ࡱ> DFC%` bjbjNN .,,,@@@@$d$%2h1111111$3h5111***1*1*** ď@:*110%2*66**&6PTP*lB11  %2d  $   The Book of Irish Writers, Chapter 42 - Patrick Kavanagh, 1904-1967 Poor Paddy Maguire, a fourteen-hour day He worked for years. It was he that lit the fire And boiled the kettle and gave the cows their hay. The poet and novelist Patrick Kavanagh could well be describing himself in these lines. Until he was 35, he lived the hard life of the small farmer. Kavanagh is perhaps best known for writing the poem On Raglan Road: 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 The poem is typical in expressing his yearning for something that is unattainable. He was born in 1904 in the townland of Mucker in Co. Monaghan. His father was a cobbler who bought a small farm when Kavanagh was 6. In 1917, aged 13, Kavanagh finished school - and started work. He developed an early interest in poetry. Books were in short supply but when he was 21 he picked up a copy of the literary magazine, the Irish Statesman, in a Dundalk shop. This was his introduction to contemporary literature and experimental writers - Any stir on the paper? a fellow asked me. Plenty, I replied. Gertrude Stein is after writing a new book. Quit the coddin. Kavanagh was contemptuous of Irelands Literary Revival and its champions - Yeats and all that crowd as he dismissively called them. They regarded the peasant as the upholder of true Irish values. In Kavanaghs writing, the peasant finally answered back! In 1931, he went to Dublin for the first time, aged 27. To literary Dublin he was the peasant poet with clay on his boots (he would often cut a disheveled figure). He could have capitalized on this image - but instead he went out of his way to reject it with a cantankerous energy! His first collection, Ploughman and Other Poems appeared in 1936 and showed signs that Kavanagh was beginning to write poetry that took its inspiration from, as he said, everyday very foolish things such as dunghills, wooden gates and potatoes. His autobiography of 1938, The Green Fool gave an insiders account of a peasant life that was impoverished, self-seeking, sly and litigious it was deliberately different to that noble image of the peasant promoted by politicians and poets at the time. Kavanagh relished being a disruptive outsider. The Great Hunger, a long poem from 1942, deliberately referred to the Famine to argue that an even worse hunger now afflicted Ireland: poverty, emotional deprivation and repression were the key factors. The life of Patrick Maguire, a small farmer, is detailed in its small moments of joy and, overwhelmingly, its waste in the weak washy way of true tragedy. Kavanagh was fiercely self-critical. He rejected both The Green Fool and The Great Hunger because they were tragic. True art he increasingly maintained was comedy and Tarry Flynn, an autobiographical novel from 1948, has a lighter and more affectionate tone as its young farmer hero tries to balance farming and poetry: With work thrown in to ballast The fantasy-soaring mind. Kavanagh now started to develop the idea of parochialism. In his sonnet, Epic he poses questions about whats really important, and sets a local boundary dispute beside the Munich bother - the territorial demands made by Hitler that led to the Second World War: I inclined To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin Till Homers ghost came whispering to my mind He said: I made the Iliad from such A local row. Gods make their own importance. In 1954, when he was 50, Kavanagh took a libel case against a small magazine that had praised his poetry, but pictured Kavanagh as foul-mouthed. He had hoped to make some money but though he eventually won on appeal, it was only to find that the defendants were broke! The strain of the case took a toll on his health and in 1955 he was diagnosed with lung cancer. Making a good, if not full, recovery he wrote a series of poems expressing his sense that he had been reborn. For we must record loves mystery without claptrap, Snatch out of time the passionate transitory. He died in 1967, aged 63 and dogged for several years by ill health - caused largely by heavy drinking. Writing as a peasant, Kavanagh punctured many of the cultural platitudes about Ireland in his time. He also revealed the wonder in small, seemingly unimportant things in the everyday world about us - It was the garden of the golden apples, A long garden, between the railway and the road. In the sow's rooting, where the hen scratches, We dipped our fingers in the pockets of God. DE< > h + ? 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