#eva gore booth

[apoemaday]

Comrades

by Eva Gore Booth

The peaceful night that round me flows, Breaks through your iron prison doors, Free through the world your spirit goes, Forbidden hands are clasping yours. The wind is our confederate, The night has left her doors ajar, We meet beyond earth’s barred gate, Where all the world’s wild Rebels are.

[drumlincountry]

Having some revelations at bookshops recently

[thedepressedpelican]

Eva Gore-Booth (left) and older sister Constance Markievicz

Countess Markievicz - The making of a rebel Countess

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1870 – Birth of Eva Gore-Booth, poet, trade unionist and feminist, on the Lissadell Estate in Co Sligo.

Eva Selina Laura Gore-Booth was an Irish poet and dramatist, and a committed suffragist, social worker and labour activist. She was born at Lissadell House, Co Sligo, the younger sister of Constance Gore-Booth, later known as the Countess Markievicz. Both she and Constance, who later became a prominent Irish revolutionary, reacted against their privileged background and devoted themselves to…

[soulmaking]

William Butler Yeats, from “In Memory of Eva Gore-Booth and Con Markievicz”

[frauenfiguren]

31/2023: Esther Roper, 4. August 1868

Sie setzte sich für die Rechte von Arbeiterinnen ein und brachte das gender-kritische Magazin Uranie heraus.

By Unknown author, Public Domain Bereits kurz nach ihrer Geburt in Chorley, Lancashire – ein Ort, der von den nahegelegenen Kohleminen und Textilindustrie geprägt war –, verließen die Eltern von Esther Roper England als Missionare(1). Ihr Vater war ehemaliger Fabrikarbeiter, ihre Mutter stammte aus einer Familie irischer Einwanderer, bei denen Esther aufwuchs. Sie besuchte eine Schule der Church…

[makingqueerhistory]

Coining the term “Sex is an accident”, Eva Gore-Booth was faced with an uphill climb in her lifetime in the early 20th century. A poet, suffragist, and lifelong activist, her story is sometimes forgotten in the shadow of her more famous sister Countess Markievicz who had many of the same aims of gender and class equality. Eva found her path through her partnership with Esther Roper, her lover and lifelong companion.

[marimoes]

There's a new documentary Croíthe Radacacha (Radical Hearts) set to air on TG4 on December 6th about the many lesbian couples who were involved in the 1916 Rising and The Irish War of Independence. I'm so excited because this is such a neglected part of Irish history and something like this has been my dream!

It's to include Eva Gore Booth & Esther Roper; Elizabeth O' Farrell & Julia Grenan; Helena Molony & Evelyn O’Brien; Margaret Skinnider & Nora O’Keeffe; Kathleen O’Brennan & Marie Equi; Kathleen Lynn & Madeline Ffrench-Mullen and Louie Bennet & Helen Chenevix.

[duine-aiteach]

Fan nóiméad. Eva Gore-Booth leispiach?!?! Grmmma, tráthnóna teolaí romham, ag cuimhneamh de phreab go gcaithfidh mé breathnú ar Croíthe Radacacha ar TG4 🫡🏳️‍🌈

Mise freisin! Bain tú taitneamh as!

Scríobh sí irisleabhar suimiúil ar inscne freisin…d’inis mo chara dom agus níl a fhios agam aon eolas níos mó.

[downwiththeficness]

Shadow and Veil-Chapter Thirty One

Summary: Eva Moore’s life was a carefully constructed fiction.  Every day, she did exactly what her mother in law, her husband, and his  best friend expected of her. No mistakes. And, that was going pretty  well for Eva right up until a huge complication literally tried to run  her over. Now, she’s faced with trying to keep the pieces of her life  from falling apart while attempting (and failing) to keep her feelings  for her husband’s new business partner at bay.

A/N: This fic is a sister-fic to A Need So Great and A Need Unleashed.  You do not need to have read ANSG or ANU to read this fic, but there  are Easter eggs from those fics in Shadow and Veil for readers with keen  eyes.  This fic is explicit for canon-compliant blood, gore, violence,  and sex. As such, it is intended for an adult audience, only. A/B/O  dynamics come with their own warning. Anyone under the age of 18 should  not interact with this work. I do not consent to reposting this work to  other platforms. Reblog only to Tumblr.  

