Tar éis a bháis, cuireadh Collected Poems, díolaim iomlán a chuid filíochta, i gcló sa bhliain 2001. captures the futility and frustration felt both by his grandmother and the poet himself at the relentless pace of change. However, our memory is never a good witness: Hartnett’s mood here resembles Dylan Thomas in Fern Hill; childhood is forever remembered as high summer and ‘it was all shining, it was Adam and maiden’.

A great love poem for the day that’s in it! These aspiring scholars build their theories on fragile ground, ‘give you ancestors and heirs’ and try to ‘bring you into line / with academic aims, / number all your bones / and make false claims.’. He had great admiration for Yeats, though, oddly, not so much as a poet but as a businessman. There were, of course, other young poets in UCD at the time: Paul Durcan, Macdara Woods, Brian Lynch, Eamon Grennan, Malachy Higgins, to mention just a few names that come to mind. A shouting farmer with a shotgun, a few patch-trousered urchins, soaked, snotty and unrepentant, running across wet fields, arms full of holly. I was a sensation I felt as a young man on the first night we met and a sensation I still experienced on the last morning he phoned me some weeks before his death on October 13th 1999. The stanza then ends with the beautiful, poignant phrase: ‘We were such golden children, never to be dust’.

Michael Hartnett’s first novel, Universal Remote, was published by Neshui in 1999 and received a second printing in 2000.Hartnett has served as poetry editor of Confrontation and is an adjunct English professor at Long Island University.He received his PhD in English from SUNY at Stony Brook and has published book reviews and critical commentaries in Confrontation and Pynchon Notes. There were no balloons, no paper chains, no Christmas trees. There was not at the time any such thing in Ireland as a poet in residence. The heavy steel-wool curtain never lifts. She was a child’s purse, full of useless things. It never snowed. So the lad from Newcastle West in Co Limerick was indeed going to receive some patronage. Mhaígh sé go gcloiseadh sí Mamó ag labhairt Gaeilge lena cuid cairde san áit sin. The games ‘came in their seasons’, throwing horseshoes, bowling, cracking chestnuts, playing sceilg and then there was street entertainment as they watched ‘the tinkers fight it out’. I was far younger than him and even though I edited and published three of his books I never lost my awestruck sense of being privileged to be in his company. He phoned Lorca’s brother in New York, explained that he was once deported from Franco’s Spain and after he had read aloud one translation the voice at the other end said, “Spread the word”! After all, in the old Gaelic order there had been such an acceptance.
John Jordan and James Liddy had accepted him as a gifted poet. The imagination of the young children is again highlighted as the young urchins from the ‘golden road’ carry out military-like incursions into the surrounding countryside, with sticks for swords, as they kill ‘tribes of ragworth’, the yellow  perennial weeds which were the bane of every farmer’s life in the country. Quiet men standing at ‘street corners’ looked on the ‘grained wood’ of the coffin as it passed, either in ‘horse-hearse’ or ‘motor-hearse’, on its way to the old graveyard in Churchtown. aching for its sun-god – he kills as well –. Phone: +44 (0) 1727 737680 E-mail: uk@diaverum.com.

They believed every word he used to tell them”. As he begins to introduce the poem, ‘Death of an Irishwoman’ he states that his grandmother, Bridget Halpin was born in 1870 when,  in fact, we know through Census returns for 1911 that she was born in 1885. Bridget Halpin is a symbol for all that was lost in the traumatic early years of the Twentieth Century in Ireland. Sa bhliain 1969, d'fhoilsigh sé Old Hag of Beare, an bhliain dár gcionn cuireadh Selected Poems i gcló, dhá bhliain ina dhiaidh sin tháinig an cnuasach úd Tao. We were Cisco, Batman, Johnny McBrown all that day. I was little better myself.
to John Kelly’s forge-music ringing so sweet, saw the sparks flying out like thick golden sleet, and the red horse-shoes spat in their bucket of steam, and the big horses bucked and their white eyes did gleam, nineteen forty-nine I remember the year –. I doubt it. We donned boot polish and lipstick and old dresses and went out to follow the Wren, tuneless chancers. He also says that she was 93 when she died when, in fact, if the Census returns are to believed, she was a mere 80! There was a fruit-cake, jelly and custard; the dinner of the year. To her, ‘the world was flat / and pagan’, and in the end. For the poet, the Muse is fickle and her visits are not on demand.

During these years in Newcastle West and in his cottage in nearby Glendarragh, Templeglantine, Hartnett wrote many such epitaphs for local people and their dying country crafts. In the Annual Observer, the journal of the Newcastle West Historical Society, published in July 1979, Lizzie Sullivan, a long time resident of the Coole, referred to John Kelly’s father and his importance to the area: “I can’t forget our blacksmith, Big Shaun Kelly. Rugadh i gCromadh i gContae Luimnigh é agus d'fhás sé aníos sa Chaisleán Nua Thiar i dteach a mháthar móire faoin tuath. It was his destiny. That order, however, was long gone and could never be recovered. She had a great array of Irish words in her vocabulary, many related to the animals of the countryside and life on the farm, although she and the family didn’t use Irish in everyday conversation. There amid ‘the rain-dumbed tombs’ it was customary to speak well of the dead: The second stanza presents us with the real epitaph. small quarrels swell to great and flooded rifts; lime trees, prematurely old, decide to die. It takes courage to make a dying man laugh, but Michael Hartnett had courage in spades. He, unsuccessfully as it happens, hopes that he will never suffer a similar fate. At that event, Hartnett informed the audience of his resolution to cease writing in English, stating that his “road towards Gaelic” had “been long and haphazard” and until then “a road travelled without purpose”. He asked if I possessed a copy of the tiny 1969 edition of his poem The Hag of Beare and insisted on giving me the only copy he still possessed – Number 1 of that precious numbered edition.


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