too much in the dominant ideology and it eventually reveals upon his innocence and hunger. Hunger towards sexual feelings and living a life that was basically a lie. He chose to cut off from every desire & also forcing himself to belive that these things are not important concluded that he could no longer escape from it.
"He circles around and around wondering why it should be.
No crash
No drama
That was how his life happened"
"He circles around and around wondering why it should be.
No crash
No drama
That was how his life happened"
September 28, 2022
Een meesterwerk over de rauwe realiteit van het boerenleven in het Ierland van de eerste helft van de vorige eeuw. Hoofdpersoon van deze gedichtencylclus in veertien canto's is Patrick Maguire. Hij is ongetrouwd, want in het Ierland van die dagen heerste het 'familiarisme', wat wil zeggen dat een man die boer wilde worden pas kon trouwen als zijn ouders waren overleden en hij eigenaar van de boerderij kon worden.
Maguire leeft met zijn zus en heerszuchtige moeder. Hij verlangt naar een vrouw, maar dat verlangen kent alleen een uitweg door masturbatie. Dat Patrick Kavanagh hier zo openlijk over schreef, was in de tijd (1941) ongehoord. Maar de scenes tonen overtuigend de diepe eenzaamheid van de hoofdpersoon.
Maguire (van wie wordt gedacht dat Kavanagh zichzelf in hem portretteerde; hij was zelf lange tijd boer) is een gevangene van de klei die hij dagelijks bewerkt. Het gedicht toont zijn leven op de akker, zijn kerkgang en de bijbehorende verstikkende moraal, de armoede. Het landschap biedt hem soms glimpen van God, maar is tegelijk ruw en vaak donker en dreigend.
In het gedicht voert Kavanagh de hoofdpresonen vaak sprekend op. Dat was betrekkelijk nieuw in die dagen. Eliot deed dat ook al in zijn 'The Wasteland', dat overigens net zo'n hopeloosheid ademt. Je zou 'The Great Hunger' de Ierse 'Waste Land' kunnen noemen.
Ik moest bij het lezen vaak denken aan de schilderijen en tekeningen van Van Gogh in zijn Brabantse jaren. Het gedicht roept als vanzelf de associaties op van een grauw landschap waarin mensen zich door het leven ploeteren.
Met dit gedicht keert Kavanagh zich fel tegen de zogenaamde Irish Literary Revival, waarvan Yeats de belangrijkste exponent was. Deze beweging romantiseerde het platteland van Ierland en het boerenleven. Kavanagh, die dit leven dus vanuit eigen ervaring kende, maakte er gehakt van. Uit het leven van Maguire sijpelt gaandeweg alle hoop weg. 'He will hardly remember that life happened to him' luidt een zin uit de laatste canto.
De titel 'The Great Hunger' slaat trouwens niet, zoals velen geneigd zijn te denken, op een hongersnood, maar op het seksuele verlangen.
Maguire leeft met zijn zus en heerszuchtige moeder. Hij verlangt naar een vrouw, maar dat verlangen kent alleen een uitweg door masturbatie. Dat Patrick Kavanagh hier zo openlijk over schreef, was in de tijd (1941) ongehoord. Maar de scenes tonen overtuigend de diepe eenzaamheid van de hoofdpersoon.
Maguire (van wie wordt gedacht dat Kavanagh zichzelf in hem portretteerde; hij was zelf lange tijd boer) is een gevangene van de klei die hij dagelijks bewerkt. Het gedicht toont zijn leven op de akker, zijn kerkgang en de bijbehorende verstikkende moraal, de armoede. Het landschap biedt hem soms glimpen van God, maar is tegelijk ruw en vaak donker en dreigend.
In het gedicht voert Kavanagh de hoofdpresonen vaak sprekend op. Dat was betrekkelijk nieuw in die dagen. Eliot deed dat ook al in zijn 'The Wasteland', dat overigens net zo'n hopeloosheid ademt. Je zou 'The Great Hunger' de Ierse 'Waste Land' kunnen noemen.
Ik moest bij het lezen vaak denken aan de schilderijen en tekeningen van Van Gogh in zijn Brabantse jaren. Het gedicht roept als vanzelf de associaties op van een grauw landschap waarin mensen zich door het leven ploeteren.
Met dit gedicht keert Kavanagh zich fel tegen de zogenaamde Irish Literary Revival, waarvan Yeats de belangrijkste exponent was. Deze beweging romantiseerde het platteland van Ierland en het boerenleven. Kavanagh, die dit leven dus vanuit eigen ervaring kende, maakte er gehakt van. Uit het leven van Maguire sijpelt gaandeweg alle hoop weg. 'He will hardly remember that life happened to him' luidt een zin uit de laatste canto.
