14 Total Quotes

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
#Media #Enthusiasm

A man is original when he speaks the truth that has always been known to all good men.
Patrick Kavanagh
#Irish Poet #Man

Malice is only another name for mediocrity.
Patrick Kavanagh
#Irish Poet #Mediocrity

To know fully even one field or one land is a lifetime's experience. In the world of poetic experience it is depth that counts, not width. A gap in a hedge, a smooth rock surfacing a narrow lane, a view of a woody meadow, the stream at the junction of four small fields - these are as much as a man can fully experience.
Patrick Kavanagh
#Experience

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
#Acting And Actors

What appears in newspapers is often new but seldom true.
Patrick Kavanagh
#Irish Poet

Every old man I see Reminds me of my father When he had fallen in love with death One time when sheaves were gathered. That man I saw in Gardner Street Stumbled on the kerb was one, He stared at me half-eyed, I might have been his son. And I remember the musician Faltering over his fiddle In Bayswater, London, He too set me the riddle. Every old man I see In October-coloured weather Seems to say to me: "I was once your father."
Patrick Kavanagh
#Memory

I do not think of you lying in the wet clay Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see You walking down a lane among the poplars On your way to the station, or happily Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday-- You meet me and you say: 'Don't forget to see about the cattle--' Among your earthiest words the angels stray. And I think of you walking along a headland Of green oats in June, So full of repose, so rich with life-- And I see us meeting at the end of a town On a fair day by accident, after The bargains are all made and we can walk Together through the shops and stalls and markets Free in the oriental streets of thought. O you are not lying in the wet clay, For it is harvest evening now and we Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight And you smile up at us -- eternally.
Patrick Kavanagh
#Memory #Mothers #Mothers Day

And sometimes I am sorry when the grass Is growing over the stones in quiet hollows And the cocksfoot leans across the rutted cart-pass That I am not the voice of country fellows Who now are standing by some headland talking Of turnips and potatoes or young corn Of turf banks stripped for victory. Here Peace is still hawking His coloured combs and scarves and beads of horn. Upon a headland by a whinny hedge A hare sits looking down a leaf-lapped furrow There's an old plough upside-down on a weedy ridge And someone is shouldering home a saddle-harrow. Out of that childhood country what fools climb To fight with tyrants Love and Life and Time?
Patrick Kavanagh
#Peace