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Weary of the drumlin. Tired with all that.
Weary of verb and noun and rhyming feet
On the lone road. Weary of the bare page,
The waiting pen, the daily, daily siege.
Will no release arrive to end this curse,
Consume this scourge of the soul, verse on verse
Demanding to be born, and strain and sweat
Mating word with word, line to line? And yet,
No honor there, no praise, no thanks, no glow,
No lift of heart. But I’ll be moving now,
Will follow mid-winter twilight and flit
To the ancient’s place. I’ll stand attention
There, I and my verse, that our long bond wait
As one, and soar in the flare of the dawn.
By Peter Makem - (Patrick Kavanagh longs to be liberated from the harsh tensions of life and the thankless, unacknowledged chores of his calling as an poet. Seeing no end to all this he decides to enter Newgrange on a mid-winter dawn that the great flare transform his bardic status and dynamic into their true worth, and he move in glory among the ancients.)
