Christmas Eve 2009 at Oaklawn Stud, Co. Kildare

December 25th swings round again and many will moan and groan and other words sounding like moan and groan about how much they can’t stand it. Well, why not? Life is short, why decide that you hate your family, Christmas trees look tacky, you don’t like cheerful people, giving presents is a false generosity and you don’t really care for turkey anyway? Whatever your religious belief, there is a lot to be said for an annual event which draws friends and family closer, which reminds us about certain values which, to be fair, should be at the centre of our lives all year round, which makes people smile about brilliant – or crap – presents and which allows you the chance to finally get a nice photo of everyone together, including your Uncle Ralph who is the one passed out on the sofa at the back with a bottle of sherry hanging from his mouth. Oh yes, and to laugh at the line “As I pulled on my trousers in a hurry / I knew something strange had happened” in the accompanying poem - I know how your minds work! So, no complaints this year. It’s time out from the otherwise dull drudge of winter. Make the most of it. Happy Christmas.

A Christmas Childhood – by Patrick Kavanagh

Innocence

They laughed at one I loved-
The triangular hill that hung
Under the Big Forth. They said
That I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges
Of the little farm and did not know the world.
But I knew that love’s doorway to life
Is the same doorway everywhere.
Ashamed of what I loved
I flung her from me and called her a ditch
Although she was smiling at me with violets.

But now I am back in her briary arms
The dew of an Indian Summer lies
On bleached potato-stalks
What age am I?

I do not know what age I am,
I am no mortal age;
I know nothing of women,
Nothing of cities,
I cannot die
Unless I walk outside these whitethorn hedges.

-Patrick Kavanagh

..when this week ends.

Greenday were onto something there I’d say.

Christmas tests tomorrow. I’m fecked. This Patrick Kavanagh stuff is refusing to go into my head. Not so much the general ideas and themes within his poetry, which I actually like, but moreso the techniques he uses to portray this subject matter. I know he consciously used rhyme and alliteration and allusions and all that jazz, but perhaps, just perhaps, he used these because they sounded nice and not because the repeat plosive consonants are actually saying he’s lonely and feels separated and isolated from the community? If I entitled a post ‘Problems with Back Packs’ (note plosive consonants) do you automatically think “Well she’s detached from everyone. How sad.” I think not.

Not that I’m saying his techniques are just coincidental; clearly they’re not. His poetry is too good for that. I’m not a narrow-minded ignorant prick who thinks poetry is a load of rubbish. I just think we’d be better off gaining a really good understanding into what the poetry means and how this is relevant or whatever, instead of going into the teeny tiny minute details. But than again, that’s just my humble opinion.

Biology is after English. I really don’t know how that’s going to go. Our book is a pile of crap, no joke. It doesn’t cover half the stuff that’s actually asked in the exam. One would learn more from the introductions to each experiment in the Lab Manual book than you do from a chapter in my lovely Biology book, which will remain nameless, for now.

I’m hoping I have a good enough general overview of things to get by in Biology, but we’ll have to wait and see how that all turns out. Fingers crossed anyway.

I’m sitting on the couch next to the tree and it’s so pretty. The lights are so small, but yet they give such a warm, glowing light to the room. I have a rule of only allowing red and gold decorations on the tree so it’s really rich looking. I love it.

I also did a bit of a display thing on the mantlepiece. There’s a pretty big stone fireplace in this room with a thick, dark wooden ledge, so I put branches of Christmas tree and a few pieces of holly, along with some baubles and pinecones on it, and it complements the tree pretty nicely, even if I do say so myself.

There are still a lot of boxes strewn about the room, which I’ll have to organise sometime soon, but there’s still a hell of alot of decorations to be put up, and I am kinda busy this week. So maybe someone else would be kind enough to do it for a change. Although, on second thoughts, it probably wouldn’t be satisfactory, so I should just do it.

Yes I am picky regarding decorations. I do want the place to look nice..jeez.