De titel 'The Great Hunger' slaat trouwens niet, zoals velen geneigd zijn te denken, op een hongersnood, maar op het seksuele verlangen.
January 8, 2024
Read this in the library while waiting for tas to write a letter to the union. It was the first poetry book I have read and I kinda just picked it up.
I really liked the boyish innocence mixed with elements of melancholy in the great hunger, which is picked up again in living in the country (probably my favourite poem)
Unfortunately I don’t know a lot about Irish literature, nor history so I fear parts of it went over my head. I really liked it though. It thoughtfully meanders through the tales of a simple life, sometimes with, and sometimes without, satisfaction.
Plus section 8 of the great hunger is a banger.
‘While his world withered away.
He had a cigarette to smoke and a pound to spend On drink the next Saturday.’
I really liked the boyish innocence mixed with elements of melancholy in the great hunger, which is picked up again in living in the country (probably my favourite poem)
Unfortunately I don’t know a lot about Irish literature, nor history so I fear parts of it went over my head. I really liked it though. It thoughtfully meanders through the tales of a simple life, sometimes with, and sometimes without, satisfaction.
Plus section 8 of the great hunger is a banger.
‘While his world withered away.
He had a cigarette to smoke and a pound to spend On drink the next Saturday.’
January 8, 2022
It was OK. I couldn't concentrate really and I don't think I'll ever read it again. Poetry is not my thing sadly.
March 16, 2025
1.5 pakt, misschien dat het in de nabije toekomst wat harder hit
October 2, 2025
“My soul was an old horse
Offered for sale in twenty fairs.”
This poem collection had a couple of very nice quotes, but I wasn’t particularly touched for the most part.
Offered for sale in twenty fairs.”
This poem collection had a couple of very nice quotes, but I wasn’t particularly touched for the most part.
Read
December 26, 2025I liked this collection because the poems have more of a narrative to them, especially the titular poem.
Read
September 6, 2024Im Irishmediamaxxing
Read mostly on the train in and around dublin I love the Irish and their identity in media
Read mostly on the train in and around dublin I love the Irish and their identity in media
July 28, 2021
Full review will follow later!
April 30, 2020
I'm sorry for the bad review, Mr. Kavanagh, but I understood not even half of what you where talking about... D:
Maybe I'll give it another go if I find a translation.
Maybe I'll give it another go if I find a translation.
March 25, 2023
After reading this I felt like a northern Irish, adult male, virgin farmer who'se mom died for about 15 minutes
November 2, 2023
lokinho.
July 4, 2020
Od této jsem bohužel čekala daleko víc…
It was a pleasant journey, thank you sincerely
for giving me my madness back, or nearly
It was a pleasant journey, thank you sincerely
for giving me my madness back, or nearly
June 16, 2018
Read this beauty again :))
Fave bits: The Great Hunger VI, In Memory of My Mother, October & Canal Bank Walk
luf
Fave bits: The Great Hunger VI, In Memory of My Mother, October & Canal Bank Walk
luf
January 22, 2022
I
Clay is the word and clay is the flesh
Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scarecrows move
Along the side-fall of the hill - Maguire and his men.
If we watch them an hour is there anything we can prove
Of life as it is broken-backed over the Book
Of Death? Here crows gabble over worms and frogs
And the gulls like old newspapers are blown clear of the hedges, luckily.
Is there some light of imagination in these wet clods?
Or why do we stand here shivering?
Which of these men
Loved the light and the queen
Too long virgin? Yesterday was summer. Who was it promised marriage to himself
Before apples were hung from the ceilings for Hallowe'en?
We will wait and watch the tragedy to the last curtain,
Till the last soul passively like a bag of wet clay
Rolls down the side of the hill, diverted by the angles
Where the plough missed or a spade stands, straitening the way.
A dog lying on a torn jacket under a heeled-up cart,
A horse nosing along the posied headland, trailing
A rusty plough. Three heads hanging between wide-apart legs.
October playing a symphony on a slack wire paling.
Maguire watches the drills flattened out
And the flints that lit a candle for him on a June altar
Flameless. The drills slipped by and the days slipped by
And he trembled his head away and ran free from the world's halter,
And thought himself wiser than any man in the townland
When he laughed over pints of porter
Of how he came free from every net spread
In the gaps of experience. He shook a knowing head
And pretended to his soul
That children are tedious in hurrying fields of April
Where men are spanning across wide furrows.
Lost in the passion that never needs a wife
The pricks that pricked were the pointed pins of harrows.
Children scream so loud that the crows could bring
The seed of an acre away with crow-rude jeers.
Patrick Maguire, he called his dog and he flung a stone in the air
And hallooed the birds away that were the birds of the years.
Turn over the weedy clods and tease out the tangled skeins.
What is he looking for there?
He thinks it is a potato, but we know better
Than his mud-gloved fingers probe in this insensitive hair.
