1981 remembered

[Hardy]

I can overlook a lot of things, but doggerel like that is unforgivable.

Ahem Hardy, such ignorance was already put to bed (categorically) on this thread:

If you read through the works of Bobby Sands it is clearly to be seen that he is a poet and scholar. His work is one of the finest this country had ever seen but due to the fact that he was a Republican during this time of struggle his true place in Irish literature history will never be accepted.

So you consider yourself a Lundy/West Brit etc.. etc... for using the word "doggerel" with respect to a man in the pantheon of the greats along with Yeats and Kavanagh.
w
Shame!

/Jim.

Thanks for that, Jim. Of course I didn't realise I was traducing the work of "one of the finest this country produced". By way of recompense and in further celebration of sublime poetry let me commend to all our readers the following epic by the great McGonagall, already cited with due reverence in this thread.

The Miraculous Escape of Robert Allan, the Fireman

'Twas in the year of 1888, and on October the fourteenth day,
That a fire broke out in a warehouse, and for hours blazed away;
And the warehouse, now destroyed, was occupied by the Messrs R. Wylie, Hill & Co.,
Situated in Buchanan Street, in the City of Glasgow.

The flames burst forth about three o'clock in the afternoon,
And intimation of the outbreak spread very soon;
And in the spectators' faces were depicted fear and consternation;
While the news flew like lightning to the Fire Brigade Station.

And when the Brigade reached the scene of the fire,
The merciless flames were ascending higher and higher,
Raging furiously in all the floors above the street,
And within twenty minutes the structure was destroyed by the burning heat.

Then the roof fell in, pushing out the front wall,
And the loud crash thereof frightened the spectators one and all,
Because it shook the neighbouring buildings to their foundation,
And caused throughout the City a great sensation.

And several men were injured by the falling wall ,
And as the bystanders gazed thereon, it did their hearts appal;
But the poor fellows bore up bravely, without uttering a moan,
And with all possible speed they were conveyed home.

The firemen tried to play upon the building where the fire originated,
But, alas! their efforts were unfortunately frustrated,
Because they were working the hose pipes in a building occupied by Messrs Smith & Brown,
But the roof was fired, and amongst them it came crashing down.

And miraculously they escaped except one fireman,
The hero of the fire, named Robert Allan,
Who was carried with the debris down to the street floor,
And what he suffered must have been hard to endure.

He travelled to the fire in Buchanan Street,
On the first machine that was ordered, very fleet,
Along with Charles Smith and Dan. Ritchie,
And proceeded to Brown & Smith's buildings that were burning furiously.

And in the third floor of the building he took his stand
Most manfully, without fear, with the hose in his hand,
And played on the fire through a window in the gable
With all his might, the hero, as long as he was able.

And he remained there for about a quarter of an hour,
While from his hose upon the building the water did pour,
When, without the least warning, the floor gave way,
And down he went with it: oh, horror! and dismay!

And with the debris and flooring he got jammed,
But Charlie Smith and Dan. Ritchie quickly planned
To lower down a rope to him, without any doubt,
So, with a long pull and a strong pull, he was dragged out.

He thought he was jammed in for a very long time,
For, instead of being only two hours jammed, he thought 'twas months nine,
But the brave hero kept up his spirits without any dread
Then he was taken home in a cab, and put to bed.

Oh, kind Christians! think of Robert Allan, the heroic man
For he certainly is a hero, deny it who can?
Because, although he was jammed, and in the midst of the flame,
He tells the world fearlessly he felt no pain.

The reason why, good people, he felt no pain
Is because he put his trust in God, to me it seems plain,
And in conclusion, I most earnestly pray,
That we will all put our trust in God, night and day.

And I hope that Robert Allan will do the same,
Because He saved him from being burnt while in the flame;
And all that trust in God will do well,
And be sure to escape the pains of hell.

[Evil Genius]

19 March 1981

Gerry Rowland (40) Catholic
Status: Civilian (Civ), Killed by: Irish Republican Army (IRA)
Shot by sniper while travelling in car with off duty Ulster Defence Regiment member, near Crossmaglen, County Armagh.

Not known to be interested in Poetry, Ornithology or Fire Bombing Shops etc, so not important...

