Steve Lally, May 2017
1
PATRICK KAVANAGH:
WORDS OF EARTH
AND CLAY
Ever since I was first introduced to the poetry of Patrick Kavanagh by my father when I was a child, then listening to my uncle Donal O’Donoghue talk about the poet, I have been captivated by the words and imagery in Kavanagh’s poems. Some are beautiful and some are frightening. All of them are sublime. He created images full of darkness and despair and yet out of this he could create visions of sheer utopian bliss. He saw complexity and depth in the simplest of things and he could turn an ordinary event into a saga of epic proportions. His words were his power and in this he was all-powerful.
But he was also a shy and awkward man who seemed to feel like an outsider. The local people in his community of Inniskeen were either wary and sceptical of him or saw him as a figure of ridicule and absurdity. When he moved to Dublin, he was seen as a backward, even primitive, man by the literary elite. It was only in his later years and after his death that people really began to appreciate the absolute and unique genius of Patrick Kavanagh.
In Kavanagh’s poem ‘If you ever go to Dublin town’, he requests that if you go to the capital city in a hundred years or so, to inquire about him and to ask what he was like. Well, it so happens that this year, 2017, is the fiftieth anniversary of Kavanagh’s death in 1967, and so I went down to Co. Monaghan and availed myself of the opportunity to speak to many people who knew or had met Kavanagh in his lifetime. I have put together a collection of their anecdotes and memories of this eccentric, brilliant, yet troubled man.
The works of Patrick Kavanagh created their own unique folklore, giving a weight and mythic quality to ordinary people and places. Places such as ‘Raglan Road’, ‘Shancoduff’, ‘Gardiner Street’ and ‘Billy Brennan’s barn’ were given a resonance comparable to that of Tír na nÓg, the ancient Celtic land of youth, ‘Mount Olympus’, the ancient Greek home of the gods, Hades, the ancient Greek land of the dead, and Heorot, the mead hall of the Danish King Hrothgar. Locals like ‘Old McCabe’ and the Duffys have the same heroic stature as Odysseus and the Trojans from Homer’s Iliad.
Fifty years after his death, these places and people still call to mind the gods, warriors and sacred realms of Kavanagh’s work.
Patrick Kavanagh once said, ‘A poet is never one of the people. He is detached, remote, and the life of small-time dances and talk about football would not be for him. He might take part but could not belong.’ This was very true of Patrick Kavanagh and when I spoke to the people of Co. Monaghan who knew him, it became even more apparent that he had been an outsider.
The first person I spoke to was Dan Kerr of Clones. Despite being 96 years old, he looks like the picture of health and has a spark in his eye that lets you know that he is still sharp as a pin. Back in the 1940s and ’50s, when he was working on the buses in Monaghan, Kavanagh was one of his regular passengers. He said that he would take Kavanagh on trips from Inniskeen to Dublin, making regular stops along the way at various pubs that Kavanagh liked to frequent, though on other occasions, Dan was told to avoid these pubs and go to different ones instead. This was because he was often barred from the pubs, but usually he would be absolved of his misdemeanours, and allowed back in.
Dan got on well with Kavanagh and saw beyond his rough exterior. Even back then, he recognised the genius of the poet and was a great admirer of his work. Dan had not only met and spent time with Kavanagh; he also knew the ‘The Navvy Poet’ Patrick MacGill from Glenties in Donegal and was a great admirer of his work too.
Dan said that when Kavanagh was riding the buses, people gave him a wide berth as they were unsure of what sort of greeting they would get. He was known to take newspapers from other passengers if he was feeling bored by the journey and would make all sorts of smart comments to those who had the misfortune of catching his gaze when he was in one of his less jovial moods. He would often ask people if they were looking at the horns on his head. But Dan knew that there was a softer side to Kavanagh and realised that the poet’s rough exterior was a way for him to protect himself from the cruel and judgemental world of the old conservative Catholic Ireland.
But it was not all negative. Dan talked about the big laugh Kavanagh had and how he enjoyed a song, a good joke or a witty story and was often great company on the bus journeys.
