It's hard to believe that Paddy Kavanagh, the wayward Monaghan poet, died 30 years ago this month. He used to be such a familiar figure striding around Dublin, dropping into bookmakers' shops and pubs between Pembroke Street and Grafton Street, always with an intense look on his face, deeply preoccupied. Was he busy creating a new line for a poem or was he wondering what was going to win the 2.30 at Gowran Park? He might be in good form and cheerfully talk to you, or he could be in one of his gruff moods and round on you with a tirade of highly articulate insults. He was, after all, a poet and had a licence to be eccentric.
He had a great love-hate relationship with Dublin. He knew as a young man that he had to get out of Co Monaghan if he was to succeed with his poetry. He was urged by AE (George Russell) to leave home in Inniskeen and go to the capital. But when he got to Dublin he found the place quite hostile and the literati looked down on him and quickly labelled him "the Monaghan bogman". In fact, Dublin itself was quite parochial 40 or 50 years ago. It was really only a big village and "bogmen" and "culchies", whether they were poets or just ordinary workers from the provinces, were not made too welcome.
Paranoid Dubliners
Dubliners felt paranoid. Many of them were scraping around trying to survive and they felt threatened by the culchie refugees pouring into the capital. They were particularly terrified of the bright Cork and Kerry people, whom they disliked for getting too large a share of the scarce jobs in the civil service, in the Garda and in teaching. Dubs believed the culchies who were "running the country" from various government Departments.
Being a poet in a thriving economy can be difficult enough. Trying to survive in the post-war recession was a real endurance test for Kavanagh. Having "poet" on his cv wasn't going to open many doors. He ran into an immediate blast of Dublin vitriol. Brendan Behan was a deadly enemy. Many others in the literary and journalist circles who used to meet in the Palace Bar didn't like him. He wasn't exactly a hail-fellow-well-met type. He could be his own worst enemy by being blunt and unpleasant at times. Many malicious rumours were spread about him. He retreated back up Grafton Street to McDaid's and The Bailey where he would accept a drink from anyone prepared to pay for it. I used to watch him from a distance, fascinated. He was one of the city's best-known characters.
He lived to regret coming to Dublin. He wrote: "I came to Dublin in 1939. It was the worst mistake of my life. The Hitler war had started and I had my comfortable little holding of watery hills beside the Border. What was to bate it for a life?"
Archbishop McQuaid
He was often overcome with self-pity. His brother Peter, a teacher, was very good to him and often saved him when he was low. He was also quite friendly with the Archbishop of Dublin, Dr John Charles McQuaid, and when he was desperate he used to go up to the palace in Drumcondra and look for a hand-out. There is a story told about the archbishop, who was a big fan of Paddy's work, arriving at the poet's front door one Christmas Eve. He knocked, but Paddy was always slow to open his door (it could be someone pressing him to pay a bill). He had an old car mirror erected on the wall outside his flat so he could see who was outside. When he saw Dr McQuaid he got a shock. His flat was, as always, in a veritable "state of chassis". Papers and empty bottles littered the floor; the place reeked of stale beer. He rushed around and collected all the empties and papers and flung them into the bath and then welcomed the prince of the Church into his humble abode. It was Just as well he opened the door. Dr McQuaid presented him with a huge hamper, which included a generous amount of booze. That was a happy Christmas, to be sure.
Kavanagh's reputation remains high, but he has had one major disadvantage: his work has had to live in the long, distinguished shadows cast by our Nobel Prize-winning poets, William Butler Yeats and Seamus Heaney.
He is commemorated through an excellent Kavanagh archive in UCD. This consists mostly of a huge range of items collected by his brother Peter, ranging from juvenilia and school books to galley proofs, sketches of autography, unfinished novels, contracts, leases, jottings, and vast numbers of letters.
A formidable scholarly work on the poet - Patrick Kavanagh: Born-again Romantic, written by Antoinette Quinn - was published in 1991 and this year his play Tarry Flynn was staged in The Abbey Theatre.
Kavanagh trail
The people of Inniskeen, Co Monaghan, have done great work to commemorate him: they have established the Kavanagh Trail, signposting his birthplace, his grave and areas mentioned in his books. It is well worth a visit. There is also the fine Kavanagh Centre at St Mary's Church, which contains a lot of memorabilia and information about him.
Another fine Irish poet, Brendan Kennelly, wrote on the 20th anniversary of Kavanagh's death: "Patrick Kavanagh's poetry is being read by an increasing number of people. His reputation has grown steadily over the years and it is clear he has a special place in the affections of many, particularly the young. This would have pleased him greatly because he held that `a man is immortal when his ideas are exciting to the young.' "
Yes, Paddy would most certainly be pleased, but he would have preferred to have seen more of that kind of appreciation when he was walking this planet. Like all writers and poets he wanted to see tangible results of all the sweat and blood he put into his work. Posthumous fame never pays the bills. He lived in poorer times, when it was difficult to find markets for his work, payment was meagre, and slow, and the Celtic Tiger was only a glint in the eye of Sean Lemass.