20 March 1981
IRA issue apology for murder of Gerry Rowland.

So that's all right, then...

[Myles Na G.]

from Remorse For Intemperate Speech

Out of Ireland have we come.
Great hatred, little room,
Maimed us at the start.
I carry from my mother's womb
A fanatic heart.

William Butler Yeats

[glens abu]

I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow;
Who have no treasure but hope,
No riches laid up but a memory of an ancient glory
My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born,
I am of the blood of serfs;
The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten
Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters,
and though gentle, have served churls.
The hands that have touched mine,
the dear hands whose touch Is familiar to me
Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles,
have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers.
I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone I that have never submitted;
I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people's masters,
I that have vision and prophecy, and the gift of fiery speech,
I that have spoken with God on the top of his holy hill.
And because I am of the people, I understand the people,
I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire;
My heart is heavy with the grief of mothers,
My eyes have been wet with the tears of children,
I have yearned with old wistful men,
And laughed and cursed with young men;
Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it
Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free
Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full,
Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and their jailors.
With their Writs of Summons and their handcuffs,
Men mean and cruel.
I could have borne stripes on my body
Rather than this shame of my people.
And now I speak, being full of vision:
I speak to my people, and I speak in my people's name to
The masters of my people:
I say to my people that they are holy,
That they are august despite their chains.
That they are greater than those that hold them
And stronger and purer,
That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God,
God the unforgetting, the dear God who loves the people
For whom he died naked, suffering shame.
And I say to my people's masters: Beware
Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people
Who shall take what ye would not give.
Did ye think to conquer the people, or that law is stronger than life,
And than men's desire to be free?
We will try it out with you ye that have harried and held,
Ye that have bullied and bribed.
Tyrants... hypocrites... liars!

[Myles Na G.]

I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow;
Who have no treasure but hope,
No riches laid up but a memory of an ancient glory
My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born,
I am of the blood of serfs;
The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten
Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters,
and though gentle, have served churls.
The hands that have touched mine,
the dear hands whose touch Is familiar to me
Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles,
have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers.
I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone I that have never submitted;
I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people's masters,
I that have vision and prophecy, and the gift of fiery speech,
I that have spoken with God on the top of his holy hill.
And because I am of the people, I understand the people,
I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire;
My heart is heavy with the grief of mothers,
My eyes have been wet with the tears of children,
I have yearned with old wistful men,
And laughed and cursed with young men;
Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it
Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free
Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full,
Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and their jailors.
With their Writs of Summons and their handcuffs,
Men mean and cruel.
I could have borne stripes on my body
Rather than this shame of my people.
And now I speak, being full of vision:
I speak to my people, and I speak in my people's name to
The masters of my people:
I say to my people that they are holy,
That they are august despite their chains.
That they are greater than those that hold them
And stronger and purer,
That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God,
God the unforgetting, the dear God who loves the people
For whom he died naked, suffering shame.
And I say to my people's masters: Beware
Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people
Who shall take what ye would not give.
Did ye think to conquer the people, or that law is stronger than life,
And than men's desire to be free?
We will try it out with you ye that have harried and held,
Ye that have bullied and bribed.
Tyrants... hypocrites... liars!

Pearse had much in common with Sands: both dangerous fools, both with literary pretensions but no talent for writing, both revered by the gullible. 

[theticklemister]

Revered by the gullible............... revered by the people of this land who have witnessed the actions that both men (and many more) have taken through centuries of rule from Britain. I feel great shame that people like you dont release the sacrifice these men made and such a role they played in our history.

Reading through your posts it strikes me that in fact you still wish that the 6 counties be contained within the British union, am I correct? Your anti-Republican (in fact pro-Brit) sentiments are something that you are not ashamed to hide on this thread and no matter how you try and blacken the name of Sands and now Pearse your deep hatred of Republican rises to the top and indulges itself onto any person (s) whoever took a stand to free this land from foreign rule. I'm sure you will be having a go at another Republican in the not to distant future.

[Myles Na G.]

Revered by the gullible............... revered by the people of this land who have witnessed the actions that both men (and many more) have taken through centuries of rule from Britain. I feel great shame that people like you dont release the sacrifice these men made and such a role they played in our history.