Word Count: ~2600

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Masterlist            Read on AO3

Eva sat in the back of a bar located just inside the border of Texas. She was nursing a glass of red wine and picking at a basket of fries that were hot when they came out of the kitchen, but quickly cooling. There was music playing from the jukebox, a song she didn’t recognize. And, for the most part, the room was empty.

For the first time since Horacio kidnapped her, she was completely alone with her thoughts.

Had it really been less than twelve hours ago?

Time felt strange to her—alternately expanding and contracting so that sometimes minutes felt like seconds and hours felt like minutes. It wasn’t until she dropped down into the booth with her bags tucked beneath the table that Eva even felt how tired she was.

Through the front windows, she could see Horacio standing with federal agents. Eva didn’t know what they were talking about, but Horacio’s hands were on his hips and his mouth was pressed into a thin line. Had something gone wrong? Were all of their efforts about to be undone?

The image of Alexei’s head cracked open on the carpet of The Lounge returned to her. It couldn’t have gone worse than that—unless, Josh was also dead. His anger, grief, and mania might have been enough to push him over the edge, to push him to remove his mask of congeniality. Eva didn’t know how she felt about that notion.

Nothing about what was going to happen next had been explained to her yet. All Eva knew was that she had some of her most precious belongings and five hundred thousand dollars at her feet. There were also very tasty fries on the table in front of her. She could sit quietly and eat while Horacio worked out the details.

Draining the last of her wine, Eva flagged down the waitress and ordered another glass. It didn’t look like Horacio was going to be done with the agents any time soon and Eva’s frazzled nerves needed soothing. She focused on the bite of salt on her tongue and the crunch between her teeth—anything to beat back the inclination to wring her hands.

Halfway through the second glass and most of the way through the fries, Horacio stepped into the bar. His expression was relaxed and she took that as a good sign. In his hand was a manila folder that swung with the rhythm of his step.

With the sun at his back, Horacio was cut through with shadows that did nothing to hide the shape of his body. He moved with purpose, taking up so much space that Eva couldn’t look away. They very sight of him wiped away all her nervousness, gave her a sense of calm that felt almost unnatural.

Had she been frazzled before? She certainly wasn’t now.

He sat down across from her and folded his hands on the table, “How are the fries?”

Eva licked the salt from her thumb, “They’re good. Not as hot as they were when I got them, but I guess that’s bar food for you.” She touched her glass, “The wine is surprisingly nice.”

Horacio laughed soundlessly, “Good. Are you feeling better? You looked...tired.”

She nodded, “Nothing a bit of fried food can’t fix.” Eva hesitated over the next question, but decided to go ahead and ask it, “What did the agents have to say?”

He leaned back a little, and Eva’s stomach dropped with apprehension. She didn’t like that way his face closed off.

“They’re not happy with the way we handled getting you out of the house,” he began, “I’ve been told shooting Alexei set them back in another investigation.”

“There’s another investigation?” she asked, “One that you don’t already know about?”

Horacio shrugged, “Its international. Above my pay grade, as you Americans like to say.”

“Oh.”

“But,” he continued, “the good news is that my last few reports were very detailed.”

Eva sipped her wine and tried not to think about what those reports described. She knew he was working to ensure she appeared to be a victim in the whole scheme, but every ounce of her cringed at the thought of anyone seeing what she spent her whole marriage working to hide.

His hand reached forward to take hers, “They’re going to let you choose what you’ll do from here.”

Brows together, she asked, “What kind of choice?”

“You can stay and see the trial through to the end—don’t roll your eyes, you can’t be made to testify against your husband.”

Eva let out a slow, relieved breath, “Or?”

“Or,” Horacio said. His hand squeezed hers lightly, “you can go…” he searched for the words, “with your plan. Take a plane somewhere.”

She blinked at him, “I didn’t know that was still an option.”

In twelve hours, every plan Eva had ever put together inside her mind seemed have been dismantled completely. Even with the heads up about the warrant, even knowing Horacio’s agenda. It didn’t feel possible that she could simply escape with the blessing of the government.

“It is,” he replied slowly, “an option.”

“Where would I go?”