During the summer, I took myself down to the canal on my pushbike with my camera to take a few reference shots for a painting [that is still only a figment of my imagination, these months later]. While I was there, I stood on the lock at Baggot Street Bridge and looked westward towards Leeson Street. I can see why Patrick Kavanagh spent so much time down here. The canopy of foliage from the plane trees and the restful stretch of water provides a sanctuary from the bustling urban activity either side. It really is a lovely place. Not so much a daily painting, as a study in tranquility.

Maybe it’s my Monaghan side, it could be my Leaving Cert English nerdishness, but I find myself reciting Patrick Kavanagh poetry to myself far too often. Today I stopped beside the canal he, too, used to sit by and found myself murmuring ‘Canal Bank Walk’ to myself like the insane person I know I looked like.

It was rather lovely.

Grand Canal, Dublin © Ciara Norton

‘Canal Bank Walk’, Patrick Kavanagh

Leafy-with-love banks and the green waters of the canal
Pouring redemption for me, that I do
The will of God, wallow in the habitual, the banal,
Grow with nature again as before I grew.
The bright stick trapped, the breeze adding a third
Party to the couple kissing on an old seat,
And a bird gathering materials for the nest for the Word
Eloquently new and abandoned to its delirious beat.
O unworn world enrapture me, encapture 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.

Ok. Back to things I like.

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
When we looked at it as children: the spirit-shocking
Winder in a black slanting Ulster hill
Or the prophetic astonishment in the tedious talking
Of an old fool will awake for us and bring
You and me to they yard gate to watch the whins
And the bog-holes, cart-tracks, old stables where Time begins.

O after Christmas we’ll have no need to go searching
For the difference that sets an old phrase burning–
We’ll hear it in the whispered argument of a churning
Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching.
And we’ll hear it among decent men too
Who barrow dung in gardens under trees,
Wherever life pours ordinary plenty.
Won’t we be rich, my love and I, and please
God we shall not ask for reason’s payment,
The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges
Nor analyse God’s breath in common statement.
We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages
Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hour–
And Christ comes with a  January flower.

By Patrick Kavanagh

This is one of my favourite Kavanagh poems. This may seem a bit contradictory, due to its religious subject matter, but I see it differently. 

The line “Through a chink to wide comes in no wonder” is amazing. Kavanagh is saying that when we are young everything is wonderous, because we are seeing and learning things for the first time. Where as when we are older and our perceptions have widened things seem less amazing to us. This could be seen as a comment on religion. It’s all good when you are looking at it through indoctrinated eyes, but when you see it for what it really is it no longer holds any value.

And “Wherever life pours ordinary plenty”. What a stunning example of how poetry can make the banal seem, well, poetic.

Of course it can’t be denied that Kavanagh was a religious man, a product of his time. This does not make his poetry any less beautiful. It provides a poetic snapshot of an Ireland long since gone, and I love it for that reason.

For anyone reading this that is unaware of Kavanagh’s work, I suggest you take a look at some of it here.

Andy

Last year I had the privilege of being published in Icarus, Trinity College Dublin’s literary magazine, one which has a special affinity for poetry. Such luminaries as Derek Mahon and Michael Longley cut their stanzaic teeth in Icarus and it remains an honour to be printed on its pages. I was a little taken aback today when I received an email from the current editor of the magazine. I had submitted a piece and it has been shortlisted to appear in the next edition but I was informed that this was “reliant on funding”. Time and again, people in the arts are left standing with a begging bowl at the first sign of economic unrest. Be it the Abbey Theatre or a small student publication, each and every artistic outlet suffers from the constant affliction known as “not having enough money“.

