Stephen Rea 💖 reads ‘A Christmas Childhood' by Patrick Kavanagh - slideshow

Stephen Rea 💝 reads
A Christmas Childhood by Patrick Kavanagh
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audio recording made for Christmas 2020 for Threshold, Ireland’s national housing charity - please consider donating to them this season www.Threshold.ie 🤲 to help homeless families in Ireland.
Edited to still images and video by little wee me ☺️
Video and images from Pexel royalty free images/videos and wikipedia etc.
first and last portrait pics are Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967) himself, legendary Irish poet who captivated the world with his depiction of rural Irish life and masterful wordmanship!
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A Christmas Childhood
by Patrick Kavanagh
I
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
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.
II
My father played the melodion
Outside at our gate;
There were stars in the morning east
And they danced to his music.
Across the wild bogs his melodion called
To Lennons and Callans.
As I pulled on my trousers in a hurry
I knew some strange thing had happened.
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.
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.
And old man passing said:
‘Can’t he make it talk -
The melodion.’ 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.
My father played the melodion,
My mother milked the cows,
And I had a prayer like a white rose pinned
On the Virgin Mary’s blouse.
further reading:
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