He looked down at their hands, “You can go with them, or you can come with me.”

Her head cocked to the side, “With you?”

A nod, “I can bring you with me—home.”

Home.

It took Eva several seconds to figure out what the word, ‘home’, meant. Horacio wanted to take her out of the country. To Colombia.

She must have been quiet too long because Horacio let go of her hand and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a familiar envelope. It was creased, but didn’t appear otherwise damaged.

“There’s a third choice. Your friend was very thorough when she got you a new identity,” he said, “You can take it and live whatever life you want. The agents will make sure you get there.”

“Witness protection?”

He hummed in the affirmative.

“I’d have to cooperate for that.”

Horacio’s head ticked to the side, “You’ve already given them almost everything they need.”

Her brows came together, “I have?”

He nodded, and there was a flash of mischief in his eye.

Eva stared at the envelope. Horacio’s hands rested on either side of it, pressed flat against the table. They were nice hands, surprisingly fine boned. With wrists that led to strong arms that kept her upright when she wanted to collapse. They were also tense.

“Do you want me to come with you?” she asked in a low voice.

He nodded.

“And,” Eva continued, “what would that look like? If I went with you?”

His mouth opened, but no words were said. She held very still while she waited for him to answer her question. Half hopeful, half dread. Hopeful that all the things he said to her over the many months were true. Dreading that, with the investigation finished, he had changed his mind.

“It would,” Horacio said, finally, “look like I went to the States on assignment and brought back an American wife.”

Her heart skipping in her chest, Eva ducked her head and smiled. He hadn’t changed his mind, after all.

He tried to catch her eye, “Is that...good?”

Cheeks warm, Eva nodded.

“You’ll come with me?”

Another nod.

His dimples were so cute.

Horacio stood and leaned over the table kiss her briefly, “I need to make a call.”

Bemused, Eva watched him go with a smile that no amount of effort would ever suppress. She had time to finish her fries and a third glass of wine by the time he got back. Warm and just a little tipsy, Eva relaxed into the booth and waited for him to talk.

“Lizzy is bringing us a car,” he said. “We’ll get as far as we can tonight and cross the border tomorrow.”

“I don’t have a passport.”

She didn’t think she needed to pack it with the rest of her belongings, what with the new identity, and all. Taking it would also have tipped off Josh or Alexei that she was going to run. Eva couldn’t take that chance a second time.

Horacio smirked, “Yes, you do.”

When she tilted her head in question, he opened the manila folder and showed her the contents. Eva looked at each, in turn. A birth certificate, a Colombian ID, and a passport. All of them under the name Juliana Evangeline Carrillo. She couldn’t breathe as she stared at them.

“How long…?”

He knew what she meant without having to finish the sentence, “After that first night with you. When you told me you would accept the mark.”

Her mouth hung open, “How did you know I would agree to coming with you?”

Horacio shrugged, “I didn’t. But, I hoped.”

Eva had hoped, too. All this time, she hoped, too. Like Eva, his hope was strong and fervent. He stoked it high so that he could confidently arrange for Eva to come with him to his home—as his wife.

Flustered, Eva wiped away the tears and gave Horacio a trembling smile. He reached out and took her hand. They sat like that, looking at each other with matching grins, until the waitress brought Eva’s check.

When Horacio reached for his wallet, she waved him off, “I gotta spend this money, somehow.”

Eva paid in cash and left a tip that would hopefully pay the waitress’ rent for the month. Then, because she didn’t want to see how the waitress would react, Eva hurried Horacio out of the bar and into the afternoon sun.

The agents were nowhere to be seen, which was fine by Eva. She could live the whole rest of her life without seeing another one of them and die happy. It occurred to her that she might actually be able to make that wish a reality.

In Colombia.

With Horacio.

He’d caught her hand on the way out the door and was currently leading them towards the far end of the parking lot. It was mostly empty, which she supposed was the point. Eva followed along happily until she heard the door to the bar slam open.

The waitress.

Thinking quickly, she dragged a confused Horacio behind a dumpster and peered around the corner. Horacio’s quiet ‘¿qué?’ was cut off by an event quieter ‘hush’. She watched the waitress search the lot frantically with money clenched in her fist.