Another man I met who knew Kavanagh was Danny Aughey from Glaslough. We met at the Westenra Hotel in Monaghan town. He wore a tweed hat and jacket and had an air of the country gentleman about him. He recounted that although Kavanagh was a spiritual man, he was often at odds with the teachings of the Catholic Church.
He shared a lovely wee story with me about how Paddy would regularly cough and fidget during Mass, which would in turn put the priest off his sermon. So on one particular Sunday, when Paddy was sitting at the back of the church during Mass, coughing and shuffling about the place, the auld priest decided that he had had enough of him and asked him to leave as he was disturbing his sermon.
So Paddy, bold as brass, got up and walked right up to the top of the church and, out loud in front of all the congregation, he said, ‘I will go, for I can get more about God from the bits and pieces of everyday living, instead of listening to your voice rising and falling like a briar blowing in the wind.’ With that, Kavanagh walked out of the church, leaving in his wake a stunned priest and his bewildered flock. Kavanagh was very much his own man. He saw things how they were and did not try to brush over hypocrisy or injustice of any kind with words of conformity.
Well, I knew that if I wanted to hear first-hand stories about Kavanagh, I would have to go back to where it all started, in his home town of Inniskeen in Co. Monaghan. Inniskeen (which means ‘Peaceful Island’) is a pleasant little village in south Monaghan, bordering Louth and Armagh.
Paula and I went to the re-opening of the Kavanagh Centre in March of this year. We had the pleasure of meeting lots of interesting characters, listening to their stories about Kavanagh and listening to people reciting his poetry.
While we were there, we were introduced to a tall and striking gentleman named Brian Dooley. Now, his name rang a bell with me as several people I had spoken to had mentioned this man, saying that he was a great source of information about Monaghan and a great admirer of Patrick Kavanagh’s work.
Brian was very friendly indeed and when I asked him if he would tell me some stories from Monaghan’s folklore, he was only too happy to oblige. So we arranged to meet again. He also took me to meet Pat O’Neill, who told me the terrible tale of the Wild Goose Lodge in Co. Louth.
Afterwards I asked Brian about the poet Patrick Kavanagh and what he had been like. He explained to me that Kavanagh had lived at a time when people were suspicious of writers and poets, for to have your name in the paper was considered to be a terrible thing. Before Kavanagh there was another local poet called John McEnaney (1872–1943), the ‘Bard of Callenberg’ (Callenberg is a townland just outside of Inniskeen). When Kavanagh began writing verse at about the age of 12 or so, McEnaney was retiring from verse. McEnaney was a man with a fierce tongue, which he was ready to use as a weapon in rhyme on the slightest annoyance. People would also go to McEnaney if they wanted to get revenge on someone who had slighted them. They would give McEnaney the details and he would in turn compose a poisonous ballad. As a result, no one in the area trusted a poet, as they were afraid of a cruel verse being composed about them.
There is a great story about a local fellow who wanted a poisonous ballad written about his neighbours, so he went to Kavanagh’s house. He knocked on the door and when it opened, he asked if this was the poet’s house. Kavanagh replied, ‘You’re looking at him.’ So your man went about, giving Kavanagh all the details of the bunch of devils that were his neighbours and how he wished for their souls to burn on the slabs of hell for all eternity, et cetera.
Well, he was getting very excited until he asked Kavanagh what he wanted in exchange for these damning w
ords, and Kavanagh quoted him a price per line and explained that a poet can’t live on air alone. Now, the man was not too happy with this fee at all, so he decided to leave and as he was leaving he shouted back at Kavanagh, ‘I’m off over the hill to see Auld McEnaney, he’ll rhyme the be-jaysus out of ya for thruppence a line!’
Going right back to ancient Ireland, the bards had great power and they were revered and feared by royalty and peasantry alike, for they could make or break you with what they said about you. If a bard wanted to ruin your name, they would compose an ail bréthre (a verbal insult) and this, in turn, would be what you were remembered for, as the bard would recite the damning poem in public wherever they went on their travels.