Icarus goes to print only twice a year. It averages less than 50 pages. It is not printed on the highest quality paper but is an elegant publication and one with a fine history. To think that it may be a victim of the Recession is as unthinkable as the National Gallery closing its doors. Hyperbole? I don’t think so. It is the death of the small publications such as Icarus which are indicative both of the lack of attention to the art of poetry, especially, and a “who cares” approach to the artistic world. I’m a big fan of sport. I’m a big fan of television and the film industry. Yet while these get large government subsidies (which, granted, are also being cut in these times, but then again, everything is), poetry, one of Ireland’s premier exports, one of our greatest national assets is allowed to waste away. It gives a lie to our great literary history, our parading of Kavanagh and MacNeice, Heaney and Mahon, Longley and Muldoon and the rest as great Irish artists, great success stories, personified national pats-on-the-back, when we allow such little defeats to pass unnoticed.

Hopefully, Icarus will survive, despite its doomed moniker. Hopefully the arts will not be allowed to decay and die as sadly can happen in times such as these. Ireland is taking the sporting world by storm, notably in rugby and golf and sport will continue to be funded because of this. Yet some of the biggest names in the UK and Hollywood are Irish actors and Irish playwrights are among the elite – McPherson, McDonagh, McGuinness. But these successes abroad must not be taken to indicate great wisdom and care in the treatment of the arts at home, because the arts continue to be the soft target most easily wounded by cutbacks. And poetry is perhaps the biggest sufferer of all. Once the greatest of art forms, it is now overlooked and to our national discredit.

Anyway, here is the poem which was published in Icarus last year. I must thank Brendan Gildea, then the editor of the magazine, for taking the figary to allow my piece to pass into the great history of Icarus. It wasn’t a poem I had pinned my hopes on but he saw an ugly duckling beauty in it worth honouring. Hopefully, funding-permitting, I might have a second such honour in the near future. 

Dodder Waters

The Dodder runs under Ball’s Bridge near my flat,

Widening, clambering over rocky shallows,

Shouting nonsense, falling into step towards Lansdowne.

Always seems a merry little river, flighty, sprightly,

Nothing doddery about it if you watch it go its way.

Last night – this morning, to be honest – I walk,

Still-warm, moon-bright, me-smiling secret walk,

I pause on the bridge to look into the river.

Cars pass with crumbling explosion;

I tune them out. Let current flow through my ears,

Carry me down, lovely, dark, stony, watery places.

With my view from the bridge, I see –

Rocks poke through, make out patterns:

Here street-lamp-lit patch, surface-deep, blaring up,

Splash of white-light, glinting prettily for anyone;

There, darker pool, somewhat deeper, somehow, now, visible.

Somehow, now, I see river-bed, pebbles, weeds

And rubbish. I wish for coins I can drop, splash, down,

Into lovely, dark, stony, watery, somewhat deeper places

Which seem much murkier but tell a clearer story.

En Raglan Road, en un día de otoño la vi por primera vez y supe
que su pelo oscuro tejería una trampa que un día habría de lamentar.
Percibí el peligro y aun así recorrí el camino encantado.
Y me dije: que el pesar sea como una hoja caída al amanecer…

Patrick Kavanagh. En Raglan Road (1946)

Es difícil, pero siempre puede mejorar si lo canta Sinead.

  A few days ago the well known Irish land grabber Pat Kenny did a programme on the new housing initiative whereby council tenants would rent properties on private estates. The reaction from the great Irish public was both predictable and disgusting. ” I worked hard so I could buy a house in a good neighbourhood…etc. etc.” “If these people are allowed to move in next door to me then property prices will drop”. The arguments became more and more racist in tone. And of course , these arguments are nothing new , the same ones were used by British landlords two hundred years ago to keep the lower orders in their place …..

       The day before this enlightened debate there had been another one on the Joe Duffy Show on RTE. On that occasion there were talking about the proposed new property tax on houses. This time we had to listen to callers and texters who , having bought up to seven properties were complaining that with this extra expense they would find it hard to get the mortgage payments (rents ) out of their tenants….All the time moaning that they had worked hard for their many properties in spite of the obvious fact that it was the tenant who needed to work had in order to pay the inflated rent he or she is being charged.

