The Books: The Penguin Book of Contemporary Irish Poetry: Mícheál Ó hAirtnéide (or Michael Hartnett)

Daily Book Excerpt: Poetry

Next book on the shelf is The Penguin Book of Contemporary Irish Poetry, edited by Peter Fallon & Derek Mahon.

“I’ll never forget reading his first short poems in the early sixties; they had a kind of hypnotic power, as if a new Orpheus had emerged from Newcastle West. He was Limerick’s Lorca.” — Seamus Heaney

Michael Hartnett grew up in Limerick. He had a tough childhood. Two of his siblings died as babies. He spent much time with his Irish-speaking grandmother, which was his first inspiration. He grew up in a section of Ireland rich with Irish language and Irish folk traditions. He always knew he had to escape, but there was a part of him always turning back. The familiar story of the nostalgic exile. He moved to London as a young man, and had odd jobs here and there. He also started getting published regularly. His poems are haunting and beautiful (I love Heaney’s quote above), but in the 1970s, he decided to devote himself to writing only in the Irish language. He wrote an entire book called Farewell to English. At the time, it was a very unpopular move. He was basically deciding to isolate himself in one small circle, turning his back on the wider world. This was a conscious choice on his part, a rebellious choice. He would devote himself to the Irish language. And he did. Since he grew up as a child hearing Irish all the time, conversational casual Irish, not used as a literary or political weapon, he saw it as a valid way to express oneself, regardless of the fact that it was a quickly-disappearing language. It’s an interesting stance. There is nothing nostalgic or “twee” about it. In its way, as is so often the case with all things Irish, there is a political undertone to the decision to only write in Irish. Especially in the mid-1970s when things were quite terrible in Ireland.

While he did again write in English, experimenting with forms such as haiku (a move which many critics found strange), it was his devotion to the Irish language that is mainly remarked upon now.

His response to the world is an intense one. His memories of his grandmother and his Newcastle childhood informing everything he writes. He was a heavy drinker (he died of it in 1999), but his work continues to grow in stature.

I admire him for his commitment to Irish. I’ll post one of his Irish-language poems today, with a translation in English below it. I am not fluent in Irish (although I have magic moments of comprehension). But I know the sounds. It “sounds” better in Irish, that’s for sure. The rhymes are mellifluous, effortless. Also, Sullivan is my mother’s maiden name. So that’s why I’m choosing this one. A beautiful poem in English, to be sure, lovely and simple, but try to sound it out in Irish. You can feel the difference.

Something is always lost in translation. I suppose that was part of Michael Hartnett’s point. (Or Mícheál Ó hAirtnéide’s point.)

Fís Dheireanach Eoghain Rua Uí Shúilleabháin

Do thál bó na maidine
ceo bainne ar gach gleann
is tháinig glór cos anall
ó shleasa bána na mbeann.

Chonaic mé, mar scáileanna,
mo spailpíní fánacha,
is in ionad sleán nó rámhainn acu
bhí rós ar ghualainn chách.

The Last Vision of Eoghan Rua Ó Súilleabháin

The cow of morning spurted
milk-mist on each glen
and the noise of feet came
from the hill’ white sides.
I saw like phantoms
my fellow-workers
and instead of spades and shovels
they had roses on their shoulders.