Reading through your posts it strikes me that in fact you still wish that the 6 counties be contained within the British union, am I correct? Your anti-Republican (in fact pro-Brit) sentiments are something that you are not ashamed to hide on this thread and no matter how you try and blacken the name of Sands and now Pearse your deep hatred of Republican rises to the top and indulges itself onto any person (s) whoever took a stand to free this land from foreign rule. I'm sure you will be having a go at another Republican in the not to distant future.

Nope, you're way off. Why is our country partitioned? Because of the strategies and actions of dangerous fools like Pearse and Sands. Where would Ireland have been today had it not been for the 1916 uprising and the War of 26 County Independence? Who knows, but we wouldn't be looking at 100 years of partition and a country more firmly and deeply divided politically, socially and economically than its ever been. Revere Patrick Pearse? A man who talked longingly of 'blood sacrifice', a man with an unhealthy interest in young boys, a man in the habit of reverting to baby talk when conversing with his brother, even when in the company of other adults? Do me a favour. I'll leave that for the gullible.

[saffron sam2]

"McIlhatton, you blurt".

[theticklemister]

.......... Where are your sacks of barley will your likes be seen again.'

Love that song!

Why is our country partioned ye ask?.......... And ye blame Bobby Sands and Padraig Pearse? Enough said.

[Myles Na G.]

.......... Where are your sacks of barley will your likes be seen again.'

Love that song!

Why is our country partioned ye ask?.......... And ye blame Bobby Sands and Padraig Pearse? Enough said.

If you seriously believe that the person(s) who wrote the lyrics of 'McIlhatton' and 'Back Home in Derry' is/are one and the same as the semi literate writer of that 'poem' for his mother quoted earlier in this thread, then you are even more gullible than I thought.

I blame Pearse and his contemporaries for partition. The very best outcome their strategy of armed rebellion could deliver was always going to be a divided island, given the willingness of nearly 1 million people in the north to resist the idea of an independent Ireland by all means necessary, including force. Sands can't be blamed for partition, but he can be blamed for strengthening it.

[Nally Stand]

.......... Where are your sacks of barley will your likes be seen again.'

Love that song!

Why is our country partioned ye ask?.......... And ye blame Bobby Sands and Padraig Pearse? Enough said.

Tickle, there's a few lads who are intent on trolling the thread in the hope of a response and the best they can do is make petty remarks about Bobby Sands' poems and songs. Such attention whores and creetins are best ignored. In the words of Bobby Sands himself, "allow them to persist in their ...vindictiveness and petty harassments, let them laugh now, because all of that is no longer important or worth a response."

[Myles Na G.]

.......... Where are your sacks of barley will your likes be seen again.'

Love that song!

Why is our country partioned ye ask?.......... And ye blame Bobby Sands and Padraig Pearse? Enough said.

Tickle, there's a few lads who are intent on trolling the thread in the hope of a response and the best they can do is make petty remarks about Bobby Sands' poems and songs. Such attention whores and creetins are best ignored. In the words of Bobby Sands himself, "allow them to persist in their ...vindictiveness and petty harassments, let them laugh now, because all of that is no longer important or worth a response."

That would be the same Bobby Sands who couldn't spell the name of the school he attended? The same Bobby Sands who wrote these immortal words:

'A guide to me in times of plight
A princess like a star so bright
For life would never have been the same
If I hadn't of learned what small things came.'

Whenever I read some carefully crafted prose attributed to Sands, I find myself wondering what Danny Morrison is up to these days. You remember Danny, surely. He was SF Director of Publicity and spokesman for Sands during the hunger strike, editor of 'Republican News', regular newspaper columnist and author of 4 or 5 books, current Secretary of the Bobby Sands Trust. A man who gives his occupation as 'writer'. Wonder why he would pop in to my head?

[trueblue1234]

In fairness his actions spoke more than his words.

[glens abu]

b]This years Bobby Sands Lecture given by Gerry Kelly MLA

IT IS 31 YEARS since Bobby Sands's death on hunger strike. Not only are there people in this hall who were not born in 1981 but there is a whole generation who, thankfully, did not experience that traumatic period.

Seanna Walsh, a close friend and comrade of Bobby, said last year that people who went through that experience "have an obligation to tell a new generation about it – to ensure that this crucial period in Irish history isn't left to be written by the 'experts' and academics but is actually recounted by the people who lived it".

