For Dawn

This is a statue of Patrick Kavanaugh along one of the canals in Dublin. He often came there while recuperating from cancer, the story goes. This poem was written by him and is obviously a reference to his mother. I found it in a book of his complete poems I bought this summer in Galway. I first heard of Kavanaugh in a book entitled Irish Poets Since Yeats and among the poems quoted in that book is one called The Great Hunger. If I have a chance I will quote from that one someday, I still read it every so often and try to puzzle out its message. But today I wanted to share this poem written in 1945 when Patrick's mother died. However, as the title of this post suggests, what I saw was an image of my wife. Not dead, naturally, but as my helpmate and support over the years of our marriage. Like no one else, I believe, Dawn truly 'knows' me. . . better than I know myself, I am sure. I think that this poem captures my feelings about her.

IN MEMORY OF MY MOTHER

Died November 10th, 1945

You will have the road gate open, the front door ajar

The kettle boiling and a table set

By the window looking out at the sycamores-

And your loving heart lying in wait

For me coming up among the popular trees.

You'll know my breathing and my walk

And it will be a summer evening on those roads

Lonely with leaves of thought.

We will be choked with the grief of things growing,

the silence of dark-green air

Life too rich - the nettles, docks and thistles

all answering the prodigal's prayer.

You will know I am coming though I send no word

For you were lover who could tell

A man's thoughts -my thoughts-though I hid them-

Through you I knew Woman and did not fear her spell.