'So long as I remain alive and well I shall continue to feel strongly about prose style, to love the surface of the earth, and to take a pleasure in solid objects and scraps of useless information.' ― George Orwell

Category: Poetry

Czesław Miłosz


‘Death is endowed with the supreme authority of Law and universal necessity, while man is reduced to nothing, to a bundle of perceptions or even less, to an interchangeable statistical unit. But poetry by its very essence has always been on the side of LIFE.’

Tipperary, Four in the Morning




Remember that time at our dear friends’ wedding?

I approached you, all nuclear energy in a bunker bar,

Mined with guests primed to go off at any minute,

With how you do and where’s the booze,

While curly Paddy played keyboard,

And grinned,

His classical disposition disabused, for one night only.


The chance to take you out, cooling your heels after dancing,

Stepping lightly towards, careful with my treading,

Seeing a gap in you heart and hoping to fill it, I dreamed it.

Not in bedding, but more like art, where our minds would be pushed together

And we’d figure out a world we could lope through enchanting.


Words fell from my mouth and you rattled back,

I’d figured the game though – having always to counter-attack

For you knew what I was angling for, as soon as I cast my line,

That jungle fever you have scented a hundred times,

Or more, no doubt, as the hunter enters your green-eyed den,

But fails in his quest, and leaves dispirited without.


There would be no tale to tell of how the beautiful one had fallen,

For his charm to disarm, and how we long-laughed about it after,

And the groom guffawed ‘You put him in his box that night alright!’

Yes, our box: always fragile, but when right side up,

Held this thing’s delight, but I lost you then, and I lose you again.

Actually, I lose with each morning’s new light.

Nothing will ever look the same, since Tipperary, Four A.M.

Samuel Menashe [1925-2011]

Menashe writes one of his poems on the beach: Pity us / by the sea / on the sands / so briefly Photo by Martin Duffy

Life is immense

I said to her

Stirred some way

I could not say –

It is minute

She replied –

How we laughed

Though I had sighed

Charlie Donnelly – Poet, Socialist, Revolutionary

‘Even the olives are bleeding’ – the vivid phrase that springs to mind as we see the humanitarian crisis unfolding in the Middle East. Migrants flee the countryside, while bombs and blood scar its soil.

Charlie Donnelly

I recently looked at the words again in one of my notebooks; words both forceful and moving. The phrase is attributed to Charlie Donnelly from Killybrackey, near Dungannon in Co Tyrone. Donnelly was a young

poet and socialist who, like so many idealistic Irishmen, stood up to fight fascism and Franco’s forces in the Spanish Civil War. He left behind a small body of work, although his most famous words were never written down: Donnelly supposedly said them to his International Brigade comrades as they came under heavy fire on the frontline.

I had read a snippet about Donnelly years ago, and a touching poem written in his honour by Michael Longley, but details of his life were scarce and sketchy – which is somewhat understandable, as he was killed in action at the tender age of 22, at the Jarama Front on February 27, 1937. Thankfully the Lagan Press published a book on the young poet called ‘Heroic Heart: a Charlie Donnelly reader’, edited by his sister-in-law Kay Donnelly and Gerald Dawe. The book documents a worthy figure in Irish history that (along with thousands of others) chose to fight in another land’s war for no other reason than their anti-fascist principles (Joseph O’Connor has written an earlier biography of Donnelly in 1993).

In 1917 the Donnellys sold the family farm in Tyrone and moved to Dundalk to open a greengrocers, which prospered, and ended up living at Mountjoy Square in Dublin by 1928. It was here that young Charlie developed his taste for radical politics, becoming involved with left-wing republican youth movements. He also found an apprenticeship as a carpenter, but soon packed the trade in to study English, History, Logic and Irish in UCD in 1931. But after failing his exams he dropped out three years later and continued his journey on the road of socialist politics: joining the Republican Congress, relocating to London and writing for its newspaper and other left-wing publications. There may have been good reason for Donnelly crossing the Irish Sea, for in Dublin he had developed a taste for civil disobedience: he was arrested and imprisoned for two weeks for picketing a Dublin bakery in 1934, while a year later he was arrested again for assaulting a guard at a Republican Congress demonstration and imprisoned for a month.

After the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War, he joined the International Brigade following his arrival in Spain in January 1937 – meeting up with the Irish Connolly Column led by Frank Ryan. The Irishmen were attached to the American Abraham Lincoln battalion and it was not long before they reached the front line; as a talented military strategist, Donnelly was soon given the rank of field commander.

The action came quickly. On February 27 Donnelly’s unit launched a frontal assault on Nationalist positions on a hill named Pingarron, but were pinned down by machine gun fire for most of the day. While evening approached, Franco’s men counter-attacked and as Donnelly’s unit retreated, he was shot dead. His body was later buried at Jarama in an unmarked grave with his fallen comrades.

It is a gesture that is hard to fathom at times; how someone would readily walk towards destruction, deprivation and death in a strange land, for their belief in an ideal. But we also know it’s not such a far-fetched idea from events of the last two years in the Middle East. The Irish contingent that fought in the Spanish Civil War is an important part of our history and, like those Irishmen who fought in the Great War, deserves more recognition for their bravery and convictions; they thought they were fighting for a better future: for a fairer society and the right to self-determination. George Orwell’s account of his time fighting in Spain, ‘Homage to Catalonia’, is rightly lauded for its depiction of trench life and the revolutionary fervour that swept parts of the country, which ultimately descended into confusion, counter espionage and betrayal by the Russians and communists within the republican movement.

Orwell saw with his own eyes the socialist cause being sold out by the very people who should have been on its side. He wrote, ‘You had all the while a hateful feeling that someone hitherto your friend might be denouncing you to the secret police’.

Aside from its historical importance, ‘Homage to Catalonia’ is a wonderful read, as a combination of diary and political journalism – Orwell’s lucid description of being shot will stay with anyone who has ever read his prose. In the midst of this fratricide, Charlie Donnelly, like Orwell, wanted to lend a hand in holding back the onset of totalitarianism; as socialists they obviously believed in a better future and a fairer world for everyone. Like many who joined the International Brigade, Donnelly probably hoped that a victory for republican forces in Spain might have sparked a socialist revolution across Europe. Instead, of course, we had a much different outcome; which is why we will always have a place for Charlie Donnelly’s phrase, ‘even the olives are bleeding’. They are words that echo down the ages: and in the face of totalitarianism and oppression, so too will the poet, and revolutionary.

Seamus Heaney RIP ‘heaven enough/ To be going on with’

Seamus Heaney [1939-2013] Picture: ITV / Rex Features

“To me the honour is sufficient of belonging to the universe — such a great universe, and so grand a scheme of things. Not even Death can rob me of that honour. For nothing can alter the fact that I have lived; I have been I, if for ever so short a time. And when I am dead, the matter which composes my body is indestructible—and eternal, so that come what may to my ‘Soul,’ my dust will always be going on, each separate atom of me playing its separate part — I shall still have some sort of a finger in the pie. When I am dead, you can boil me, burn me, drown me, scatter me — but you cannot destroy me: my little atoms would merely deride such heavy vengeance. Death can do no more than kill you.”

W.N.P. Barbellion

Poet of soil and strife, your winged chariot’s departed for Delphi where you will find the rosy-fingered dawn.

Hora non numero nisi serenas.

‘As between clear blue  and cloud,

Between haystack and sunset sky,

Between oak tree and slated roof,

I had my existence. I was there.

Me in place and the place in me.’


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