   The Irish are , for the most part , a right wing reactionary peasant people and there is no better proof of this as when they feel their ‘property’ is threatened. The new Irish man or woman may live in a Docklands apartment but spiritually he/she belongs in the bog. His natural habitat is a field and his one true friend is the  hedge that marks out his share of the land..He prides himself on being ‘modern’ and ‘liberal’ but is neither of these ….he is ‘educated’ for the market place and nothing else…..A latter day Patrick Maguire he keeps a keen eye on what’s his and knows how to protect it……

                     He is , above all , his fathers son …..there’s no free spirit at work here. ‘No questioning of the status quo….. just ‘another brick in the wall’ and lets all keep in line….He keeps an eye on Romania ( the property’s cheap )….Like a vulture he knows that human misery brings opportunity. His mother opened her legs and this ,this is the result…..Unfortunately he’s quite fertile and will in time produce offspring. He supports anal sex but not free speech. Gobbles would have had the measure of him. His mother bought her own (Corporation) house cheap and let it out in flats ( but not to her own class). Students and business people only need apply…..”put a beggar on horseback”…..on and on it goes. ‘A thick necked people’ , yes , yes  indeed. Once he might have measured his wealth in cattle. Cattle and land. People and cattle. Is there any difference. It’s hard to tell these days.

          A second home and third level education for their children is now the norm.  “We earned it” is their mantra but the truth is quite different. We produce nothing as a nation. We are after all a service economy and nothing more.  And all built on the exploitation of foreign labour. And now that the bad times have come who is prepared to make sacrifices ? Not this lot for sure. They want their home and mortgage protected but they have no intention of doing the same for their tenants….”We worked for what we have”…..We’ve heard it all before and seen it too…..the hungry avaricious look over a neighbour’s field….Once upon a time their only ambition was to have a son join the Christian Brothers.

        Look at them ! Look at them as they sneer at anyone who wasn’t a cute as them at the property business. Indeed , indeed we’ve seen it all before.
A Christian Brother masturbating in the back room while his brother repairs the fence that marks out his bit of land. The ‘new respectability’ that never quite manages to hide the savagery beneath. He blames the bankers and Fiana Fail for the nations problems but will vote ‘yes’ to Europe nonetheless…….he knows what side his bread is buttered on. He would like to see his children attend a school where rugby is played……

    Yes , take a good look at him. He’s trying to be like an Englishman but never really succeeds….just a little to close to the bog. Thick and ignorant but confident nonetheless. “The Pope’s Children.

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

When the sun went down today it got really cold, really quickly. I was standing at the side of a rugby pitch watching my 10 year old. Now we’re back indoors, the sky is Advent-darkened winter, the fire is lit and the scones are freshly baked.

Curiously I remember all those places of rebellion that Ade mentioned in prayers this morning; India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Thailand, Iraq. Oh for the luxury of a child’s soul on this the First Sunday of Advent.

Consider this:

Tim prays to the Virgin Mary that he may pluck up the courage to ask out an office clerk that he fancies and that she accepts his invite. The same girl (Alice) prays to the Virgin Mother that another man (Tony) who works in the same office will ask her out.  While at the same time the man that the girl really wants to be with(Tony) is actually gay and is praying to the Holy Mother to be with the man who really wants to be with the girl(Tim) and hoping that he too is Gay.

What’s the Virgin Mother to do??

It has always bemused me how we are encouraged tor pray for divine intervention in times of need. I have serious reservations about this as it seems to be totally contradictory to what Christ and scriptures taught. If you look to the bible passage on the temptation of Christ in the desert : “On the other hand it is written, ‘You shall not put the Lord your God to the test.’” – Matthew 4:7

If Christians are to remain true to their faith then praying for ‘little’ interventions such as success in a job interview or for good weather is surely blasphemous and offensive to their God.

There is a trilogy of epic poems by Patrick Kavanagh and in the first ‘Why Sorrow’ he confronts this issue eloquently when he pens:

‘Is the way of living That you are praying for in this God’s giving? Ah, Lad upon the road of life ‘Tis best to dance with Chance’s wife And let the road-menders that follow Sweep remorse into a hollow.’