In my second book of Irish folklore, Kildare Folk Tales, you can find the story of ‘Queen Buan’, which features the cruel druid/bard Atherne (the court bard of King Conor Mac Nessa, the High King of Ulster), who caused terrible bloodshed through his vengeful ballads.
Because most folk in Kavanagh’s time could not read or write as education was very limited, it was very much part of the psyche that one should not trust a poet or writer. Although it was well known in Inniskeen that Kavanagh was writing poetry, no one would mention it unless they wanted to get a rise out of one of Kavanagh’s siblings. ‘Your brother’s a bard!’ would be insult enough.
So Kavanagh’s status as a poet did not do him any favours and people treated him with suspicion and even contempt, for a poet was a dangerous thing. Sadly they did not perceive his great ability for painting beautiful pictures with his words.
But Kavanagh did try to fit in, in his own way, for he always wanted to be part of the craic with the other lads from his townland of Mucker, who were the Lennons and Cassidys (they feature in his poetry). Now, these were all fine, big, fit fellows, who were great footballers and farmers with a sense of fun and mischief about them and many of them had taken part in the Irish War of Independence. Kavanagh was no great farmer and certainly no soldier, but he was a great goalkeeper and played for the local team and this is probably how he ingratiated himself with these local lads.
Kavanagh looked up to them greatly, but he was not like them and longed terribly to be part of their world. He said that he felt like ‘a stranger within the walls’ when he was in their company, but Kavanagh still insisted on spending time with these tough but genuine characters.
He would go with them to meetings held by the Department of Agriculture at local schools, where advice would be given to farmers on how to improve their produce and husbandry practices on their farms. Now, the sole purpose of the young Kavanagh and the Lennon and Cassidy boys was to interrupt these meetings, which they saw as a bit of craic. On one occasion, Kavanagh and his crew showed up at one of these meetings as the instructor was explaining what to do if a large object like a potato got stuck in a cow’s throat. He explained that you need to get a piece of wood to hold open the beast’s mouth, then you stick your arm down the animal’s throat in order to retrieve the spud and prevent the animal from choking. Kavanagh saw this as a golden opportunity to have a laugh at the instructor’s expense and asked him what type of wood would he recommend. The instructor innocently went about telling Paddy the shape and size of the piece of wood to use. Midway through this, Kavanagh blurts out, ‘Would the shaft of a cart be any good?’ This, of course, was followed by a big guffaw from the Lennons and Cassidys, much to the satisfaction of Kavanagh and the annoyance of the instructor.
On another occasion, the instructor was talking about how to go about growing barley, but Monaghan is not a barley county as the soil is too heavy. Well, there was a farmer there who was interested in growing barley and he asked what sort of soil was needed. He was told that he needed at least 6 inches of good light soil. But this man lived in a particularly rocky part of Monaghan and Kavanagh knew him, so when the instructor told him about the good soil, Kavanagh shouted over at him, ‘Well, you would be wasting your time there now!’
After hearing these stories about Kavanagh from Brian, I thanked him and we arranged to meet again at a later date, which we did.
Brian then took it upon himself to show me around Inniskeen and point out some of the places featured in Kavanagh’s most famous and loved works. He suggested that I drive around Inniskeen, so he could show me the sights. As we drove out of Brian’s driveway, I listened as he pointed out those black hills that Kavanagh had described as his Alps, where he climbed his Matterhorn to bring a sheaf of hay to three starving calves, and there I saw the ‘rushy beards’ of Shancoduff.
We went to the house in the townland of Mucker (meaning ‘The Place of the Pigs’) where Kavanagh was born in 1904. It is a fine-looking house with green painted doors and windows set into its grey stone walls. I stood outside the gate, where Kavanagh’s father once played the melodeon, and I imagined his mother outside milking the cows. As I observed the green painted door, I could not help looking for those six nicks carved on the doorpost by a small child over a hundred years ago.
It was strange to see the bins outside the front of the house, with the name ‘KAVANAGH’ spray-painted down the side of each one. I imagined Paddy shuffling out the side door with a bag of rubbish, cursing about separating the organic from the recycling.
