Kavanagh

Kavanagh

The road is hard; morning to night;

Ploughing the hill field, we break stone and clay;

Little I see that gives; the brambled hedges are severe;

I can see no glory in a boor tree bush;

I use up my instincts in back-bending labour;

I was born owing it everything;

Debt to the cold-cramped land is my birthright;

My emotions are invested in this stone and clay;

I have given my soul away

The hills are the only breasts I know;

I give armfuls of dried hay flowers to cows;

The soil plays a harsh tune on my longing;

It is the only spending I do;

I might as well be a pagan;

I find demigod powers in a secret demijohn;

Although I have never glimpsed him,

I hope god is ashamed;

This slavery is a clear affront to nature.

Who cares if my forebears were chieftains;

I don’t want redemption in a paradise garden;

I have no taste left for god-made vines;

For I’m sick of scrabbing the sullen soil.

From the spasms of joy springs the bitter spurt;
Our most voluptuous groans are dyed with hurt.