Ghosts of Christmas Past

This evening I put up my little tree and switched on the fairy lights: I wrapped the presents and set them round about. And then I sat alone and thought about how Christmas will be this year. Generally, on Christmas Day we are all split up around in-laws and out-laws and this year will be no different. But always, on St Stephen’s Day (Boxing Day) everyone comes here for blue cheese and ham and oatcakes, and mince pies with Bailey’s or cream. They bring their presents and we have an orgy of present opening with the grandchildren handing them out. I don’t know how it will work this year but it will surely be different. I was a bit sad until I shook myself and poured a glass of good red wine. What have I to complain about? I have shelter, warmth, and food. My family are all healthy and secure.

What about the poor souls shivering on the Halfpenny Bridge (in Dublin) with their plastic cups held out for change – which no one has these days when shops prefer card payments. How do they feel, watching crowds passing up and down, laden with bags of food and drink and Christmas goodies? They look so cold and ill. Druggies, people say, dismissing them. I don’t care if they are drug addicts or alcoholics; I do not blame them or look down on them. Why should I? How could I? Addiction is a terrible scourge, and no one would choose to live like that; they just end up that way.

Our government has just awarded some of its politicians a raise; one of them said they were legally obliged to do so.

From the collected poems by Patrick Kavanagh – on God and the Devil

I met God the Father in the street

And the adjectives by which I would describe him are these:



Irresponsible –

About frivolous things.

He was not a man who would be appointed to a Board

Nor impress a bishop

Or gathering of art lovers.

He was not splendid, fearsome or terrible

And yet not insignificant.

This was my God who made the grass

And the sun,

And stones in streams in April;

This was the God I met in Dublin

As I wandered the unconscious streets.

This was the God who brooded over the harrowed field –

Rooneys – beside the main Carrick road

The day my first verses were printed –

I knew him and was never afraid

Of death or damnation;

And I knew that the fear of God was the beginning of folly.

I’ll post The Devil tomorrow. I hope you enjoy this and find it interesting. Patrick Kavanagh (1905 -67) was, and still is, one of Irelands most loved poets. A native of Co Monaghan in Ulster, he spent most of his adult life in Dublin, where he was recognised and saluted on the streets.