A Christmas Childhood
by
Patrick Kavanagh
(Bealtaine Cottage in the snow…looking down the driveway in the week before Christmas, 2010.)
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.
(Bealtaine Cottage in the winter of 2010, just coming into the driveway.)
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.
My father played the melodeon
Outside at our gate;
There were stars in the morning east
And they danced to his music.
(A winter sky at Bealtaine Cottage in the frozen winter of 2010)
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.
(The Blackbird at Bealtaine Cottage.)
Outside in 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.
(Moon-rise before Midwinter at Bealtaine Cottage, 2010.)
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.
(Bealtaine Cottage in a snowstorm, Christmas 2010.)
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.
by Patrick Kavanagh
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Magical Mythical Map of Bealtaine Cottage and Gardens
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Oh my gosh I have muddled his name… Patrick Kavanagh…not Paul… so sorry… and in looking him up on the net I’ve found another Irish poet James Liddy who some how came up when I searched for Patrick. I am so grateful for all the new authors and poets and traditions I am discovering as a result of your blog. One of your bloggers mentioned Diana Beresford-Kroeger and what a treasure she is. Thank you so much.
I thought you may decide to look him up, so mentioned his full name. Yes indeed, Diana is wonderful!
This is such a heart warming verse. All the beautiful sights and sounds of Christmas experienced through a small child’s soul. Thank you for sharing this beautiful poetry. I am awestruck by the beautiful pics of Bealtaine Cottage the winter of 2012. Your whole land is like a Currier and Ives Christmas card in itself. What a delight to look out your window to such wonder and beauty. Thank you for sharing the poetry of Paul Kavanagh. I look forward to reading more of his works. I hope that I am posting this comment in the correct place. Still finding my way around the blog. This post is being made Oct 15 2015. Blessings to you always.
Patrick Kavanagh was a great poet and continues to be one of my all time favourites. Blessings X
As beautiful as this is, I will admit I am not ready for the cold and the snow yet!
…just a timely reminder to get the Sloe Gin made and ready! Blessings X
Reblogged this on Bealtaine Cottage and commented:
My father played the melodeon,
My mother milked the cows,
How beautiful the fallen snow and the words. My I always be able to see natures beauty and hear natures poetry with in this deep beauty.