Margaret Galvin

By annmarie.keaveney, 11 December, 2023
Samples of work
Margaret Galvin Our House Delirious

Artist Biography

I am a native of Cahir, Co. Tipperary. Although I live in Wexford, I 'm always delighted to return to Tipperary to facilitate writing projects. I have published six collections of poetry, most recently 'Our House, Delirious' published by Revival Press, Limerick. Recent awards (2022) include The Ballybunion Poetry Prize, the Michael Mullen Prize and placings in the Frances Browne competition and the Francis Ledwidge. My writing largely addresses the memory of 'the people, places and events' I experienced growing up in south Tipperary. In 2019 I collaborated with Cahir Historical society to bring out a collection called 'The Finer Points' that addressed many of the formative experiences I continue to draw from, thematically. 
In 2020 I edited and compiled a collection of poetry and prose by forty-eight contemporary Tipperary writers in a well received book, 'Around Each Bend'. I also compiled a collection, 'Bridging the Distance,' bringing together the work of four Tipperary writers of advancing years as part of a Bealtaine celebration. 

I hold a BA in Social Care and an MA in Child, Youth and Family Studies. I am particularly interested in combining creative writing with my academic background in applied Social Studies and frequently facilitate workshops for supported persons, in elder care, intellectual disability or with enduring mental illness. I have recently been appointed to the Artists' panel for the Healing Arts Trust in Waterford hospital. 


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.


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