So the next time you pray to St. Anthony to find your car keys or to St. Joseph of Cupertino to pass an exam, think twice.

1946

Rhyme & Form: Lyrical Ballad, rhyme scheme (aabb, ccdd, eeff, ggbb)

Tone: Haunting, passionate, sad. It was written to a slow sad tune also.

Imagery: Autumn Dublin streets

Themes: Unrequited love, the Poet

Literary Techniques: Assonance[1], Alliteration

Note his stage in life, this stage being the protesting Dublin Poet.

This is probably one of the best known Irish ballads. It was written as a poem by Patrick Kavanagh, and as the story goes, Kavanagh met Luke Kelly of the Dubliners in a pub and asked to him “sing his song”. Luke obliged and sings a remarkable rendition of it – easily the definitive version with others, notably Sinead O’Connor performing it, but not getting the same passion in the song, an ability that defined Luke Kelly so well.

As soon as the poem begins we know that the future is not bright for Kavanagh and his would-be love. Kavanagh knew the instant he seen this lady that he would rue this moment. Kavanagh ‘saw the danger’ yet he was enchanted nonetheless ending the first stanza with a tone of inevitability:

And I said let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day

Kavanagh knows very well that the adventure of love is a risky one; love commands sacrifices and chances to be taken at every opportunity.  The deep ravine mentioned in stanza two forms the net for these risks and it is seen that Kavanagh indeed does fail in his quest for love:

The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
Oh I loved too much and by such by such is happiness thrown away.

Kavanagh speaks from a vantage point in retrospect as he looks back on this love-torn scene from his past. We only see Kavanagh’s feelings here as he loved too much; in fact ‘I’ occurs 14 times throughout the poem. Kavanagh couples his failure with a well-known saying ending with making hay. This hay-making is important for Kavanagh as he relates this back to rural life at a time when he was still bitter and frustrated with rural life, thus we are capable now of seeing just how much this Autumn lady hurt Kavanagh.

In the third stanza we see the romantic Kavanagh as he gives her many important gifts. Kavanagh is well aware of who and what he is, (as seen in Inniskeen Road) that being a poet. Kavanagh gives her the gifts of the mind and creativity and ‘poems to say’. These secrets he gives this lady are similar to those used by musicians, artists and sculptors: sound, stone and tint.

Kavanagh ends the poem by moving forwards in time to a ‘quiet street where old ghosts meet’ - we see now that any glimmer of hope for love has vanished as she walks away from Kavanagh ‘hurriedly’. But Kavanagh does know that he made a mistake in trying to woo this lady, nay Kavanagh feels (arrogantly) that he is above this as he relates his mistake to that of an angel losing his wings.[2] Just like in Inniskeen Road, Kavanagh feels he is superior to normal folk, Kavanagh has already stated that being a poet or an artist he must be an outsider, in this instance he takes it a step further and compares himself to an angelic being, thus his being drawn to this dark-haired woman was just a mortal mistake. In truth Kavanagh is set apart from this world on his quest of literature and poetry.

[2] Kavanagh may be using this reference purely to console himself

Rhyme & Form: A sonnet formation with no break (akin to Shakespeare)

Tone: Annoyed, frustrated yet content (at the end)

Imagery: Nature, Ireland of old

Themes: Loneliness, conflicts, frustrations, rural life

Note his stage in life, this stage being the protesting Dublin Poet.

The poem is primarily focussed on a dispute over a portion of land. Kavanagh contrasts this Irish scene to the 1939 Munich crisis and also to the legend of Troy. In this way Kavanagh not only relates Ireland to ancient Greece and Homer but he also praises both contrasting images.

The interesting thing about this poem is that an epic poem usually recants a heroic tale over the course of some hundred, if not thousand lines. The same poem will cover a range of vast, geographical locations and span over a period of time.

