Thomas Kinsella
Thomas Kinsella is a new poet on the course, and so is likely to be examined. Kinsella was born in Dublin in the 20th century. His close-knit family childhood had an impact on his poetry. Kinsella spent time in England during World War II. This war also had an influence on his poetry, giving him a bleak outlook on life. When studying Kinsella, it is important to have an awareness of this bleak view. Kinsella's early work deals with love, identity, the self, the precariousness of life and relationships, death and creation. He was a city or urban poet, so he looks at these things in an urban context. Some of his poetry was also inspired by or devoted to his wife. Inspired by American modernism, he abandoned traditional styles and began to write in a more traditional style. He makes great use of myths and symbols, and tends to focus on the individual psyche (as explored by Carl Jung) and seems to be fascinated by humanity’s capacity for self destruction. Kinsella tends to explore issues relevant to contemporary Ireland and the role of tradition in Irish society. Some of his poetry is personal, while some is based on Irish history.
Thinking of Mr D.A man still light of foot, but ageing, took
An hour to drink his glass, his quiet tongue Danced to such cheerful slander. He sipped and swallowed with a scathing smile, Tapping a polished toe. His sober nod withheld assent. When he died I saw him twice. Once as he used retire On one last murmured stabbing little tale From the right company, tucking in his scarf. And once down by the river, under wharf Lamps that plunged him in and out of light, A priest-like figure turning, wolfish-slim, Quickly aside from pain, in a bodily plight. To note the oiled reflections chime and swim. Download the notes:
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Dick KingIn your ghost, Dick King, in your phantom vowels I read
That death roves our memories igniting Love. Kind plague, low voice in a stubbed throat, You haunt with the taint of age and of vanished good, Fouling my thought with losses. Clearly now I remember rain on the cobbles, Ripples in the iron trough, and the horses' dipped Faces under the Fountain in James's Street, When I sheltered my nine years against your buttons And your own dread years were to come; And your voice, in a pause of softness, named the dead, Hushed as though the city had died by fire, Bemused . . . discovering, discovering A gate to enter temperate ghosthood by; And I squeezed your fingers till you found again My hand hidden in yours. I squeeze your fingers. Dick King was an upright man. Sixty years he trod The dull stations underfoot. Fifteen he lies with God. By the salt seaboard he grew up But left its rock and rain To bring a dying language east And dwell in Basin Lane. By the Southern Railway he increased: His second soul was born In the clangour of the iron sheds, The hush of the late horn. An invalid he took to wife. She prayed her life away; Her whisper filled the whitewashed yard Until her dying day. And season in, season out, He made his wintry bed. He took the path to the turnstile Morning and night till he was dead. He clasped his hands in a union ward To hear St. James's bell. I searched his eyes though I was young, The last to wish him well. Download the notes:
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Sample Questions
Irrespective of which themes he explores, Kinsella always seems to present a challenging and thought-provoking view of the world. Discuss.
Kinsella Sample Question | |
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