Yes and no.
He wrote Raglan Road for a young medical student he fancied.
Maybe he wrote a poem for Deirdre - but I'm not sure.
He was a fucken genius on top of being a great poet.
My mother moved to Dublin in 1951 and she told me he was the first person she noticed there. She din't know who he was, and said he looked a bit rough, but he stood out. A few years later she was introduced to him as the poet Patrick Kavanagh.
I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station, or happily
Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday -
You meet me and you say:
'Don't forget to see about the cattle - '
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.
And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life -
And I see us meeting at the end of a town
On a fair day by accident, after
The bargains are all made and we can walk
Together through the shops and stalls and markets
Free in the oriental streets of thought.
O you are not lying in the wet clay,
For it is a harvest evening now and we
Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight
And you smile up at us - eternally.