The opening lines are open to interpretation by any reader:

I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided

Kavanagh refers to Ireland here as he writes after 1922 in a time when Ireland have gained their independence, he also writes from a time of international conflict, having just seen one World War, a second seems imminent. Nevertheless, it is easy to see what Kavanagh is saying here.

He goes on to describe the scene that he witnessed, ‘who owned/ That half a road of rock, a no-man’s land’ – in short there is a dispute over a portion of land. The next part of the poem injects the reader straight in to the Irish-ness of the situation. We see the Duffys and Old McCabe arguing, the Duffys shout at McCabe, McCabe himself appears ready for a fight as he is ‘stripped to the waist’ – we are given a scene of ‘instancy’ as we view the action and the movement in this stanza.[1]

Kavanagh brings Ireland to Germany as he recalls the ‘Munich bother’ – the crisis in Germany at the time leading up to World War II. Kavanagh wonders which scene is more important, the one he witnessed or the scene on the global stage. Kavanagh, for a moment begins to doubt the importance of Ireland, in particular Irish rural life. In deliberating this notion, Kavanagh begins lose faith in the rural areas of Inniskeen (Ballyrush and Gortin), but only for a moment as we see in the next line that Homer’s ghost[2] reassures him. Homer said that he ‘made the Iliad from such a local row’, thus Kavanagh sees that epic poetry can in fact be made from local events. It is the work of deities, not mortals, Kavanagh suggests, that endow human action with epic stature. Seen in that light, no event should be considered too humble, no ‘local row’ too unimportant – if gods choose to dignify it. Kavanagh seems capable now of aligning himself alongside such gods as it is he who decides what is important. Séamus Heaney said that ‘even though the stage gives itself over to two Monaghan farmers and successfully sets Ballyrush and Gortin in balance against Munich, it is not saying that the farmers and the Monaghan region are important in themselves. They are important only in the light of the mind that is now playing upon them.’

When we compare the lines ‘Which/ Was most important’ and ‘Gods make their own importance’, we are faced with Kavanagh’s hesitation and resolution, and yet we must take in account Kavanagh’s frustrated tone of rural life that would last until after his battle with cancer. However, is his tone beginning to change? Whereas before he may have dismissed such a notion regarding rural life, now he seems to look beyond the confines of Ireland for a reason not to disregard such scenes of pastoral life.

[2] Homer of the Iliad, not of the Simpsons

Lines Written On A Seat On The Grand Canal, Dublin

‘Erected to the memory of Mrs. Dermot O’Brien’

Rhyme & Form: A sonnet formation with no break (akin to Shakespeare)

Tone: Euphoric

Imagery: Nature

Themes: Beauty in nature, Imagination, Celebration & Euphoria

Literary Techniques: Apostrophe (similar to that of Advent)

Note his stage in life, this stage being the reconciled, celebrating Dublin poet.

Upon reading this, Kavanagh’s final poem in our studies, we must take into account the sub-title, as it is a symbol of love, affection and commemoration. We are not told who Mrs. Dermot O’Brien is, yet this poem and this ‘seat’ knows and remembers her. For Kavanagh, in his latter years, the Canal Bank brought solace, rest and peace and to sit on such a Canal Bank seat would be perceived as finding relaxation and tranquillity, even though we are unaware of the inscription on the seat or to whom this inscription belongs, we are a part of this moment – this is what Kavanagh is aiming for in this poem. Ironically, this poem inspired a statue to be erected on a seat on the Grand Canal.

This poem acts as a follow-up from Canal Bank Walk and further documents Kavanagh’s state of mind at the time. The poem is once again focused on his re-birth and convalescence; however in this poem he concentrates in the future, not just the here and now. Kavanagh knows that soon he will no longer be able to enjoy such moments, nor will he be able to experience the scene before him.

