Our House, Delirious

By Margaret Galvin

In this collection of poetry and prose, Margaret Galvin’s writing sparkles with humour, honesty and compassion as she lifts the curtain on the past and gives centre stage to the relatives, neighbours and friends she observed as a child growing up in rural Tipperary. The good people of Galvin’s native place will stay with you long after you put down the book – ordinary people made extraordinary as they stoically endured the shortcomings of life, shouldered their sorrows with resilience and grace, and, in many instances, had their lives transformed by joy.. – A.M. Cousins

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limerick Writers Centre
• Release date: Jun 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215313107

Book preview

L.P. Hartley’s contention that: ‘The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there,’ certainly applies to Ireland. Overwhelming social change has radically altered the country I was born into in 1959 and now shapes the country I inhabit. I am endlessly interested in making sense of this reality by investigating the influence exerted by the past, a past that has cast a long shadow. Formative experiences, drawing water from the tap down the road, looking out for the postman, Jim Haide, who delivered the regular parcels from my aunts in London, continue to preoccupy me.

The familiar African proverb, ‘it takes a village to rear a child,’ transcends boundaries of time and geography. I am immeasurably grateful to the many people who reared me in Cahir, County Tipperary and filled my head and heart with their stories. They showed me, by the practical witness of their living, how to accommodate and at times, overcome, the tyranny of poverty, truncated opportunity and thwarted aspirations. We occupied a shared territory located somewhere between a terror of and a distain for the authority figures and hierarchies that left us in no doubt of our serfdom. An extraordinary resilience, a capacity for endurance and courage along with a kind of wild hilarity enabled us to endure much.

Education, then and now, was the road to liberty. I was deeply fortunate to benefit from Donagh O’ Malley’s Education Act (1967), making secondary education available to all. Fortunate too that memorable characters, like the road-man, Johnny Boyle, quoted Shakespeare and Scripture in our kitchen, that the men in Ned Ryan’s pub sang their wistful ballads and so inspired the child-me with the romance of their dreams! Laterally, I am indebted to the lecturers at the South East Technological University (SETU), where I studied for an MA in Child, Youth and Family Studies in 2014. They equipped me with a formal understanding of important sociological and psychological concepts, and thereby illuminated many moments of connective awareness that have informed my writing. Our House, Delirious is not a sentimental address to memory but a loving and respectful salute to those who shared that era with me and who have earned an enduring and defining place in my heart and in my writing.

– Margaret Galvin 2023

So much depends on that tattooed man...

Mr. Moon and the Tattooed Man

Mr. Moon discloses his loneliness in the letters’ page

of the Sunday newspaper, reveals that he sees no-one

for days on end, says he’d be lost entirely

without the tattooed man in the ice-cream van,

relied upon for company and advice.

So much depends on that tattooed man

who talks to Mr. Moon through the serving hatch,

while filling cones with soft white waves of ice cream,

a kind man among ice pops and frozen yoghurt who eases

his van into London traffic to the air of ‘Greensleeves.’

The Man who Won the Raffle

My Uncle Mick, too shy and mortified to claim the raffle prize,

saw the willow-pattern delft presented to another

at the parish hall concert.

The swelter of distress darkened the pale blue ticket in his palm

as the number was announced, again and again, with painful clarity.

People shuffled and looked around for the winner:

the timid man who couldn’t bear

to call out and wave the little paper strip of victory.

He’d sooner face a rat in the shed

than walk to the stage and collect the crockery,

the women in the kitchen serving the teas, talking about him,

ribbing him about inviting some nice girl over for a cuppa

now he had the equipment.

He imagined their jibing if he wobbled into the night,

the big awkward box of ware yoked to the carrier

of his bicycle, and he fearing he’d lose his balance.

In Heritage Hotels

Old men in starched collars and neat-knot ties sit at single tables,

fidget through quality newspapers.

Their high-shine brogues sink into the royal Dartmouth weave.

They shamble here each morning, refugees from the past,

in tweed waistcoats and paisley cravats,

to settle in silence between gilded mirrors and hunt scenes lit by lamps.

Leather bound volumes of Shakespeare and the Life of Petrarch gather dust

behind the mullioned glass of the bookcase.

Lunch is unsurprising: something sliced thin,

and served with impeccable good manners by quiet waiters

who gently offer nostalgic puddings:

Apple Amber, Baked Alaska, Charlotte Ruse.

The grandfather clock, solemn in its mahogany case,

chimes the afternoon hours to quiet oblivion,

until the old men brave the puzzle and chaos of the town,

baffle their way through the din and blare

to the modest supper the home-help has left for them,

something cold under cellophane.

The Boxer’s Send-off

The morning men shape up for the day

in ill-fitting funeral suits and shop-creased white shirts.

They suck close-shaven cheeks around early cigarettes,

nod to neighbours who shuffle

to the terrace where the hearse waits

at the top of the road.

The old boxers square up for the Guard of Honour,

stretch club colours over slack shoulders,

help discreetly to free a jammed zip.

They were the lads who threw the punches,

landed the haymakers and uppercuts,

learned how to parry and block.

They’ll flank this old comrade’s hearse

down familiar streets,

all his moves used up.

Memory is twisty as his footwork:

stories of his bobbing and weaving

liven up their commentary.

Mag from the flower shop delivers

wreaths to the church.

The sacristan readies a table for the offerings,

the vests and shorts and target mitts

brought up by the grandchildren,

lads who show great promise in the ring.

You and Bonny Mary

(for J.Q.)

According to the Vocations Director,

you were, at thirteen, ‘healthy as a trout, sound as a bell,’

a cheery summary to describe an ideal postulant

for the Christian Brothers. Chummy tones hoped

that your parents were ‘in the pink’ and ‘proud as punch.’

The booklet, enclosed, instructed you in rehearsed replies

to silence your mother or any other objector

who might question