I agree entirely, because history is not about living in the past but about learning from the past to give us all a better future. And for that we need a true account of history.
What makes Bobby stand out amongst others of his ilk and generation?  What makes him the figure that still inspires people in Ireland and in so many other countries around the world – especially those struggling for freedom? To me, essentially it is simply that his words and actions match: that he was a committed activist but, importantly, also a prolific writer. He explained his actions and the actions of his comrades to people and the people understood.

In this it is important to know that he was an ordinary person living in an extraordinary situation. Perhaps to his own surprise, he found the strength, intelligence and commitment to rise to that challenge. Part of that challenge was to lead from the front.

We can follow his life from a Catholic teenager living in the strongly loyalist area of Rathcoole who enjoyed a bit of craic, loved music and kicked football to his prophetic words written in 1979 when he was 25 years old – two years before his death. He wrote: "I find it startling to hear myself say that I am prepared to die first rather than succumb to their oppressive torture and I know that I am not on my own, that many of my comrades hold the same."

I am very proud to come from a community and country that has produced and continues to produce courageous people in abundance. Alongside Bobby Sands there are many – too many – who made the supreme sacrifice for the people of Ireland. But Bobby was like an amalgam of many activists: a bit like a fictional hero that you can add extraordinary powers to – except that he was a real person.

As a teenager he was an active IRA Volunteer fighting against heavily-armed British state forces on the streets of his native Belfast. By the age of 18 he was a political prisoner sentenced to five years' imprisonment. By the end of his sentence he was a musician (thanks in great part to Rab McCullough, another political prisoner). Bobby had also become a writer.

I was transferred back from a jail in England in April 1975 and was in Cage 9 of Long Kesh Prison Camp; Bobby was in Cage 11. At the Christmas concert that year, organised by the prisoners, he and a couple of other musicians were allowed down to Cage 9 for the night. My abiding memory of Bobby is him is singing 'Imagine', the John Lennon song. It is in my head because he sang it with passion and it was obvious his beliefs went far beyond any narrow nationalism. The fact that he also liked Leonard Cohen just adds to his persona to me. He also became a Gaeilgeoir by throwing himself into Irish-language lessons.

He was a voracious reader and learned quickly. On his release in 1976 he put to good use what he had learned from reading about other political struggles throughout the world. In Twinbrook in Belfast, where he then lived, he set about reorganising the local IRA, the Auxiliaries, Na Fianna Éireann and Sinn Féin. He had embraced the fact that any political struggle must go far beyond the cutting edge of armed struggle and so he got involved in taking on the British state in every aspect of life and encouraged others to do the same. He wrote for a local news-sheet and for 'Republican News'.

He also remained an active soldier and after six short months he was back in jail. Having been in prison before, he still saw himself as a political activist and prison as another site of struggle.

He fought the British policy of criminalisation of political prisoners from within the Crumlin Road Jail and then again when he became a 'Blanket Man' in the H-Blocks of Long Kesh.

He used his talent at writing to articulate to the outside world (or to anyone who would listen) the truth of the horrendous and oppressive years of protest and systematic brutality in the H-Blocks. After the 1980 Hunger Strike, British bad faith, double-speak and reneging on agreements, made the second Hunger Strike of 1981 inevitable.

Bobby, who had become the Officer Commanding (O/C) of the republican POWs organised for himself to be the first man on hunger strike. He also arranged for a two-week gap before Francis Hughes and the others joined him on hunger strike. He believed that it was highly likely that he would die but hoped that the British Government would move to resolve the situation before others died.

When it was suggested that Bobby run in the Westminster general election there were many worries and different opinions given. Many thought it might take away from the effect of the street protests that were ongoing or if he was not elected it might do damage to the campaign for political status. It was a huge risk. Modern-day republicanism would be entering unchartered water. Yet when the decision was made to enter the election, activists inside and outside jail, whatever their view, put their full commitment and energies behind the campaign to elect Bobby.

Bobby's historic election to Fermanagh & South Tyrone was not enough to move the British Government on the prisoners' five demands at that time but it was a pivotal moment for the future of Irish republicanism –  a turning point of substantial magnitude for all our futures.