O commemorate me where there is water

Canal water, preferably, so stilly

Greeny[1] at the heart of summer

The first lines of the poem illustrate Kavanagh’s sense of longing and adoration for the scene. One must take remember that he viewed this place as a utopia, given that he felt renewed in this very area. Note the words used here; still, green, water, summer, and we are given an image of tranquillity. ‘Brother’ is addressed here, and much like the ‘lover’ in Advent, we are never told who he is referring to (it is safe to assume he is speaking to his soul once again, yet he may also be talking to his brother, Peter). Some critics have also argued that the brother here is nature, this point has some basis as Kavanagh felt, in Canal Bank Walk that he was one with nature, thus being directly related to nature. Kavanagh uses the phrase ‘commemorate me’ three times in the sonnet, expressing his deep desire to be forever associated with this part of Dublin, the only rural part that Kavanagh could find in the city.

Kavanagh goes on to connect the lock in the Canal to the Niagara Falls by ‘creating’ a word: niagarously. There are two ideals at work here, the first one is that he sees the Canal in the same light as that of the mighty Falls in Eastern North American just on the border between the US and Canada. Kavanagh seems to think that the Falls and the Canal are just as majestic as one another. And yet this does not seem entirely true for Kavanagh only uses the Niagara Falls as a metaphor, instead he sees the Canal as far more spectacular, ‘a lock niagarously roars’, and yet there is a ‘tremendous silence’ in mid-July[2] (Kavanagh creates a type of paradox in this special place). Kavanagh knows that through his experience in this place, those reading and ‘travelling’ on his journey would also be affected; the area becomes a poetic experience.

No one will speak in prose

Who finds his way to these Parnassian Islands,

Mount Parnassus is named after Parnassos, the son of the nymph Kleodora and the man Kleopompous. There was a city of which Parnassos was leader, which was flooded by torrential rain. The citizens ran from the flood, following wolves’ howling, up the mountain slope. There the survivors built another city, and called it Lykoreia, which in Greek means “the howling of the wolves.”

As the Oracle of Delphi was sacred to the god Apollo, so did the mountain itself become associated with Apollo. According to some traditions, Parnassus was the site of the fountain Castalia and the home of the Muses; according to other traditions, that honor fell to Mount Helicon, another mountain in the same range. As the home of the Muses, Parnassus became known as the home of poetry, music, and learning.

Kavanagh transports an ancient land to present-day Ireland (seen before in Advent), such a transportation is necessary as Kavanagh wishes to relate the Grand Canal to the home of poetry, music and learning that he felt the Grand Canal was.

The poet, having given us an image of what this special place meant to him, now brings the reader along as he looks outwards:

Line nine gives us an image of the swan’s movement through the now majestic Canal waters, followed immediately by brilliant images of light through bridges. Kavanagh is excited as he sees the barge coming from Kildare and other such-mythological towns, thus the ordinary world of commerce is transported into something strange and mysterious.[3] Whereas earlier on in the poem Kavanagh had been talking about his experience on the Canal, he now opens the poem up to the reader as we share in his surroundings; the swan, the barge, the canal bank seat – we are involved in the life around Kavanagh.

As the sonnet draws to a close, Kavanagh repeats himself, ‘O commemorate me’ – but in this instance he does not wish to be connected with the heroic and the courageous, his preference is for the extraordinary in the ordinary ‘canal-bank seat for the passer-by.’ Kavanagh inserts the word ‘just’ (a word that ordinarily would belittle the subject, yet we know that Kavanagh is none too ordinary) here to convey a meaning that contrasts with the typical meaning of the word, in fact he is praising the Canal seat above any other forms of memorials.

In ‘Lines Written’ we see, once again Kavanagh’s eye for the extraordinary in the natural world of Ireland.

[1] Greeny – Kavanagh’s use of adjectives
[2] Kavanagh inserts these words at line 7
[3] NB – Finisterre, Plath

Rhyme & Form: The poem is divided cleverly into two sonnets. Originally there was a break in line 21 giving us 4 separate stanzas (four weeks of Advent). There is also an easy rhyme scheme to spot. More so in the second part as the first four lines all have the same rhyme.

