A dream of myth
When Fionn looks from under thick eyebrows at
She is a hind.
His eyes course her without let-up
(until her blood seethes) until evening.
Then Fionn calls off the hunt
crooked smile on exhausted lips.
How long will this torment last? Forever?
She would prefer by far
To embrace death lying on the dew
With a hero who would pay her fierce homage
Than to live like this, torn among the living.
(Rockwell is a boarding school)
When the game was over
He sat down beside me
From his brown skin
From his forehead.
Fresh green grass
In the swelter of the day.
“It’s a pity you don’t play cricket,”
But I was listening to his breathing.
At the time
I was going to bring him,
Hand firmly in hand,
To the wood.
But this was not approved
As a matter of course
Your sad face like a portrait done
In a small, untidy room in a Spanish court.
Velasquez, El Greco, Goya? Who found you first
Or are you really our contemporary – or do you
Let slip the camouflage of your grief. Let your eyes
Focus on something besides the clay.
Where were those sighs conceived? In the pit of
your life? In yourself?
Or do you not hear words in the wasteland womb
of your silence?
Is there anything on earth that might waken you?
A blackbird, maybe, or a bird from Africa (a
chatterbox, with yellow plumage).
Pipes from the glens of Scotland, a fife from Ulster
Or me whispering this little poem in your ear?
One’s Wind is Up!
Windharp, Poems of Ireland since 1916
Ed Niall MacMonagle
Reviewed by Gabriel Rosenstock
“A man who
has a language
the world expressed and implied by that language.”
The cover flap refers to Niall MacMonagle as “Ireland’s most trusted
commentator on poetry.’ Does Penguin Ireland really know Ireland well
enough to make such a claim? Does Niall MacMonagle know himself
Having ‘1916’ in the title is an obvious marketing ploy, cashing
in on the centenary. It would be forgivable if the editor and publisher
had a positive attitude to the commemoration. What we have here is
quite the opposite, adding extra quicklime to the 1916 martyrs and
their vision of Ireland in coming times.
Firstly, two of the poet-martyrs of 1916 are missing from the
roll call, Thomas MacDonagh and Joseph Mary Plunkett. What fault
exactly did our most trusted commentator find with Plunkett’s iconic I
See His Blood Upon The Rose? Is it, perhaps, too Catholic for this postCatholic
nation of our times, too mystic for our materialist ways, too
visionary for our cynical era? Plunkett was influenced by John of the
Cross, Catherine of Siena, Francis Thompson, among others and I See
His Blood Upon the Rose is a spiritual classic. Steeleye Span recorded
a beautiful version of it and you can find it on YouTube. Judge for
yourself. It must have been excluded on the grounds that it has a
vision. After all, our Irish word for poet, file, means a ‘seer’ and one of
our words for poetry, éigse is related to feiscint, which is ‘seeing’. But
this is an anthology without vision. It leads us with tunnel vision down
a blind alley.
What the 1916 poets envisioned – a spiritual, cultural, linguistic and
economic revival, an equal cherishing of all citizens – is not a vision
which this anthologist has warmed to; au contraire, he has hijacked
1916 for his own purposes; his choice of poems, for the most part, is
a despondent litany that would suggest we live in a failed state, and
(by implication) were much better off under the Redcoats. Penguin
Ireland is skating on thin ice with this volume, it seems to me.
I read through the book and then read it from end to beginning and
found, for example a poem (in English) by Doireann Ní Ghríofa on the
tragedy of Savita Halappanaver (p.288); the plague that is emigration
emerges in Neutral Ireland by Gerard Smyth (p.291); there are no
positive-sounding poems out there about our neutrality, it seems, or
on some of the more positive aspects of emigration?; Gerald Dawe (p.
287) chimes in with a poem about the blight of our ghost-estates and
William Wall is exercised by that theme as well (p. 248); Stanhope
Street Magdalene Laundry is the subject of Jessica Traynor’s poem (p.
283); and so on, a litany of disgrace.
We have a sinister pattern here, it seems to me; Caitríona
O’Reilly (p. 190) has moving statues and a statue that wouldn’t lift a
finger to help a dying girl giving birth; “queer bashing” features in a
poem by Pearse Hutchinson and a link to Ann Lovett is in the same
poem ( p.157).
