Patrick Kavanagh

(1904 - 1967 / County Monaghan)

Patrick Kavanagh Quotes

  • ''It is impossible to read the daily press without being diverted from reality. You are full of enthusiasm for the eternal verities—life is worth living, and then out of sinful curiosity you open a newspaper. You are disillusioned and wrecked.''
    Patrick Kavanagh (1905-1967), Irish poet, author. "Signposts," Collected Prose (1967).
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  • ''Actors are loved because they are unoriginal. Actors stick to their script. The unoriginal man is loved by the mediocrity because this kind of "artistic" expression is something to which the merest five-eighth can climb.''
    Patrick Kavanagh (1905-1967), Irish poet, author. "Signposts," Collected Prose (1967).
  • ''Malice is only another name for mediocrity.''
    Patrick Kavanagh (1905-1967), Irish poet, author. "Signposts," Collected Prose (1967).
  • ''A sweeping statement is the only statement worth listening to. The critic without faith gives balanced opinions, usually about second-rate writers.''
    Patrick Kavanagh (1905-1967), Irish poet, author. "Signposts," Collected Prose (1967).
  • ''What appears in newspapers is often new but seldom true.''
    Patrick Kavanagh (1905-1967), Irish poet, author. "Signposts," Collected Pruse (1967).
  • ''A man is original when he speaks the truth that has always been known to all good men.''
    Patrick Kavanagh (1905-1967), Irish poet, author. "Signposts," Collected Prose (1967).

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Best Poem of Patrick Kavanagh

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;
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 and such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign...

Read the full of On Raglan Road

Shancoduff

My black hills have never seen the sun rising,
Eternally they look north towards Armagh.
Lot's wife would not be salt if she had been
Incurious as my black hills that are happy
When dawn whitens Glassdrummond chapel.

My hills hoard the bright shillings of March
While the sun searches in every pocket.
They are my Alps and I have climbed the Matterhorn

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