*note

This is a personal tribute to a handful of dreamers, the brave men and women of Ireland, the poet and the grocer, the tobacconist and the piper, the counter clerk and the Countess, the union man and the sculptor, the wives and girlfriends and the countless others, who, 101 years ago, against the advice and clarion calls from the mainstream, against the advice of some within their own ranks, against the advice of the church of Rome and with full knowledge and acceptance of the possibility of failure, excommunication and certain death, still made the hard decision to stand on the edge of the cliff and together, take that fateful step out into the vast, unknown void. To each and every one of them we owe our respect and gratitude. We should always remember that each one of them, both collectively and individually, did the best they could with what little was available to them at that time. If more had been available, I feel sure that they could and would have done so much more.  (JAB)

"As down the glen one Easter morn, to a city fair rode I..."

If you were one of the inquisitive onlookers in Dublin on a remarkable day in April 1916, and if you were close enough, you couldn’t fail to see the lone figure, silhouetted by the light of the still raging pyre that was once the splendid edifice, the General Post Office. There, between two of the large, bullet shattered, Ionic columns that supported the Greco/Roman pediment above the entrance, his broad brimmed fedora set at an angle over his brow, his greatcoat, dusty, torn, and bloodstained, stood a poet. You would be forgiven if you were not aware that the poet was about to complete his final stanza and immortalize a centuries old dream. If you looked closer still you would have been struck by the fact that although gaunt, disheveled, and shell-shocked, the poet’s eyes still shone with the fierce brilliance of determination.

Adjusting his hat, and straightening his holster, he looked across the rubble strewn street and focused on the imposing figure of the Admiral, high atop the tall, granite pillar. ‘Ah. Horatio, I fear I’ll be joining you soon.’ Then turning, he let his gaze linger for the last time, on the bronze, sculpted figure that stood at their command post in the center of the building.The sculpture, of the ancient warrior, Cu Chulainn, was one of the poet’s mythical Irish heroes and source of inspiration. Cu Chulainn, depicted tied to a pillar, at his own request, is slumped in mortal agony, his head hung in glorious defeat, the shield falling from his grasp, yet still, his sword is clutched tightly in his right hand. A raven, with talons gripping the flesh on his shoulder, mirrored the poets deepening sense of foreboding.

‘The hounds have cornered me too, Setanta.’

Turning toward the street once more, he scanned the faces of the assembled throng. How many of them will remember. Will they one day understand that we did it for them? Or will they simply forget? Then began the lonely walk to the barricade at Moore Street, nurse O'Farrell in step. Angry locals, some of whom he knew in his other life as a teacher and barrister, threw stones, spat at him and taunted him with shouts of, “Bloody rebel. Traitor. Fenian bastard. Shoot him. Shoot them all.” The soldiers forming the cordon, their bayonets fixed, stared at him with unbridled, snarling contempt. He waited calmly for the uproar to subside, then, when it was silent, the poet stepped forward, removed his Sam Browne belt and holster and handed them to the British officer.

If you happened to be there six days earlier, on Easter Monday, you would have observed the same poet standing on the same spot, the marble columns, gleaming in the noonday sun, forming a perfect frame around him. You would have seen that his uniform was clean and neatly pressed the night before. His long greatcoat, with the sunlight reflecting off the two rows of brass buttons, dazzled the spectators, and forced those nearest him to shade their eyes. His revolver, holstered on a broad belt around his slim waist, was loaded and tested. You would have been mesmerized by the look in his eyes as they flashed with fervor in the knowledge that he was about to make history.

In his right hand he held a rolled up parchment, his nation’s destiny. Stepping forward, he opened the document and began to read. If you were still there and listened, really listened, you would have been awed by the poet’s passion and conviction. The poet’s name was Patrick Henry Pearse and what he dared to read was the “Proclamation of the Irish Republic.” At four minutes past noon on Easter Monday 1916, in a steady, forceful voice, and calling on his ancestors for courage and strength, he proclaimed, once, and for all time, freedom for his country and its people.