'Move forward the basket and balance it steady
In this hollow. Pull down the shafts of that cart, Joe,
And straddle the horse,' Maguire calls.
'The wind's over Brannagan's, now that means rain.
Graip up some withered stalks and see that no potato falls
Over the tail-board going down the ruckety pass -
And that's a job we'll have to do in December,
Gravel it and build a kerb on the bog-side. Is that Cassidy's ass
Out in my clover? Curse o' God
Where is that dog?.
Never where he's wanted' Maguire grunts and spits
Through a clay-wattled moustache and stares about him from the height.
His dream changes like the cloud-swung wind
And he is not so sure now if his mother was right
When she praised the man who made a field his bride.
Watch him, watch him, that man on a hill whose spirit
Is a wet sack flapping about the knees of time.
He lives that his little fields may stay fertile when his own body
Is spread in the bottom of a ditch under two coulters crossed in Christ's Name.
He was suspicious in his youth as a rat near strange bread,
When girls laughed; when they screamed he knew that meant
The cry of fillies in season. He could not walk
The easy road to destiny. He dreamt
The innocence of young brambles to hooked treachery.
O the grip, O the grip of irregular fields! No man escapes.
It could not be that back of the hills love was free
And ditches straight.
No monster hand lifted up children and put down apes
As here.
'O God if I had been wiser!'
That was his sigh like the brown breeze in the thistles.
He looks, towards his house and haggard. 'O God if I had been wiser!'
But now a crumpled leaf from the whitethorn bushes
Darts like a frightened robin, and the fence
Shows the green of after-grass through a little window,
And he knows that his own heart is calling his mother a liar
God's truth is life - even the grotesque shapes of his foulest fire.
The horse lifts its head and cranes
Through the whins and stones
To lip late passion in the crawling clover.
In the gap there's a bush weighted with boulders like morality,
The fools of life bleed if they climb over.
The wind leans from Brady's, and the coltsfoot leaves are holed with rust,
Rain fills the cart-tracks and the sole-plate grooves;
A yellow sun reflects in Donaghmoyne
The poignant light in puddles shaped by hooves.
Come with me, Imagination, into this iron house
And we will watch from the doorway the years run back,
And we will know what a peasant's left hand wrote on the page.
Be easy, October. No cackle hen, horse neigh, tree sough, duck quack.
Read the full text here: https://allpoetry.com/The-Great-Hunger
Clay is the word and clay is the flesh
Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scarecrows move
Along the side-fall of the hill - Maguire and his men.
If we watch them an hour is there anything we can prove
Of life as it is broken-backed over the Book
Of Death? Here crows gabble over worms and frogs
And the gulls like old newspapers are blown clear of the hedges, luckily.
Is there some light of imagination in these wet clods?
Or why do we stand here shivering?
Which of these men
Loved the light and the queen
Too long virgin? Yesterday was summer. Who was it promised marriage to himself
Before apples were hung from the ceilings for Hallowe'en?
We will wait and watch the tragedy to the last curtain,
Till the last soul passively like a bag of wet clay
Rolls down the side of the hill, diverted by the angles
Where the plough missed or a spade stands, straitening the way.
A dog lying on a torn jacket under a heeled-up cart,
A horse nosing along the posied headland, trailing
A rusty plough. Three heads hanging between wide-apart legs.
October playing a symphony on a slack wire paling.
Maguire watches the drills flattened out
And the flints that lit a candle for him on a June altar
Flameless. The drills slipped by and the days slipped by
And he trembled his head away and ran free from the world's halter,
And thought himself wiser than any man in the townland
When he laughed over pints of porter
Of how he came free from every net spread
In the gaps of experience. He shook a knowing head
And pretended to his soul
That children are tedious in hurrying fields of April
Where men are spanning across wide furrows.
Lost in the passion that never needs a wife
The pricks that pricked were the pointed pins of harrows.
Children scream so loud that the crows could bring
The seed of an acre away with crow-rude jeers.
Patrick Maguire, he called his dog and he flung a stone in the air
And hallooed the birds away that were the birds of the years.
Turn over the weedy clods and tease out the tangled skeins.
What is he looking for there?
He thinks it is a potato, but we know better
Than his mud-gloved fingers probe in this insensitive hair.
'Move forward the basket and balance it steady
In this hollow. Pull down the shafts of that cart, Joe,
And straddle the horse,' Maguire calls.
'The wind's over Brannagan's, now that means rain.
Graip up some withered stalks and see that no potato falls
Over the tail-board going down the ruckety pass -
And that's a job we'll have to do in December,
Gravel it and build a kerb on the bog-side. Is that Cassidy's ass
Out in my clover? Curse o' God
Where is that dog?.
Never where he's wanted' Maguire grunts and spits
Through a clay-wattled moustache and stares about him from the height.
