It has taken me a while to write this, to publish this and accept that I won’t see Pat Ingoldsby anymore.
I knew it was going to come to this. I didn’t want it to be now, but there has been times in recent years when I knew I would be paying tribute to Pat Ingoldsby. It’s not that I didn’t celebrate him in life, encouraging all to read his work and promoting his work.
We first met on Dublins Westmorland street. Pat was displaying his books and even selling some. I had bought stuff from him on the street in the past and braved the conditions one day to show him my football fanzine. I knew he was a bohs fan, I was writing about Bray Wanderers but there was no rivalry with Pat. He was so supportive. He wanted to talk football, talk writing or just chat about anything. I brought out a book (document: a story of hope) and gave it to Pat. It spoke of our diy gigs- a story of each gig. Pat was amazingly supportive. His mind was a sponge for information. He had such a beautiful descriptive way of talking.
We became friendly, like many other Dublin citizens I minded his “stall” at times so he could freshen up. Sometimes I brought him coffee, we would chat. He had stopped being a regular at Dalymount at this stage and we went once more. We spoke of the Irish national team and coverage of football on tv. He always brought it back to things I had done rather than his work.
He came out to my house one evening. I collected him as he wasn’t too mobile. It was near my daughter’s birthday, I don’t recollect the year but she was still young. His present, a large boat shaped sand pit. Hours and hours of fun were had in that pit which at times doubled as a swimming pool.
He came to see me playing football and would talk of my brother with his trousers stuffed down his socks acting as a linesman parading up and down the sideline throwing his flag on to the ground, or of my club not claiming the golden gloves for me that I’d won. He wanted to right that wrong. I would be walking down the street and he’d exclaim “Keeper” as if I was in the heat of action and he was about to catch a ball.
I have little time for regret but the one pang I feel that is when I told Pat I could probably set something up to sell his books online. I didn’t have the time or skills at that stage. I let him down but he didn’t say anything. He was not like that.
He was forced to move to many different spaces in the city, getting moved as a nuisance. The police were mainly sympathetic and said they were acting on orders. North Earl st became Westmoreland st, became Talbot st, then Centeal Bank for a while and even a short stint on O’Connell bridge. He loved his time in Howth, by the sea. My parents would stop and chat to him, as he greeted them as if they were old friends. This wasn’t about book sales. It was about living and communicating. Being free to do whatever he wanted.
I love Pat Ingoldsby, and will forever cherish all his books that are proudly in my collection.
niallhope
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When my partner, baby daughter, and I stayed with Niall and Miriam (and family) in 2006, we wandered around Dublin a bit as we travelled through the North and Republic of Ireland. During our time in Dublin, Niall and Miriam told us about Pat Ingoldsby as a character we should try to meet. We hoped to meet him, but it wasn’t our luck. Maybe the cops hassled him that day and pushed him along from his street stall to clean up the city for the tourists, who in this instance were ironically looking for him. We were sad not to meet him, but I felt as if I did from his books. On my last night in Ireland, I laid around in the loft reading his poetry, and later found some of his books online when we got back to the states. A few years later, Naill was kind enough to send me another one once. Both books were hefty tomes, to say the least, and just a sample of his work.
Pat’s poetry was fun, often a slice of life, and frequently very poignant. Of the hundreds of poems in the two books, there were 2 poems in particular that stood out to me that I think of frequently. One was about a man Pat met on the steets who cried over all the Irish immigrants who were killed in the Battle of Gettysburg (a battle that my great, great grandfather fought in). The other was about a mother chicken explaining to her baby why the baby chick was born: “sandwiches.” The first poem touched me, as I imagined an old poet comforting an old man crying in street over history. It’s beautiful, really. The other moved me so much that I thought about it every time I considered eating an animal, and it helped keep me vegetarian to this day. Whenever I hear about someone becoming a vegetarian, I find that poem and read it to them to steel their resolve. That’s a poem of which I can honestly say changed my life, maybe more than any other, in a very tangible way.
I wish I actually met Pat, but I always felt like I knew him. I remember Miriam describing him as very punk rock, like how people describe Johnny Cash as punk. The story of him selling his books on the streets of Dublin inspired me to do the same in the states, and I often think of him when I set up a street table to sell zines and books, but especially poetry.
Thank you for the poetry, Pat. I’ll read some today on the streets in your honor. Rest in Peace.
Lovely tribute Scott xx
Great stuff Niall. I have a few of his books and some great memories of him compering the Kissing Competition in UCD in 1985 or so. One of the philosophy tutors who was also a bearded biker ran down the tables in Theatre L and kissed
Pat passionately after knocking him over and sending him flying…
Niall, your post flooded my day with memories. First met Pat in RTE, early 90’s then about town. He lived a freedom that made my life feel like a fortress.
Like a character in a Wim Venders movie, Glittering on pure intuition and one of those rare souls capable of New Testament. Just am graceful for the experience “now at this moment”, .
It’s wonderful reading so many accounts of peoples relationships with Pat, over the past number of weeks. There is a thread of kindness and the generosity of himself throughout, in the special things he did and said and yet each story is unique. How lucky we are to have known him.