Some Irish Poets

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 14, 22 April 1925, Page 57

Some Irish Poets

- ' '‘»s,y\By F. J. Byrne, for the N.Z. Tablet.) V M' ' /. ... There are two outstanding characteristics ■if of the real Irish poetspirituality and freedom from the fetish of sex. Apply these two and you obtain national traits. What I 'a mean to say is, that if you find either of these qualities or both in a poem, the author .■ will almost surely be found to be an Irishman. The younger poets have learned their verse patterns from old Irish songs, and these are frequently in such unusual metre, that ;C; the rhythm is hard to capture. It is Thomas MacDonagh, I think, who advises one to read the lines, giving each syllable equal accentua- ' tion. In this way the true beat, of the metre may bo found. But after reading in such a j;.-. way “I will arise and go now and go to Innisfree And a small cabin build there of clay and wattles made.” And in my extreme care about accents losing much of the sense, I have come to the con"v elusion, that it is better to read all such poetry as one would read any vers Hire of the day, and in time, the singular rhythm like an unusual theme in music is expected and rejoiced in. Mysticism, .unrestrained by the wise guidv ance of the Church, might prove a stumbling block to these lovers of Bark Rosaleen. In some of his earlier poetry W. B. Yeats wan- ' ■•--.ders in a “land, east of the sun and west of the moon,” with, unfortunately, very little light from either. Though that kind of poetry affords one a certain satisfaction, it has very little spiritual significance. “I see the blessedest / soul in the world And he nods a drunken head. Oh, blessedness goes where the wind goes And when it is gone we are dead.” I think it is Katherine Tynan (in ears ' of the Shadow) who bemoans James Stephens’ ;V; increasing irreverence. It is a pity, as he has a peculiarly Irish touch, especially in the P verse where the vain sizzled on old Nick’s pack, and in Seumas Beg: “He was a real nice man. He liked me, too.” v There is just a hint in this of the delightful Manchausian effect an Irishman sets in a . story concocted to please the children. |r . Spiritual vision tinged with mysticism is the heart of the truest and best of this poetry. /; It is like a clean sweet wind from the sea. ‘ Unexpected for say “rose” to an English poet I and one would probably inspire a sonnet in fc' which it will repose on his dear one’s cheek, i or it will be compared to her lovely blushes, ; r but/joseph Plunkett sees a i . 1 ‘His blood upon the rose, s : • ! And in the stars the glory of His eyes.” 1 While W. M. Letts writes exquisitely of an '• old nun with creaking joints—- , • . ' ; \ f ■ “Old Sister Mary Gregory.” -

And in /“Tim” lie writes of that wonderful Irish terrier: ; . , . ■ ‘■'So I laugh when I hear thim make it plain That dogs and men never meet again; For all their talk who’d listen to thim, With the soul in the shining eyes of him ? Would God be wasting a dog like TimP It is religion applied to little homely things, and that, believe me, is the secret of poetry. I think of two cradle songs; “Slumber, slumber, dearest sweetest treasure.” And that exquisite gem of Seumas O’Sullivan’s “0 men from the fields, Soft, softly come through, Mary # puts round him Her mantle of blue.” In one is an earthly mother. In the other the child is confided to the tender care of Our Blessed Lady, who will protect the babe from “Peerings of things across the half door.” <X>