i
When I think of all the false beginnings ...
The man was a pair of hands,
the woman another pair, to be had more cheaply,
the wind blew, the children were thirsty -
when he passed by the factory door he saw them,
they were moving and then waiting, as many
as the souls that crowded by Dante's boat -
that never settled in the water -
what weight to ballast that ferry?
They are there now, as many
as the souls blown by the winds of their desire,
the airs of love, not one of them weighing
one ounce against the tornado
that lifts the lids off houses, that spies
where they crouch together inside
until the wind sucks them out.
It is only wind, but what braced muscle, what earthed foot
can stand against it, what voice so loud
as to be heard shouting Enough?
ii
He had driven the horse in the rubbish cart, he knew
the strength in the neck under the swishing mane,
he knew how to tell her to turn, to back or stand.
He knew where the wind hailed from, he studied
its language, it blew in spite of him.
He got tired waiting for the wind to change,
as we are exhausted waiting for that change,
for the voices to shout Enough, for the hands
that can swing the big lever and send the engine rolling
away to the place we saw through the gap in the bone
where there was a painted room, music and the young people
dancing on the shore, and the Old Man of the Sea
had been sunk in the wide calm sea.
iii
The sea moves under the wind and shows nothing
-not where to begin. But look for the moment
just before the wave of change crashes and
goes into reverse.Remember the daft beginnings
of a fatal century and their sad endings, but let's not
hold back our hand from the lever. Remember James Connolly,
who put his hand to the work,who saw suddenly
how his life would end, and was content because
men and women would succeed him, and his testament
was there, he trusted them. It was not a bargain:
in 1916 the printer locked the forme,
he set it in print, the scribes can't alter an iota
– then the reader comes, and it flowers again, like a painted room.
Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin is an Emeritus Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, where she has taught since 1966; She is co-founder of Irish poetry journal Cyphers. Her seventh collection of poetry, The Sun-Fish, was shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Prize and won the Griffin International Prize for poetry in 2010. Eiléan is regarded by many as one of the most important contemporary Irish women poets.
One of the great international leaders of the early twentieth century labour movement, it was James Connolly above all who was responsible for the alignment between working class organisations and the goal of Irish independence. Whether in the US, where he worked for the radical and militant Industrial Workers of the World, or in Ireland, working for the Irish Transport and General Workers Union, Connolly was a revolutionary who saw in working people the capacity to transform the world. In Ireland, he believed it was the working class who could shake the foundations of the British empire, to the benefit of all the oppressed of the world.
Born in Edinburgh in 1868, of Irish parents, Connolly came to Ireland at the invitation of a small socialist group. Here, he soon made his mark as a talented organiser, speaker and writer. For someone with no formal education beyond the age of ten he had developed extraordinary writing skill and was a master of polemic, satire and humour. His Labour in Irish History (1910) was an instant classic and remains a powerful read today.
An early champion of women’s rights, Connolly attracted many women activists to assist the Transport Union and the ITGWU inspired Irish Citizen Army: women who were given a fighting role in that organisation. It was almost certainly as a result of Connolly’s influence that the Proclamation was very careful to use language that included women and made it clear that if the Rebellion won, women in Ireland would have the vote.
As a signatory and commander of the Dublin forces in the rebellion, General Maxwell and, indeed, leaders of the constitutional nationalist movement too, wanted Connolly out of the way. So even though British doctors had been struggling to save Connolly’s life as he lay in Dublin Castle with a shattered leg, on 12 May 1916 he was taken to Kilmainham Jail, strapped into a chair, and shot.
Tomorrow: Paul Muldoon on Padraig Pearse