I knew Pearse Hutchinson (1927 -2012) quite well, and was aware
of the profound respect he had for the men and women of 1916, and
their dream of a de-anglicised bilingual Ireland. He was christened
William Patrick Pearse and was, in fact, the last pupil enrolled in Scoil
Éanna, founded by the poet-patriot whose name he was given. In
Poetry Ireland Review, he told Liam Ó Muirthile: ‘I was able to express
myself more directly in Irish, because it was and is both an ancient and
a virgin language. It hasn’t been subjected, especially in the last
century, to the awful stiff upper lip of English.’
No danger of finding such quotes in this anthology! I’m sure
Hutchinson would strongly disapprove of the editor’s intentions and his
selection that is more Hieronymous Bosch, let us say, than Charles
Lamb, Paul Henry, Sean Keating or Jack B. Yeats, if one can express it
in such roundabout terms; unbaptised children rear their heads from
their pathetic graves in Mary O’ Malley’s poem (p. 146); Ann Lovett
again, in case we might have forgotten, in Paula Meehan’s The Statue
of the Virgin at Granard Speaks (p. 135).
This anthology fits in with what the media have been doing in
recent years: giving ourselves a terrible bashing over the head. We
deserve it, you say. Bashing ourselves over the head until we become
senseless – with a windharp, of all things? I can see why one might
want to do that but hardly as a central theme for a mainstream
anthology of post-1916 poetry. We’ve more to offer than a litany of
woes, surely? Why should our poets outdo Frank McCourt? It’s not that
all poets assembled here are obsessed with the failures of our state;
but what this anthologist has chosen from their work cannot but leave
a taste of bile in the mouth of the reader.
“The oppressed will
always believe the worst
The poems selected by Ireland’s most trusted commentator do not stop
there. Not only is this a failed state, and all of us failed citizens of a
failed state, even the bloody cows are dysfunctional.
On all sides of the open fields lies terror
(BSE, p. 180, David Wheatley.)
The ‘silk of the kine’ is now a mad terrorist, it seems. Theo
Dorgan has said a lot of positive-sounding things, as poet and arts
activist, but Niall MacMonagle doesn’t want to hear any of that, so he
digs up this quote for our edification:
‘If you drew a graph from Wolfe Tone, through O’Connell and
Parnell and Pearse and Connolly, down to the present, that
graph is a steep descent.’
Given the disproportionate level of negativity that runs through this
anthology, what is very strange indeed is to find it described as
‘glorious’ by The Examiner. Am I missing something? ‘Inglorious’
springs to mind? A typo perhaps?
Let’s turn to Brendan Kennelly (p.132) and his poem on one Eily
… Whose entire school day
Was a bag of crisps,
Whose parents had no work to do,
Who went, once, into the countryside,
Saw a horse with a feeding bag over its head
And thought it was sniffing glue.
It’s unremitting. Is there no saving grace at all? What next? A plague
of locusts? Or zombies? The People I Grew Up With Were Afraid (p.
130) says Michael Gorman:
The people I grew up with were afraid.
They were alone too long in waiting-rooms,
In dispensaries, and in offices whose functions
They did not understand . . .
You get the picture. Grim, to say the least. Grimm, even. Do you
believe it, does the scenario resonate with you? According to Fanon, it
must. That’s how the post-colonial, or neo-colonial, mind works. We
will always believe the worst about ourselves. We are spiritually and
psychologically programmed not to have a vision, or hope. It’s in our
genes, pace The Broken Harp by Tomás Mac Síomóin, the perfect
companion volume for this Windharp!
Plunkett was a visionary. So was MacDonagh. Two Signatories of
the 1916 Proclamation, both absent. Maybe MacDonagh didn’t fit
MacMonagle’s thesis (whatever that might be); MacDonagh, civilised
citizen of Europe, lecturer and litterateur who taught Irish to Plunkett,
as it happens. That sophisticated image doesn’t fit in with our
anthologist’s thesis which at times seems to suggest that the poetmartyrs
were terrorists; or if not terrorists themselves then prototerrorists,
their lives and writings giving succour and sustenance to the
terrorists who bomb and shoot and maim in the holy name of
No, let’s keep MacDonagh out of this anthology. We might get
fond of him or, God forbid, admire him or come to respect him and the
rest of the Signatories.
MacMonagle wasn’t around in 1916. James Stephens was and
said of the leaders: “They were good men – men, that is, who willed
no evil.” Here’s a poem by MacDonagh that I translated recently into
Irish. It’s quite modern for its time and is set in Paris. There are poems
of far less interest and scope in this anthology.
