Paul Muldoon: My proudest achievement is that my children are still talking to me

The poet and playwright Paul Muldoon (Ireland/USA), New York, New York, March 2, 2020. Photograph © Beowulf Sheehan

I grew up in a new house my parents had built in a place called Keenaghan in North Armagh. My mother taught in St Peter’s School in Collegeland. My father was sometimes a day labourer, sometimes a market gardener, sometimes a mushroom grower. My parents had a huge impact on me. My mother was determined myself and my brother and sister improve ourselves. 

I was sent to elocution lessons and piano lessons. We weren’t allowed comics for the most part but intellectually stimulating magazines like Look and Learn and Finding Out. It meant I amassed a huge amount of information that was useless until it was suddenly useful. 

My father was a perfectionist, as it happens. Whether he was planting a row of cauliflowers in a drill or feeding pigs he did it as if it was the last thing he’d ever do. I feel the same about every poem I write.

My very earliest memory is of living in Eglish, County Tyrone, where my father kept a small shop. The first thing I remember is being stepped on by a horse. He caught my heel with his hoof. No great damage done. What else? The pig killer, Mr Blemings, coming to kill a pig or two. That was a momentous day. I think it was the first time I became aware that the world included darkness and danger as well as sweetness and light. Speaking of light, I’m pretty sure that house had no electricity. We used Tilley lamps. The heat came from a cast-iron range.

My proudest achievement is that my children are still talking to me. They’re now 30 and 23. More than that, we have a hilarious time together. For example, we went out en famille to see Ruth Negga in Macbeth. My daughter is an interior designer and a singer-songwriter who goes by the name Daemes. My son is still a student, mostly because he took a couple of years off to go on the US national tour of the musical Dear Evan Hansen. In other words, he’s a guy who can sing a Broadway show. He’s also written a musical based on Patrick McCabe’s The Butcher Boy. It opens shortly at the Irish Repertory Theatre in New York.

My greatest quality, now that I’m forced to think of it, is that I can amuse myself. Though I go to lots of films, plays, and concerts, I don’t actually need to leave my own head to come up with stories that will amuse me. Every day is an adventure. I’m really happy that my children also have that capacity to make their own entertainment. It’ll stand them in good stead, I hope, in the difficult times they’re facing.

I have a number of friends I turn to. The person I’m closest to is my wife, Jean Hanff Korelitz. Sorry to be so boring about that. She’s a novelist, of course, and it’s been great to see her achieve some serious success. But she’s also an incredibly kind and caring person. There’s not a bad bone in her, as they say. She is totally without guile. We’re coming up to our 35th wedding anniversary and our relationship is better than ever. We read each other’s work and offer advice and criticism. In fact, she’s not in the least bit shy about telling me when something isn’t working. 

Do I think I was born to be the person I am? One of the intriguing aspects about being in the world is that we didn’t choose to be here. We didn’t volunteer. We didn’t step forward. We were pressed into service. Each of us may even have drawn the short straw. I’ve always been sceptical about the extent to which we choose anything much. 

We’re so greatly influenced by the society in which we find ourselves. Our circumstances play a huge role. I think of the number of homeless people on the streets of New York and Dublin. I’d say very few of them chose to be on the streets. To choose to be on the streets rather than endure the dangers of a shelter isn’t much of a choice. I think of being able to change as largely a luxury. Should I go keto? Bundoran or Benidorm? Vis-a-vis my own life, I’ve been incredibly fortunate. I do my best not to complain. I’ve been blessed in my poetry 'career' and, again, never feel I deserve more than I’ve got.

If I had to change something from my past, I think I’d have spent more time with my father and mother. When I left home to go to university, I barely looked back. I probably should have been a more attentive child. I was quite thoughtless, I’d say, imagining that grown-ups are indeed grown up and don’t suffer from self-doubt and loneliness. The other thing I might have done differently was to have been a more attentive student of the piano. It would be great to be able to properly play an instrument. Rogue Oliphant, the band for which I write songs, has absolutely no time for my poor musicianship and won’t let me play with them. Maybe that’s actually my greatest regret.

How would I like to be remembered? I’m very conscious of the likelihood I won’t be remembered at all. That’s the fate of most writers, including many famous ones. Also, I’m pretty sure people will have much more pressing issues. So, I’m quite at peace with that.

• After a successful Irish tour in 2017 and again in 2019, Muldoon’s Picnic returns for four dates nationwide 10-14 August 2022. For further information visit www.poetryireland.ie