Paddy Kavanagh’s “A Christmas Childhood” (Terence Winch)

Patrick Kavanagh (1904–1967) continues to inspire conflicting feelings and opinions. John Nemo, writing in The Dictionary of Irish Literature, puts it this way: “His followers, a varied but vocal group, speak of him admiringly as an important force in Irish letters, second only to Yeats. His detractors, fewer in number but every bit as vocal, dismiss him as a loud-mouthed, ill-mannered peasant who disrupted rather than advanced the development of modern literature.”  As a loud-mouthed, ill-mannered peasant myself, I will take my place among Kavanagh’s followers.

One of his most ardent admirers was my old friend James Liddy, an Irish poet who spent most of his adult life as a professor at the University of Wisconsin/Milwaukee until his death in 2008. Many years ago (in the ‘70s sometime), James sent me a copy of an Irish journal called The Lace Curtain, which included his “Open Letter to the Young about Patrick Kavanagh.” Describing Kavanagh’s work (and, really, his own as well), Liddy writes, “Or there is a poetry in which real ideas from living come at us. This kind can be direct statement with a reference behind to the story of what happened to the poet. It relies on the mind staying alive, on the man making the statement keeping his emotional intelligence alive.”

Kavanagh brings that emotional intelligence, I think, to “A Christmas Childhood,”  a poem one encounters regularly this time of year in Irish circles on both sides of the Atlantic.  As an Irish accordion player, I relish the mention of his father’s melodeon (pronounced melojin), which is a single-row button accordion.  

The poem introduces us to the thrumming imagination of a six-year-old Irish farmboy, ca. 1910, who is perfectly in tune with the magical world around him.

 

A Christmas Childhood

by Patrick Kavanagh

                           I

One side of the potato-pits was white with frost—
How wonderful that was, how wonderful!
And when we put our ears to the paling-post
The music that came out was magical.

The light between the ricks of hay and straw
Was a hole in Heaven's gable. An apple tree
With its December-glinting fruit we saw—
O you, Eve, were the world that tempted me

To eat the knowledge that grew in clay
And death the germ within it! Now and then
I can remember something of the gay
Garden that was childhood's. Again

The tracks of cattle to a drinking-place,
A green stone lying sideways in a ditch
Or any common sight the transfigured face
Of a beauty that the world did not touch.

 

                           II

My father played the melodeon
Outside at our gate;
There were stars in the morning east
And they danced to his music.

Across the wild bogs his melodeon called
To Lennons and Callans.
As I pulled on my trousers in a hurry
I knew some strange thing had happened.

Outside the cow-house my mother
Made the music of milking;
The light of her stable-lamp was a star
And the frost of Bethlehem made it twinkle.

A water-hen screeched in the bog,
Mass-going feet
Crunched the wafer-ice on the pot-holes,
Somebody wistfully twisted the bellows wheel.

My child poet picked out the letters
On the grey stone,
In silver the wonder of a Christmas townland,
The winking glitter of a frosty dawn.

Cassiopeia was over
Cassidy's hanging hill,
I looked and three whin bushes rode across
The horizon. The Three Wise Kings.

An old man passing said:
‘Can’t he make it talk’—
The melodeon. I hid in the doorway
And tightened the belt of my box-pleated coat.

I nicked six nicks on the door-post
With my penknife’s big blade.
There was a little one for cutting tobacco,
And I was six Christmases of age.

My father played the melodeon,
My mother milked the cows,
And I had a prayer like a white rose pinned
On the Virgin Mary’s blouse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At his wedding in April 1967; Kavanagh died in November of that year.

One final note: Kavanagh’s best-known poem is probably “On Raglan Road,” which was written to the tune of an old march called “The Dawning of the Day.”  Many singers have recorded the song since the ‘60s, including Van Morrison and Sinead O’Connor. 

Comments

[lally]

Brilliant post Terence! And the perfect one for the holiday. It makes me want to go back and read him again with new insight. Thank you for the service you've done for Kavanagh's poetry and for poetry lovers.

[Bernard Welt]

Wow. I haven't thought about this poem in years. I never got much involved with the political issues around the rejection of Kavanagh; it just seemed like he was an incredibly gifted writer and everything else counted for much less. This does make me want to pull some books down from the shelf and look through his stuff again.

[Bill Williams]

I've had the colleted poems for years and for some reason this poem eluded me--or I eluded it. Anyway, it is a lovely piece and thanks for bringing it to the surface, especially at this time of year.

[Tina Eck]

Lovely piece - and thanks for the link to Raglan Road. It sure is some special time of the year. Happy days to you.