Sé seo m’fhásach-sa is táim anseo liom féin
Ina lár is níl aithne ag éinne orm.
I mo thost mar a bheadh seabhac i gcéin
Sa spéir ghorm.
Ní labhraím le héinne ó mhaidin go hoíche
Mo ghnó féin á chur i gcrích,
An slua callánach thart orm ina mílte
Gan sos gan scíth.
Buaileann clog mór an tSorbonne
Mar a bhuail anseo fadó
Siar in aimsir Villon
A scoir láithreach dá ghnó.
San áit seo is sneachta ag titim ón spéir
Leis féin ina sheomra cúng –
Ceithre chéad caoga bliain ó shin
Le Grand Testament do chum.
So then, let’s see. Instead of MacDonagh and Plunkett, who do we get
in this Windharp: Poems of Ireland Since 1916? Lord Dunsany. He is
introduced by this fanfare:
‘Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, Baron of Dunsany, London
born, inherited the family title and estate near Tara, in County
Meath. He was an officer in the Coldstream Guards during the Boer
War, and in the Royal Iniskilling Fusiliers during the First World War.
While on leave in Dublin in April 1916, he was shot in the face when
he drove into Dublin to support the British forces in suppressing the
How shockingly obsequious! It’s like a death notice from the Daily
Telegraph reprinted in the Sindo. The cat is now well and truly out of
the bag. This anthology does not celebrate Ireland, certainly not as the
1916 leaders saw her; it celebrates the master-race we thought we had
kindly asked to leave, those terribly annoying wasps – White AngloSaxon
Protestants – described by John Bassett McCleary as “the most
aggressive, powerful, and arrogant society in the world . . .” And they
haven’t gone away you know!
Is there an alternative to this waspishness? Of course there is. John
Moriarty in Invoking Ireland saw it as the living legacy of the Tuatha
Dé Danann, a legacy that is scorned by WASPs or dismissed as mere
“The Tuatha Dé Danann were a highly enlightened people
who spent their time acquiring visionary insights and foresights
and hindsights, acquiring the occult knowledge and the occult
art of the wizard, the druid, the witch, these, together with all
the magical arts, until, masters in everything concerning them,
they had no equals in the world” (Invoking Ireland, p.
Yeats would have relished that quote, as would AE, James H.
Cousins and others who were fortunate enough to savor of the wisdom
of the East; they would have loved the company of the likes of Moriarty
whose mind was larger than the British Empire.
Meanwhile, we shouldn’t get bogged down in such things as Lord
Dunsany’s biographical details. It’s poetry that matters here, the poetry
of Ireland since 1916. What has our trusted commentator chosen?
What kind of Ireland is invoked? A poem in praise of the British Army,
no less! Am I joking? It’s called To the Fallen Irish Soldiers and here’s
how Dunsany’s obscene rant ends:
Sleep on, forgot a few more years, and then
The ages, that I prophesy, shall see
Due honours paid to you by juster men,
You standing foremost in our history,
Your story filling all our land with wonder,
Your names, and regiments’ names, like distant thunder.
Shall our booksellers take it down from the shelves? No, they will put
it on the window, for all to see. This is how we will celebrate 2016.
Glorious, isn’t it?
behind germs of rot
which we must clinically
detect and remove not
only from our land
but from our minds as well.”
On RTÉ’s website, one Paddy Kehoe gives this anthology 5 stars:
“This welcome new anthology, “ says the bould Paddy, “ whose
subtitle is Poems of Ireland since 1916 is perhaps doing its
most useful thing when it turns up neglected gems, such as
Katharine Tynan’s The Long Vacation, which was first published
in 1916. This moving poem mourns the young Irishmen who
were dying in the trenches of the First World War at the time.
The poet depicts the youths as the boys they recently were,
coming home from school to fill houses with gaiety and
exuberance. Now their mothers ‘stand in the doorway listening
long’ and ask: Where do they tarry, the dear, the light-heart
Allow me put my cards on the table. I’m an Utopian Anarchist. I
have no interest in the nation-state, in flags, borders or national
anthems. Every Anarchist is anti-imperialist and pledged to peace but
after reading this book I’m sorely tempted to take over the GPO again
and this time make sure that in a hundred years from now we will not
have publishers, anthologists and reviewers who bend over backwards
in their praises of the British army, or any other army for that matter.
I would hope that most English people in their right minds, unfazed by
poppies, would agree with me on this.
