Prof Peter Kavanagh, I see, has written another book about his brother the poet. It is called simply Patrick Kavanagh - A Life Chronicle. I have not yet had the opportunity to read it (mainly because the professor is charging £60 a throw for his 440page opus), but I doubt if it chronicles a few encounters I had with the said Patrick.
I met him first in London, where he had come to be presented with a literary award sponsored by Guinness at a grand function in the Mansion House in the early 1960s. We met, either by accident or arrangement, in the company of the late Donal Foley, who was then working in the London office of the Irish Press. The poet asked to be taken to El Vinos, a drinking establishment at the top of Fleet Street, to quench the thirst of a tiresome journey.
Brendan Behan
He had probably heard the story of El Vinos and his irascible rival, Brendan Behan. El Vinos, which in those days did not admit women, insisted on collars and ties being worn. One day Behan arrived, with shirt, chest and navel open to the world, and was refused drink. He went outside, bought a tie and re-entered the bar, this time minus his trousers. The barman could see only what was above the bar and, adjudging the playwright to being in conformity with the rules of the house, served him a drink.
Kavanagh was correctly attired but, alas, El Vinos was closed for the afternoon, along with the other licensed premises in the Street, and nourishment had to be sought elsewhere.
The Black and White Cafe, close by the News of the World, where the solitary teaspoon was chained to the serving counter to prevent theft, was considered too mundane for our distinguished visitor and we proceeded to the more genteel Lyons' Corner House at Ludgate Circus. Tea and buns were ordered and the poet sighed contentedly as he waited for service, his raincoat belted firmly around him and his hat upon his head. The refreshments arrived and Kavanagh seized his bun with both fists and rapidly conveyed it to his mouth. The waitress quickly arrived back to our table. "The lady in the corner is complaining about you wearing a hat while you're dining," she said to Kavanagh. The poet did not bother to raise his eyes from the table to survey the complainant. "Tell her I'm a Jew, tell her I'm a Jew," he instructed the waitress and continued to demolish the bun.
No grants
Back in Dublin, I, like many others, always tried to avoid Kavanagh's company. He was invariably querulous, cantankerous and on the scrounge, even when he had a bit of money - which was not often. Kavanagh's misfortune was that he was writing in the days when there were no grants from arts councils or academic foundations, no well-paid celebrity appearances on radio and television, no lecture tours, scant sponsorship. The second World War and the long, dreary years of its aftermath blighted his genius and obscured his fame. Ireland's greatest poet since Yeats lived in poverty.
In a foreword in 1964 to his Collected Poems (dedicated, incidentally, to his brother Peter), Kavanagh wrote: "Looking back, I see the big tragedy for the poet is poverty. I had no money and no profession except that of a small farmer. . .On many occasions I literally starved in Dublin. I often borrowed a `shilling for the gas' when in fact I wanted the coin to buy a chop."
In the old Bailey pub in Duke Street one day I was having a lunchtime pint and a sandwich with a friend when Kavanagh shuffled in. Instinctively we raised our newspapers to our heads. He noticed and grunted and sat down a few feet away. Two young Americans, man and girl, came into the Bailey. "Does the poet Kavanagh come here?" they inquired of the barman. He directed them towards the desolate and drinkless poet. The delighted couple introduced themselves. They had recently got married, they were on their honeymoon in Ireland, they were students at such-and-such university and both were majoring in Irish literature with particular emphasis on Kavanagh's epic,
The Great Hunger. "Sit down," said Kavanagh, sensing the buying of drink. For about five minutes they questioned him relentlessly and intelligently about the meaning of this and the significance of that.
Diminishing tolerance
All the while Kavanagh's tolerance was diminishing as there were no signs of food or drink being ordered. The young man was quoting from The Great Hunger: "In the middle of July - His face in a mist And two stones in his fist And an impotent worm on his thigh." Was this, he wondered, a representation of passion or frustration. The poet, having got nothing, now had enough. "Have you ever," he roared, "stuck your p--- into a pig's ----?" The indelicacy of the retort silenced the bar. The man from the stony grey soil of Monaghan loudly cleared his gravelly throat and stalked off in search of a more accommodating audience.