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 by such is happiness
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign
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
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 (21 October 1904 – 30 November 1967) 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 Raglan Road and The Great Hunger. He is known for accounts of Irish life through reference to the everyday and commonplace.
Patrick Kavanagh was born in rural Ireland, the fourth of ten children. His grandfather was a schoolteacher called 'Keaveney', which a local priest changed to 'Kavanagh'. The grandfather had to leave the local area following a scandal and never taught in a national school again. Patrick Kavanagh's father was a shoemaker and farmer.
Kavanagh was a pupil at Kednaminsha National School from 1909 to 1916, leaving in the sixth year, at the age of 13. He became apprenticed to his father as a shoemaker and worked on his farm. For the first 27 years of his life he lived and worked as a farmer of a small holding. He was also goalkeeper for the Inniskeen Gaelic Football team. He later reflected "Although the literal idea of the peasant is of a farm labouring person, in fact a peasant is all that mass of mankind which lives below a certain level of consciousness. They live in the dark cave of the unconscious and they scream when they see the light." He commented that though he grew up in a poor district "the real poverty was lack of enlightenment [and] I am afraid this fog of unknowing affected me dreadfully.
You can read more about this Irish Poet here, if you wish.
I found this poem quite interesting. It made me think of a love affair gone badly. Lord knows I've had enough of those in my lifetime!
It looks to be another gorgeously sunny day today! We sure have been having some lovely weather these past few days and we think to take full advantage of it. I am glad the sun is shining today as the Youth at our church are having a car wash to raise funds for some activity they are planning. I hope that they do well.
We plan on going into Chester city today to have a boo around. I hope my knees will hold out. I love to do these things with Todd, but at the same time I hate to think that I hold him back from enjoying life as he wants to. He would never complain . . . mind . . . perhaps it is just me . . .
In any case, whatever you do today, wherever you go, and however you spend your time . . .
May love and laughter light your days,
and warm your heart and home.
May good and faithful friends be yours,
wherever you may roam.
May peace and plenty bless your world
with joy that long endures.
May all life's passing seasons
bring the best to you and yours!
~an old Irish Blessing
Cooking in The English Kitchen today . . . a Spring Salad of Mixed Greens & Goats Cheese Bakewell "Truffles" , with a Cherry Balsamic Dressing! It's a recipe I have devised for a contest. Let me know what you think!