Let’s not forget that there were many decent English people who
were genuinely exercised by the Irish question and who even stoutly
approved of the 1916 Rising, decent folk such as the composer Arnold
Bax who also wrote under the name Dermot O’Byrne. He saw with his
own two eyes those English gentlemen who were sent to quell the
Easter Rising. His poetry was banned by the British censor – and
MacMonagle follows suit. You won’t find the Dermot O’Byrnes of this
world besmirching his precious anthology:
They mixed lewd talk of girls with beer;
One tattooed monster with a leer
Began to sentimentalize
About some Kathleen’s arms and eyes …
We sometimes forget that P. H. Pearse himself was half-English. AE
said of him: ‘Pearse himself, for all his Gaelic culture, was sired by one
of the race he fought against. He might stand in that respect as a
symbol of the new race which is springing up. (Irish Times, 19
Let us remember that Plunkett, MacDonagh, Pearse, Connolly and
all that delirium of the brave were not inspired by some rabid form of
anti-Englishness, as Declan Kiberd explains: ‘What they rejected was
not England but the British imperial system, which denied expressive
freedom to its colonial subjects.’
(Modern Irish Writers and the Wars, Colin Smythe, 1999)
The anthology gets a 2-star review on Amazon from American poet
Thomas Rain Crowe, himself a distinguished anthologist of poetry from
the Celtic realms. Crowe is outraged:
This anthology is terribly lacking in one essential way: it
doesn’t include a respectful and representative number
of Irish language poets—which is key to any anthology
of Irish poetry during any generation or era. And since
this covers a centenary of Irish verse, it’s
appalling that Ireland’s important Irish language poets
are missing. Poets such as L S Gógan, Seán Ó Ríordáin,
Máire Mhac an tSaoi, Máirtín Ó Direáin, Michael Davitt,
Biddy Jenkinson, Cathal Ó Searcaigh, Tomás Mac
Síomóin, Greagóir Ó Dúill, Philip Cummings, Derry
O’Sullivan, Seán Hutton, Seán Ó Leocháin, Caitríona Ní
Chleirchín, Gabriel Rosenstock, Gearóid Mac
Lochlainn, Colm Breathnach, Liam Ó
Muirthile, Eoghan Ó Tuairisc, Caitlín Maude… all
missing! Don’t know what the editor was thinking
(or not thinking would be a better description). A
shame to waste the money and the paper on this
anthology which could have been so much
better, so much more…
Crowe has listed some Irish-language poets known to him (and to the
educated reading public at home and abroad) but his list could be
trebled quite easily. Instead of the likes of Seán O Ríordáin and
Cathal Ó Searcaigh, our most trusted commentator gives us John
Fitzgerald, Tara Bergin, Lucy Brennan, Susan Connolly etc. who may
well deserve the dubious honour of being included here but what
possible excuse is there to exclude Ó Direáin, Ó Searcaigh and
What would Pearse, Plunkett and MacDonagh make of this
anthology? Opening it at random on page 156, Pearse would read Greg
Delanty’s poem The Children of Lir and heave a sigh, saying ‘Is the
Murder Machine still with us? There is no such name as Lir. Lir is a
genitive form of Lear. One can say Clann Lir, of course, in Irish, but in
English one must say The Children of Lear.’
Nuala Rua is here of course. Who would dare exclude Nuala Ní
Dhomhnaill! In fact, we have two poems, in all, in Irish. Ceist na
Teangan by Nuala and Jackeen ag Caoineadh na mBlascaod by Brendan
Behan. How did Brendan get in? As an alcoholic IRA man, he fits the
picture perfectly. Máire Mhac an tSaoi, poet, scholar, former diplomat,
translator of Rilke and Lorca, that’s not the image we want in this
anthology. No sir! Let’s have two token poems showing us how
precarious this other tongue, this most bothersome tongue is; like the
Blaskets, the language is really only a relic of the past, not some
glowing beacon for the future. Two pages of Irish-language poetry out
of 318 pages. That’ll show them who’s in charge – the indomitable
Irishry, that’s who. We go back as far as Swift you know.
It’s like 1916 never happened. INNTI never happened. IMRAM never
happened. Those poets listed by Crowe, who has even heard of half of
them after all? Why do they have such unpronounceable names? How
is it that they are still popping up, like menacing mushrooms?
“When we revolt it’s not for a particular
culture. We revolt simply because, for many
reasons, we can no longer breathe”
Just in case you are one of those people who thinks that the Irish
language has some kind of a future, dip into this unlucky bag and you
will find Mathew Sweeney’s poem The Eagle (p. 141):
My father is writing in Irish.