His dream changes like the cloud-swung wind
And he is not so sure now if his mother was right
When she praised the man who made a field his bride.
Watch him, watch him, that man on a hill whose spirit
Is a wet sack flapping about the knees of time.
He lives that his little fields may stay fertile when his own body
Is spread in the bottom of a ditch under two coulters crossed in Christ's Name.
He was suspicious in his youth as a rat near strange bread,
When girls laughed; when they screamed he knew that meant
The cry of fillies in season. He could not walk
The easy road to destiny. He dreamt
The innocence of young brambles to hooked treachery.
O the grip, O the grip of irregular fields! No man escapes.
It could not be that back of the hills love was free
And ditches straight.
No monster hand lifted up children and put down apes
As here.
'O God if I had been wiser!'
That was his sigh like the brown breeze in the thistles.
He looks, towards his house and haggard. 'O God if I had been wiser!'
But now a crumpled leaf from the whitethorn bushes
Darts like a frightened robin, and the fence
Shows the green of after-grass through a little window,
And he knows that his own heart is calling his mother a liar
God's truth is life - even the grotesque shapes of his foulest fire.
The horse lifts its head and cranes
Through the whins and stones
To lip late passion in the crawling clover.
In the gap there's a bush weighted with boulders like morality,
The fools of life bleed if they climb over.
The wind leans from Brady's, and the coltsfoot leaves are holed with rust,
Rain fills the cart-tracks and the sole-plate grooves;
A yellow sun reflects in Donaghmoyne
The poignant light in puddles shaped by hooves.
Come with me, Imagination, into this iron house
And we will watch from the doorway the years run back,
And we will know what a peasant's left hand wrote on the page.
Be easy, October. No cackle hen, horse neigh, tree sough, duck quack.
Read the full text here: https://allpoetry.com/The-Great-Hunger
March 27, 2020
"Penguin Modern: 10 - The Great Hunger" by Patrick Kavanagh
Unexpected gem! Honest observation turned into beautiful heart-breaking poetry.
...
For example:
Clay is the word and clay is the flesh
Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scarecrows move
Along the side-fall of the hill - Maguire and his men.
If we watch them an hour is there anything we can prove
Of life as it is broken-backed over the Book
Of Death? Here crows gabble over worms and frogs
And the gulls like old newspapers are blown clear of the hedges, luckily.
Is there some light of imagination in these wet clods?
Or why do we stand here shivering?
…
Yet sometimes when the sun comes through a gap
These men know God the Father in a tree:
The Holy Spirit is the rising sap,
And Christ will be the green leaves that will come
At Easter from the sealed and guarded tomb.
…
And the passing world stares but no one stops
To look closer. So back to the growing crops
And the ridges he never loved.
Nobody will ever know how much tortured poetry the pulled weeds on the ridge wrote
Before they withered in the July sun
..
Who bent the coin of my destiny
That it stuck in the slot?
…
I protest here now and for ever
On behalf of all my people who believe in Verse
That my intention is not satire but humanness,
An eagerness to understand more about sad man,
Frightened man, the workers of the world,
Without being savaged in the process.
Broadness is my aim, a broad road where the many
Can see life easier – generally.
..
In many ways it is a good thing to be cast into exile
Among strangers
Who have no inkling
Of The Other Man concealed
Monstrously musing in a field.
..
'I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided . . .'
Unexpected gem! Honest observation turned into beautiful heart-breaking poetry.
...
For example:
Clay is the word and clay is the flesh
Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scarecrows move
Along the side-fall of the hill - Maguire and his men.
If we watch them an hour is there anything we can prove
Of life as it is broken-backed over the Book
Of Death? Here crows gabble over worms and frogs
And the gulls like old newspapers are blown clear of the hedges, luckily.
Is there some light of imagination in these wet clods?
Or why do we stand here shivering?
…
Yet sometimes when the sun comes through a gap
These men know God the Father in a tree:
The Holy Spirit is the rising sap,
And Christ will be the green leaves that will come
At Easter from the sealed and guarded tomb.
…
And the passing world stares but no one stops
To look closer. So back to the growing crops
And the ridges he never loved.
Nobody will ever know how much tortured poetry the pulled weeds on the ridge wrote
Before they withered in the July sun
..
Who bent the coin of my destiny
That it stuck in the slot?
…
I protest here now and for ever
On behalf of all my people who believe in Verse
That my intention is not satire but humanness,
An eagerness to understand more about sad man,
Frightened man, the workers of the world,
Without being savaged in the process.
Broadness is my aim, a broad road where the many
Can see life easier – generally.
..
In many ways it is a good thing to be cast into exile
Among strangers
Who have no inkling
Of The Other Man concealed
Monstrously musing in a field.
..
'I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided . . .'
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