And thus it began, and the terrible beauty was born...

From "The Journey: A Nomad Reflects."

For Sale at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/0692500944/ref=rdr_ext_tmb

Also For Sale:

Don’t Die with Regrets: Ireland and the Lessons my Father Taught Me.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/0615975860

Views: 992

Tags: 1916, Dublin, Easter Rising, History of Ireland


Founding Member
Comment by John M. Walsh on April 7, 2015 at 5:18pm

Brilliant how your brought a bronze statue to life!  You are the poet, John!

Comment by John Anthony Brennan on April 7, 2015 at 5:24pm

Thanks John. I believe that having the Fox P2 gene, as all of us Irish have in our dna, certainly helps.

Comment by Donal J Murphy on April 7, 2015 at 11:28pm

John Anthony---Brilliant , Love this piece--you brought it ALLBack to Life--I could even here those taunts a of the enemy at the time of the surrender. All the Best Lad, continue the good works. 

Donal J Murphy

Comment by John Anthony Brennan on April 8, 2015 at 8:45am

Thanks Donal, I'm glad that it came across.

Comment by Claire Fullerton on April 12, 2015 at 11:29am

This is so beautifully and expertly written, I'm about to weep! You've humanized an entire sentiment by placing this in the body of a poet, which suggests to me the core of the heart. Such brilliant phrasing, such evocation. Tis too much altogether! Well done, you! By the way, can you tell me something about the Fox P2 gene? I'd like to know what swims in my blood (besides Irish pride!)

Comment by John Anthony Brennan on April 12, 2015 at 5:10pm

Thanks for the kind words Claire.

I set out to capture the essence of the man and believe that I have. You got it exactly as I meant it to be. So again, thanks for that. Pearse was many things to many people. His poem "The Wayfarer,' written by him the night before his execution, is my favorite. I think all poets are revolutionaries, in the sense that they can evoke the sentiments of their fellow men, using words to paint the canvas. We Irish have the added bonus of being able to then express those words eloquently. As I mentioned before, it is because we are blessed with the Fox P2 gene. If you check out my post "The Maigue Poets," which was posted on Sept. 24, 2014 you will get a better sense of what I mean.

Looking forward to hearing from you soon.

All the best.

John A 

Comment by Eoin Mac Lochlainn on April 1, 2016 at 6:41am

Thank you John for that beautiful description. By the way, I am a great grand (half) nephew of Patrick Pearse. His father, James Pearse was married twice, first to Emily Fox who had four children before she died. ( there as no descendants from the second marriage ) So my great grandmother, Emily Pearse married Alfred Mac Lochlainn... and that's where I came from :-)   slán go fóill, Eoin

Comment by John Anthony Brennan on April 1, 2016 at 9:30pm

Hello Eoin,

It's a pleasure to meet you. I am glad you liked my tribute and hope that I did the man proud. The Pearses' were a very brave and talented family indeed. If you read my story about Thomas Addis Emmet I mention both James and Willie. I've added a short extract here.....

"If you should travel to Ireland and visit Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin, you will find another monument erected in memory of this man. The monument, a tall, ornate, Celtic high cross, has the unique distinction of being sculpted by James and Willie Pearse, the father and brother of one of Ireland’s greatest heroes, Patrick Pearse, and stands proudly over this man’s final resting place."

All the best.

John A


Heritage Partner
Comment by That's Just How It Was on April 8, 2016 at 10:19am

JAP , I marvel at the way you can use language and words to paint a picture ,of someone who is imminently going to be executed, so that he is immortalizing a scene of utter tragedy, fires, building's raised to the ground,  shell shocked people all around ,and turn all of that,  into something  so terribly beautiful that tears welled up in my eyes..

You do indeed have the 'gift of the Gab' 

Comment by John Anthony Brennan on August 16, 2016 at 2:16pm

Sorry for the slow response Mary. I thank you again for your kind words. I am so glad that it came across.

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