The English language, with all its facts
Will not do. It is too modern.
It is good for plane-crashes, for unemployment,
But not for the unexplained return
Of the eagle to Donegal.
He describes the settled pair
In their eyrie on the not-so-high mountain.
He uses an archaic Irish
To describe what used to be, what is again,
Though hunters are reluctant
To agree on what will be ….
And so on. What’s happening in this poem? What is being said?
Sweeney is quite prolific. Why pick this particular poem? What’s the
agenda here, the mind set? Could someone explain? The Introduction
evokes ‘English poet and soldier Sir Philip Sidney’, of all people, who
along with Spenser belonged to an evil society that advocated the
ethnic cleansing of Gaels; Philip’s father, Henry, was one of the first
cleaning agents sent over here. Evoking Sidney is simply rubbing our
noses in it and The Examiner finds it ‘glorious’. What country am I living
We have the legendary Cathal McCabe here who in some kind of
poetic stupor imagines himself to be living in a Gaeltacht and speaking
Irish; no, not actually speaking Irish mind you, but imagining it.
Lived in another language,
In Teelin, Fahan, Port na Blagh,
A fisherman busy by a pier
Day in, day out, gach lá, gach lá.
Needless to say, it’s the anglicised form of Gaeltacht place names that
are given in the poem. No poets from the real Gaeltacht need apply,
such as Seán Ó Curraoin, Dairena Ní Chinnéide, Proinsias Mac a’ Bhaird,
or Áine Uí Fhoghlú, but let’s give Cathal McCabe a few inches for his
Francis Ledwidge is described here in the style of the previously
alluded to Daily Telegraph: ‘Ledwidge saw action at Gallipoli and in the
Balkans before being killed by a shell on 31 July 1917 near Ypres’.
It’s as if MacMonagle were writing for an English readership. Let’s be
careful not to mention the fact that Ledwidge was a member of the
Gaelic League. It’s doubtful if 1916 would ever have happened at all
without Conradh na Gaeilge but these matters do not concern our
Apart from a poem by Colette Bryce (p.210) and Alan Gillis
(p.208), MacMonagle’s view of the Troubles, as revealed by his
selection, is one-sided and jaundiced. I didn’t expect Bobby Sands
(then again, why not?) but surely even an extract from Kinsella’s
‘troubled’ oeuvre would have balanced things a little:
I went with Anger at my heel
Through Bogside of the bitter zeal
– Jesus pity! – on a day
Of cold and drizzle and decay.
A month had passed. Yet there remained
A murder smell that stung and stained.
On flats and alleys-over allIt
hung; on battered roof and wall,
On wreck and rubbish scattered thick,
On sullen steps and pitted brick.
And when I came where thirteen died
It shrivelled up my heart. I sighed
And looked about that brutal place
Of rage and terror and disgrace.
Then my moistened lips grew dry.
I had heard an answering sigh!
There in a ghostly pool of blood
A crumpled phantom hugged the mud:
“Once there lived a hooligan.
A pig came up, and away he ran.
Here lies one in blood and bones,
Who lost his life for throwing stones.”
Kinsella did not wish to appear in this anthology. I wonder why? How
many others poets would have withdrawn had they known the nature
of the beast, i.e. that their work has been reduced to being represented
here in what can legitimately be interpreted as an anti-Irish diatribe?
No Butcher’s Dozen here, so make room for this four-lined squib from
The Northern Ireland Question
Two wee girls
Were playing tig near a car …
How many counties would you say
Are worth their scattered fingers?
I am not saying that we shouldn’t have poems such as John
O’Donnell’s on the Omagh bombing, or the bombing of the Europa
Hotel, subject of a poem by Sinéad Morrissey. Dermot Healy (p.188) is
also outraged by bombings. But since so many of the poems chosen
for Windharp depict the Republic as a failed state, we must ask
ourselves what about the failed wee statelet up North? Where are the
insightful poems that explain the ongoing saga of the North from the
side of those who felt they could do nothing but resort to violence?
Where are the poems about state terrorism?
In July Twelfth (p. 181) Macdara Woods expresses the horror which
makes every civilised being recoil from extreme violence:
In the night
Burnt to death …
Yes, yes, yes, but where are the poems from the other side of the
barricades? I’m old enough to remember when Republicans weren’t
allowed to give their side of the story, their version of history, when
they were all muzzled.