In the space of a single decade, Bobby Sands – a long-haired, working-class youngster, little known except to a handful of friends and family – had become a revolutionary, a poet and songster, a socialist, a political prisoner, a hunger striker and an elected Member of Parliament. This kid from Rathcoole had shaken the British Establishment to its foundations.

There was a powerful simplicity in the Hunger Strike. Despite the billions of pounds spent by the British Government on a strategy to defeat a political struggle and ideology through the oppression of political prisoners, they could not answer the simple question being asked in many countries and indeed in many languages: 'Why would anyone go through the horrendous, relentless pain of a prolonged hunger strike to the death if their cause was unjust?'
Bobby, of course, was not alone. Nine other comrades died on hunger strike after him. Michael Gaughan and Frank Stagg died from force-feeding and on hunger strike before him in 1974 and 1976. There are many others who lost their lives in the same way in republican history. But tonight we commemorate Bobby Sands.

It was the David and Goliath battle between a huge and powerful British Government and a strong will in the frail body of a hunger striker that is the enduring image and reality of the 1981 Hunger Strike.

Who of my generation does not remember where they were when they heard of Bobby Sands's death? I was in Cage 9 of Long Kesh, within a few hundred yards of the prison hospital. I remember watching his mother on the news telling the world "My son is dying" just a few short hours before he passed away. I stood amongst comrades in the Nissen hut in absolute silence. We all went with our own thoughts to our prison bunks.

I wrote my thoughts down till the news flash came through that Bobby was dead. It was only months later that I returned to the verses I had written and realised it was more about his mother, Rosaleen, than about Bobby himself. I reduced 20 verses down to four short ones:

Bobby's Mother

Rosaleen Sands

You do not know me

I saw you only

On a television screen

When so reluctantly you announced

"My son is dying"

Standing with such dignity and calm

In the deep well of your grief

I felt an intruder

To your private torment

Witness to a mother's

Naked mourning

Thank you

For allowing us to share

Your precious final moments

With a great man

Bobby Sands came to represent, to symbolise, a generation of Irish republican activists. So unwillingly, unknowingly, his mother Rosaleen Sands became to me, a symbol of what so many families have suffered during that dark period of our history.

I have spoken at many commemorations for comrades, some of whom were also friends or relatives. I have always said that I can't speak for them, that I don't know what they might think tonight or have said had they have been standing  here in my place.

However, I do know that we lose many of our best in conflict and for those who survive the duty is to take up their mantle and to lead as best they can in the here and now.

I do know that the Hunger Strike was a political watershed, that it allowed the bulk of republicans to realise that elections are another site of political struggle. I do know that the stronger we are the more we can do to help those who need help most. The stronger we are the closer we get to our primary goal of a united Ireland. I know that, in 1916, republicans used the relevant tools they had at their disposal at that time as they did in the 1970s and in the 1980s after the Hunger Strike period as well.

But today we must also use the relevant tools for the 21st century, for 2012. This isn't 1916 or 1970 or 1980 or 1990 or 2000. We are going from strength to strength, North and South. That we come from and represent our communities is essential to our politics. We have collectively achieved a massive amount. We have collectively much more to achieve.

We would not have got this far without the sacrifice of our fallen comrades. Taking risks has always been one of our strengths.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Nally Stand]

A video message from Khader Adnan to the families of the Irish Hunger Strikers:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=loUAwRNbLO8&feature=youtu.be

Also, today marks the 38th anniversary of a great Mayoman, Vol. Michael Gaughan, who died from internal injuries sustained during force feeding on the 64th day of his Hunger Strike in Parkhurst Jail, England.

Take me home to Mayo, across the Irish sea
Home to dear old Mayo, where once I roamed so free
Take me home to Mayo, and let my body lie
Home at last in Mayo, beneath the Irish sky.

My name is Michael Gaughan, from Ballina I came
I saw my people sufferin' and I swore to break their chains
I took the boat to England, prepared to fight or die
Far away from Mayo, beneath an Irish sky.

My body cold and hungry, in Parkhurst Jail I lie
For the loving of my country, on hunger strike I'll die
I have just one last longing, I pray you'll not deny
Take my body home to Mayo, beneath the Irish sky.