The One
Green, blue, yellow and red-
God is down in the swamps and marshes
Sensational as April and almost incred-
ible the flowering of our catharsis.
A humble scene in a backward place
Where no one important ever looked
The raving flowers looked up in the face
Of the One and the Endless, the Mind that has baulked
The profoundest of mortals. A primrose, a violet,
A violent wild iris- but mostly anonymous performers
Yet an important occasion as the Muse at her toilet
Prepared to inform the local farmers
That beautiful, beautiful, beautiful God
Was breathing His love by a cut-away bog.
Patrick Kavanagh
from Selected Poems, Penguin books, 1996.
What's it all about anyway? 
Lovely Joe, but not my favourite so far, this would be ‘To the Man after the Harrow’ by Patrick Kavanagh
Joe has previously mentioned that poetry is an excellent subject for meditation and I have found this to be the case. It would be great to hear what take people have on this poem and the work of Patrick Kavanagh. It would also be very nice to see some of other peoples favourite verse or inspirational writings in the comments along with what it means to them. Here are some links to other poems and writings that have appeared as posts or within the postings.
A beautiful passage from ‘The Dead’ by James Joyce
https://josephbray.wordpress.com/?s=james+joyce
‘To the Man After the Harrow’ By Patrick Kavanagh
This was posted to me within the ‘When the Rubber meets the Road’ post which perfectly represented what was happening in my life at the time.
Shell
I cannot say I came from nothing
But so it seemed when the sea
Began to shape me. How long
It took is not important.
Light and dark passed through me.
Nothing was constant
But the labouring
Fingers of the sea
At their grind of love and making.
This happened where few
Would wish to penetrate
And none could see
But I received my body there
And hid within me
All the voices of my maker
Singing of his work
As I lurched and tumbled
Through the unfathomed dark.
I bear, I am forever borne.
I am complete yet I must turn
And spin with the deep will, a form
Content to be
The still, perfect image of the sea
Or its demented plaything in a storm.
Brendan Kennelly