Having read the entire collection from cover to cover, I would have to say that there is much to interest the student of poetry. "The Great Hunger" is a very powerful early work. In some ways, I think that Kavanagh the poet lived in the shadow of that one achievement. Did Kavanagh rise to his potential? He might say that he did not. Was he too caught up in the image of being a poet? I think not. Did he put too many hopes in poetry as a means of financial salvation? Perhaps. However, whatever else Kavanagh's work is, it is REAL. The world he writes about is real. The cultures of ivory tower and religion that he often rails against are not as real as life is for the average person. This is the work's strongest suit. I would say this collection is more than worth a tour, but be prepared for much bitterness--and, to be fair, some occasional light hearted frivolity--and have a pint of Guiness after.

Patrick Kavanagh seemed to me something completely new when I read this collection. In a country whose poetic voice was governed by the genius of Yeats for so long, Kavanagh comes along as a genuine alternative; of the common man, or the country village and the pub and the field. Kavanagh is no mere realist though; his poems are sometimes mythic and beautiful as well.

What a pity that the greatest of the Irish poets has not yet taken his rightful place in the higher places of learning in this country. As a fellow rural Irishman I have always considered Kavanagh to be 'my reality poet' who had, nevertheless, an extraordinary insight into the drawingrooms or cesspools of the 20th century Irish Catholic mind. His poem Lough Derg is without a doubt not just a poem but a vivid painting with words. 'They come to Lough Derg to fast and pray and beg
With all the bitterness of nonentities, and the envy of the inarticulate when dealing with the artist'. In the same poem he writes in reference to Irish neutrality during the Second World War,'All Ireland that froze for want of Europe' and froze from an ice-cold vision of DeValera. Read over and over again.This poem like many others are works of extraordinary perception and cultural analysis.. For many years I myself have searched for a definition of culture, you know, that something that is supposed to make us the same or different, but alas. In 'Memory of Brother Michael' I find: 'Culture is always something that was. Something pedants can measure, Skull of bard,thigh of chief, Depth of dried up river. Shall we be thus for ever? Shall we be thus for ever? It appears vey likely.