For me, the best poem about the Troubles was written in English by
an Irish-language poet, Gearóid Mac Lochlainn. It’s not in this book.
Here it is:
I left the house, said fuck all to her, just walked out, said Joe
And I’m hurryin for the bus all fuckn stressed out
I’m joggin’ down the fuckn hill and my ulcer’s on fire
And I can hardly breathe trying to catch this fuckn bus, man
And then I missed the fucker of a bastard bus by about ten seconds
I’m watching the fucker drive away
Blowing smoke fumes in my face
So I had to hang about on the Saintfield Road
Just hangin about like
Waiting on the next bus
Just waiting there, doin fuck all, dying for a pint
Just mindin my own business, like
When I see one of the middle class prods
From down the bottom end of the street
Walkin towards me. An I’m noddin hello
And bein polite an all, and hows it goin an all
Because I know his face
And we live in the same middle-class proddy street
And the war’s all over and all that crap
And then I’m thinkin
That maybe he even thinks I’m one of them
Cos I say fuck all and keep a low profile
And why wouldn’t ya?
It’s not like I wanna socialise with my prod neighbours
They might burn me out
Except they’re all middle class
And don’t do that type of thing
But they’d probably shop ya to the dole
For bein a poor fenian
But anyway, he’s walkin right up to me
And he’s gonna speak to me…
And I’m wonderin what’s goin on, like
And he stops and asks me for a light
And so I fumble about and dig out the lighter
And it’s like a wee bit windy, so I try to light the lighter
And I hold up the flame, and it goes out
And then I say sorry and light it again
And it’s still windy
So he cups his hands over the top of mine
And makes a wee windshield for the flame, see
And he lights his feg
And he thanks me
And he walks on down the road
And then the next bus comes
And I get on the bus
And I’m sittin on the bus
And I’m thinkin this was all really strange
I’m thinkin that he touched me
He touched me
Like his hands touched mine
when I gave him the light, see
And I’m rollin down the Ormeau Road on the bus
And I’m thinking it’s the first time
I’ve ever been touched by a Protestant
And I’m feeling strange
About the whole thing
He touched my hands, you know…
He touched me.
The inclusion of Mac Lochlainn’s poem would have given us a better
feel for the Troubles than we get here. MacMonagle says about Ciaran
Carson’s Belfast Confetti (p. 121) that it’s, ‘an elegant metaphor for
the chaos of the Troubles’; Longley’s Ceasefire (p. 153), as opposed to
the Mac Lochlainn poem, requires a classical education to get the
references; let’s not forget that a demand for third-level education was
one of the agendas of the civil rights movement; another Longley poem,
The Civil Servant, is more easy to digest:
He was preparing an Ulster Fry for breakfast
When someone walked into the kitchen and shot him…
Heaney pulls off some clever half-rhymes in Casualty (p. 98):
I would manage by some trick
To switch the talk to eels
Or lore of the horse and cart
Or the Provisionals…
This is Hellfast. In the words of Padraic Fiacc, in Enemy Encounter
(p. 119):’ You can’t live here without being poisoned’. Not one but two
poems about the IRA from Paul Muldoon, Ireland (p. 104) and Anseo
A classical education is not required to get the gist of the poem by
Frank McGuinness (p. 150): ‘They kicked the shit out of me’. OK. I
think we get the picture by now. Self-hatred is the one and only legacy
of colonialism we can rely on, if the author of The Wretched of the Earth
is to be believed, and self-hatred is the abiding flavor of this poisoned
“Today I believe
in the possibility
of love; that is why
I endeavor to trace
its perversions.” Frantz Fanon
In Peter Fallon’s The State of the Nation, this is the poet’s evaluation
of readers of An Phoblacht:
If their day comes
The country’s fucked.
Who says poets are incapable of astute political analysis!
And there you have it. Our poets have spoken. It would have
been a completely different anthology, of course, if all our poets had
spoken, such as those mentioned by Thomas Rain Crowe, the band of
Irish-language poets missing in action. But, in case we get any notions
about real inclusiveness, MacMonagle gives us another little titbit in
The Death of Irish by Aidan Matthews (p. 114) which would seem to
justify linguistic apartheid. Sure if it’s dead it’s dead and why would we
be resurrecting it!
The tide gone out for good,
Thirty-one words for seaweed whiten on the foreshore.
Sir Philp Sidney and Sir Edmund Spencer can rest peacefully in
(This essay was first written in Irish and commissioned by Iris