Tone: Warm and grateful.

Imagery: Nature, Christmas

Themes: Childhood (sense of wonder), Beauty in nature, Imaginative Talent.

Literary Techniques: Apostrophe: Kavanagh speaks to his ‘lover’ yet there is no specific sex stated; perhaps he is speaking to his soul.

Note his stage in life, this stage being the Protesting Dublin poet. (Bitter Experiences)

Advent is the four-week period of spiritual preparation before Christmas; at the time of writing it was a period of fasting and penance. Bear in mind that Advent was originally called ‘Renewal’ – The church had a much greater influence than today.

In the first stanza Kavanagh speaks of the over-indulgence of his life – he may be hinting at the season of over-eating also. He goes on to talk about the lack of wonder in his life; in short his life is presently dull.[1] Yet Kavanagh appears to be more concerned with his inner self:

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

Note the imagery used here: dark room, dry and unsweetened provisions, penance, Doom. What is Kavanagh saying here? Is he attacking the act of penance and Advent ? No, what Kavanagh is saying is quite obvious; as we go through this act of penance and deprivation we will come out the other side looking much better – we can now look at the world from a child’s perspective, a new way of seeing things.

Yet he must ‘return to Doom’ – this line becomes much clearer when we read on and see that the doom was the stolen and unusable knowledge. Since we are talking about religion we can be near certain that Kavanagh is referring to the Tree of Knowledge in Genesis. Eve and Adam ate from the Tree of Knowledge and therefore disobeyed God resulting in the fall of mankind and the origin of sin. Now if this ‘knowledge’ could be undone or given back the result would be innocence (like a child).

Kavanagh speaks of the outcome of that potential innocence in the second stanza as the child sees ‘newness that was in every stale thing’ - the ‘spirit-shocking wonder’ in a black, gloomy Ulster hill. We are also presented with the picture of an old fool rambling and the ‘prophetic astonishment’ in the child’s eye as he or she listens to the old man’s ‘tedious talking’. Kavanagh says that in thinking this way we are transported back to the bogs, the carts, the stables ‘where Time begins’ - what he is referring to here is Christ’s birth and, when initially dropping the images of Ireland (bogs and ass-carts) we are connected to the stable of Bethlehem where the holy birthing took place.

The second part of the poem looks the future. ‘O’ gives the tone a happy outlook, as when this season of Advent passes, the world will be seen anew. The darkness of winter will have passed and even

The whispered argument of a churning
Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching

will sound different. We have now moved outside: Antoinette Quinn states that ‘Once its indoors rites of purification have been completed the poem moves outdoors’. Kavanagh and his ‘love’ will now be rich, renewed and restored. The ‘Ordinary plenty’ that he refers to is key of Kavanagh’s poetry. He does not look for the glamorous or the extravagant, instead he seeks out the extraordinary in the ordinary, mundane world about him. Kavanagh refuses to ask for ‘reason’s payment’ (he does not question God, rather he will enjoy and experience God’s presence.)

We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages
Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hour-[2]

Kavanagh reminds us that we are dust (another reference to Genesis) and suggests that we should throw away the burdens of adulthood (conscious, mortal knowledge) and take up childish thought so as to enjoy life. Finally Kavanagh reminds us of a new beginning – ‘January flower’ – suggests that the earth is experiencing new growth (new wonders).[3]

Kavanagh began this stanza with a reference to Christ’s birth and ends it by alluding to Christ’s ‘rebirth’ at Christmas time.

• Kavanagh’s stage in life
• Rebirth and Child-like state
• Ordinary vs. Extraordinary
• Spirituality

A year ago I fell in love with the functional ward
Of a chest hospital: square cubicles in a row,
Plain concrete, washbasins – an art lover’s woe,
Not counting how the fellow in the next bed snored.
But nothing whatever is by love debarred,
The common and banal her heat can know.
The corridor led to a stairway and below
Was the inexhaustible adventure of a gravelled yard.

(See here for full poem >>>)