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A poem for September by Patrick Kavanagh
On an Apple-ripe September Morning
On an apple-ripe September morning
Through the mist-chill fields I went
With a pitch-fork on my shoulder
Less for use than for devilment.
The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,
In Cassidy’s haggard last night,
And we owed them a day at the threshing
Since last year. O it was delight
To be paying bills of laughter
And chaffy gossip in kind
With work thrown in to ballast
The fantasy-soaring mind.
As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered
As I looked into the drain
If ever a summer morning should find me
Shovelling up eels again.
And I thought of the wasps’ nest in the bank
And how I got chased one day
Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,
How I covered my face with hay.
The wet leaves of the cocksfoot
Polished my boots as I
Went round by the glistening bog-holes
Lost in unthinking joy.
I’ll be carrying bags to-day, I mused,
The best job at the mill
With plenty of time to talk of our loves
As we wait for the bags to fill.
Maybe Mary might call round...
And then I came to the haggard gate,
And I knew as I entered that I had come
Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967) was an Irish poet who developed his talent under the mentorship of fellow Irish poet AE (George William Russell). Eschewing the sentimental and highly stylized approach to writing about rural life in Ireland which was popular at the time, Kavanagh wrote instead in a realistic diction about realistic subjects. His work later influenced Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney, who shared an affinity with Kavanagh to write about the local and parochial to reveal the universal and timeless.
Here's something you might be interested in.
A poem for September by Patrick Kavanagh
On an Apple-ripe September Morning
A poem for September by Patrick Kavanagh
On an Apple-ripe September Morning
On an apple-ripe September morning
Through the mist-chill fields I went
With a pitch-fork on my shoulder
Less for use than for devilment.
The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,
In Cassidy’s haggard last night,
And we owed them a day at the threshing
Since last year. O it was delight
To be paying bills of laughter
And chaffy gossip in kind
With work thrown in to ballast
The fantasy-soaring mind.
As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered
As I looked into the drain
If ever a summer morning should find me
Shovelling up eels again.
And I thought of the wasps’ nest in the bank
And how I got chased one day
Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,
How I covered my face with hay.
The wet leaves of the cocksfoot
Polished my boots as I
Went round by the glistening bog-holes
Lost in unthinking joy.
I’ll be carrying bags to-day, I mused,
The best job at the mill
With plenty of time to talk of our loves
As we wait for the bags to fill.
Maybe Mary might call round...
And then I came to the haggard gate,
And I knew as I entered that I had come
Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967) was an Irish poet who developed his talent under the mentorship of fellow Irish poet AE (George William Russell). Eschewing the sentimental and highly stylized approach to writing about rural life in Ireland which was popular at the time, Kavanagh wrote instead in a realistic diction about realistic subjects. His work later influenced Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney, who shared an affinity with Kavanagh to write about the local and parochial to reveal the universal and timeless.
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