On the other side of the road stood Cassidy’s hanging hill. I looked for the ‘three whin bushes’ riding across the horizon like the ‘Three Wise Kings’ from Kavanagh’s childhood imagination.
As we drove along the little winding roads and lanes, Brian recited Kavanagh’s poetry in his strong Monaghan accent, bringing what I saw before me to life and giving greater depth and meaning to the poems I had known since childhood.
After we left Kavanagh’s house, we went on to Kednaminsha National School, the school attended by Kavanagh, where he was taught by Miss Cassidy. I was told that on his first day at school, Kavanagh escaped and ran and hid under the nearby bridge. His mother was up in arms when she found out he was missing. There was not much the teacher could do with him for he was not that interested as a student, but he showed great signs of intelligence and could read from a very young age. Miss Cassidy had said that it would be great if he could go on to secondary school in Carrickmacross, but this was not to be as his family had no money. He left school at 13 to work with his father as a shoemaker.
As time went on, Kavanagh wanted to prove his independence, so he saved whatever money he had and bought himself a horse, which he referred to as ‘The Kicking Mare’.
Now, Kavanagh was not great when it came to working the land, nor was he great with animals for that matter, and when he went to the fair at Carrickmacross (known as Carrick) he was sold a dinger. He bought a horse that had spent its life as a brewery horse, drawing kegs of beer about Carrick and Dundalk. This horse had always worked by itself and did not want to work alongside another one, pulling a plough. So it would kick and rear up whenever Kavanagh tried to harness it to the swing-trees of a plough.
Now, at the time, the local farmers had a thing going that they called ‘a swap’. This meant that if you had a plough but no horse you could lend it to someone who needed one, and in return they would lend you their horse. But as Kavanagh’s horse was so unruly, no one wanted to work with him and this only enhanced Kavanagh’s sense of isolation from his fellows.
On hearing these stories, I started to see why Kavanagh lost himself in the world that he had created through his poetry and writing, even changing the names of well-known landmarks that he had grown up with, including changing the name of Inniskeen to Dargan in Tarry Flynn.
He could not fit into the world around him, but, like the shipwrecked castaway Alexander Selkirk, he was king and ruler of his own world, which he had created himself.
Kavanagh’s spirit was all around and I was on a fantastic adventure through his world. I was directed up winding lanes and roads until I came to the place where the bicycles would go by in twos and threes.
Yes, indeed, I was going to Billy Brennan’s barn. Climbing over the gate I
made my way up to the old barn. I walked around the barn, with the sun shining brightly and the sound of birdsong all around. I tried to imagine what it would have been like to have gone to a dance there all those years ago. I was told stories of how when the floorboards sprung with the dancing, the hens would be bounced up and down on their roost. When all this was going on the local parish priest would be cursing the whole affair and pulling girls off their partners’ laps and separating dancers who were getting too close to each other by using his cane.
I could imagine the sounds, smells and music that permeated the old barn, with its whitewashed stone walls, red windows and doors, with a good-luck horseshoe hanging over the main door. And I could envision Kavanagh alone, like Alexander Selkirk, standing at the top of the side steps, having a solitary cigarette or waiting outside, trying to muster the courage to go in and leave his solitary kingdom behind.
Leaving behind the legendary barn, I was then taken to what looked like an old cement shed in a place called Mullagh, which is an abbreviation for ‘Mullahinsa’. Kavanagh mentions Mullahinsa in his poem ‘Stony Grey Soil’ and indeed this building was very stony and grey.
It was explained to me that in 1935, the government brought out the Dance Halls Act. This Act, made by the Oireachtas, enforced a licensing system and taxation on admission tickets. It also enforced a regulation on any dancing ‘which is open to the public and in which persons present are entitled to participate actively’ and applies broadly not just to pubs and clubs but to any ‘place’ defined as ‘a building (including part of a building), yard, garden or other enclosed place, whether roofed or not roofed and whether the enclosure and the roofing (if any) are permanent or temporary’. The Act was introduced because the dances were seen as illegal, unsafe and ungodly. They had been taking place in old barns and sheds around the country and could not be monitored in any shape or form.
Monaghan Folk Tales Page 2