[John Kerr]

I first heard On Raglan Road sung, and its story told, by the late great Frank Harte. Which it seems is where I first heard pretty much every song of worth sung.

But Van the Man does a good version too.

[Laura Orem]

Re: "On Raglan Road:" Is there a line more beautiful than "And I said, 'Let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.'" ? The first time I heard it, it made me catch my breath. (The High Kings also have a lovely version of the song.)

I'm going to go read some Kavanagh again - thanks for posting this, Terence.

Nollaig Shona agus Athbhliain Shona, to you and yours.

[Doug Lang]

Kavanagh was a great one, no doubt. This was a real treat to read -- somehow, I had managed to have never read "A Christmas Childhood" until today -- and a very fitting tribute. As a moody, "you'll not get a word out of me" kind of peasant, I cheered the whole piece, and then went immediately to the Van Morrison recording, which I have always loved.

By the way, who's this Yeats fellow?

I'd like to echo Laura Orem's wonderful closer, even though I don't know how to pronounce it.

[Terence Winch]

There's an interesting clip online of Kavanagh himself singing the first few lines of "Raglan Road," with a quick cut to Luke Kelly of The Dubliners taking over the lyric from there. I think Kelly, whom I met a few times in Dublin in 1966, was the first to render the poem as a song.

[Terence Winch]

For all your pronunciation needs, I recommend the Google translator lady. She's very good at what she does.

[The Best American Poetry]

Lovely piece, Terry. A toast to the ill-mannered loud mouths of poetry. Comme nous. -- DL

[Account Deleted]

For what it's worth, the definitive song version of Raglan Road is often handed to a man called Luke Kelly, and is the reason why people like Van Morrison and Sinead O'Connor sing that poem today. Give it an old Youtube or Google search and you'll understand why.

[Terence Winch]

Yes, you're quite right---see my reply above to John Kerr's comment.

[Stacey]

Beautiful beautiful post T. The poem brings tears to my eyes and the song, well, I love Van Morrison and this version of Raglan Road is so moving.

Much love to you this holiday season.
Stacey

[Stephen R.]

Thanks Terry,

If ever you go to Dublin town
In a hundred years or so
Inquire for me in Baggot Street
And what I was like to know.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OggjRZaOU74&feature=player_detailpage

[[email protected]]

I met Patrick Kavanagh outside Parson's bookstore on Baggot Street back in 1964. Knowing who he was, I attempted to say hello, but was greeted with a grouchy snarl. He was wearing his battered hat askew...He lived up to his reputation.

[Mary Winch]

It is a lovely piece as your Celebration is. Could you share the Bronx Irish Christmas 'Celebration' with me again?

[Terence Winch]

That's a great link, Stefano.  The Dubliners turned this into a much more commercially viable song---Ronnie Drew's version is particularly cool.

[Terence Winch]

Mary---Mick Moloney & Co. just released a new Christmas CD, called An Irish Christmas, which includes his rendition of "Celebration."  My post from last year can be found at http://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2010/12/a-bronx-irish-christmas-long-ago-terence-winch.html.

[Abbie Mulvihill]

As I read A Christmas Childhood, I kept hearing Johnny Cunningham's voice (especially on the word "melodeon"). And then I realized I have a CD with him reciting it.

I never knew the title or the author (sometimes recordings come from mysterious places). So, now there is a fork in my reading road and I must veer off and read Kavanagh. This was a great gift you've given to all of us Terry. Thank you.

[Terence Winch]

Thanks, Abbie.  You'll have to play JC's version for me---I've never heard it.

[Ehitch2]

As Terence Winch, one of America's finest poets, reminded us, Patrick Kavanagh's two best-known, best-loved poems are "Raglan Road" and "A Christmas Childhood." Of the two, I still prefer "Raglan Road" as both a poem and a song. I like Van Morrison and the Chieftains' rendition of the song, but the best version I ever heard appears on Dick Gaughan's sadly out-of-print and/or hard-to-find solo album in 1976, "Kist O'Gold," on Bill Leader's old Trailer label. No one has a voice like Gaughan's.

Here are the song lyrics of "Raglan Road":

On Raglan Road on an August day I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue
I saw the danger yet I walked along the enchanted way
And I said, Let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the true worth of passion's pledge
The queen of hearts still making tarts and I not making hay
O I loved too much and by such, by such is happiness thrown away

I gave her gifts of the mind, I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artist who has seen the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint, I did not stint for I gave her poems to say
With her own name there and her long dark hair like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where the old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.

Bravo, Terence, for bringing Kavanagh's poetic gifts back to us this holiday season.

Earle Hitchner