Many of his poems are celebrated and loved for their profound personal candour and sensitivity, but he has also been a poet of searing political and public critical insight.
Yet fifty years later
Seán Ó Conaill could tell, word for word,
a story he’d heard, as a boy,
read from a journal.
The world seemed clear. The questions started later in life or when we went to the cities and were asked to convert and change our language to English, sometimes politely sometimes not so much. We got used to the requests, ‘can you please say that in English?’ or the statements ‘We speak English in here’ or ‘I’m afraid we don’t speak that language here’.
Today, on our morning swim together.
I watch her dive, hair streaming,
at home among the waves…
You won’t find these in the bush.
Thistles, nettles, tumbleweed,
three-cornered jacks, horehound,
The winner of the Percy French Prize for Witty Verse.
The only 1916 rebel to be given a state funeral
Poems in Irish by Colin Ryan.
Irish Language poems by Colin Ryan
But very definitely single beds…
How much of Ned is in the coffin?