Eva frowned, thinking that she didn’t look happy at all. The money she left on the table was much more than and server could make in a day’s work. Or, a week. Why did she look so desperate to find Eva? Why did she look so sad? None of the other shop girls had ever looked sad when she tipped them.

The waitress looked her way and Eva ducked back behind the dumpster. Horacio was standing not far from her with his hands in the pocket of his jeans. He didn’t seem to care at all that she was hiding from their server, or why. He just shook his head and waited until Eva thought the coast was clear.

The car arrived a short while later. Lizzy’s blonde hair was tied back with a scarf and her eyes were concealed by aviator sunglasses. She pulled to a park in a spot a few feet from Eva and Horacio, cutting the engine and stepping out of the car.

“Got a full tank,” she announced as she threw Horacio the keys.

Eva loaded her bags into the trunk, noting that there were already several packed inside. Then, to Lizzy, she said, “Thank you for your help.”

Lizzy smiled a crooked smile, “No problem.” Then, “For what its worth, it took us a really long time to figure it out.”

“What?”

“How you did it,” Lizzy replied, “How you hid the money.”

Eva was abashed, “Its really not that complicated.”

With a knowing grin, Lizzy leaned towards Eva and said, “You keep telling yourself that. I am going to be teaching a class on your techniques next semester. You’re going to keep me in my job for, like, the next five years.”

She didn’t quite know what to do with that information, and so Eva chose to smile nicely and nod. Lizzy didn’t seem to mind.

Horacio closed the trunk, “Do you want a ride?”

Lizzy shook her head, “I got one, right...there!”

A sleek, black car pulled around. Eva smiled as she recognized the ride. Marcus waved at them from the driver’s side window. While he looked comfortable behind the wheel, he couldn’t quite pull off the confident asshole aesthetic, like Diego.

Eva waved back and said her good bye to Lizzy. Then, she moved to stand next to Horacio so that she could watch them drive away.

“Amorcita,” Horacio said as he touched her arm, “we should go.”

About a mile from the bar, Eva turned to Horacio and asked, “You remember when you told me that you got picked for this job because your English was so good?”

“Uh huh.”

“How did you learn?”

If she was going to live in Colombia, a place where she had no connections (not a problem) and didn’t speak the language (definitely a problem), Eva thought it might be good to get some tips from someone who had done it already.

Horacio ran his hand over his hair and offered a small smile, “TV and movies.”

Her brows lifted, “Really? Which show?”

He shrugged, “A couple. But, mostly it was movies. There was a theater that played westerns every Saturday afternoon. I used to sneak in through the employee entrance.”

Eva gasped his name in mock offense, “All this time, you let me think I was the only criminal in this relationship!”

“I was ten,” he defended with a good-natured roll of his eyes.

She leaned her arm on the console, “Did you ever get caught?”

“Once or twice.”

“Did they call your mom?”

“Uh huh,” he said, “She made me say fifty Hail Marys before bed.”

Eva’s parents never made her pray as a form of punishment—an aberration from other mothers and fathers in their church. Instead, when Eva acted out, she was made to peel potatoes. To this day, she couldn’t look at a potato without feeling an ache in her fingers.

“Did you go to movies as a kid?”

Horacio’s question broke Eva from her thoughts, “Uh, no. I’ve actually never been.”

He looked at her, “To the movies?”

She nodded, “My parents didn’t believe in them. The Devil’s work, you know? And then, Josh always said they were a waste of time.”

A hand dropping onto her knee, warm and heavy, “Every time I think he can’t be more of an idiot, the idiot proves me wrong.”

Eva smiled and tamped down the urge to defend him. Horacio was right. Josh was an idiot in all the ways that mattered. She guessed that she didn’t really have to worry about that, anymore. In a few days, Eva would be far, far away in a place where he couldn’t reach her.

She covered his hand with hers and turned on the radio. The scenery passed by in a blur of color and sky. Horacio drove until the sun was nearly set before he pulled off the interstate and into the parking lot of a motel. They checked in with cash from Eva’s duffel and keyed into the room. Eva showered first while Horacio made calls from the phone on the nightstand. She curled up on the bed while he went to get cleaned up.

She fell asleep to the sound of the water running.

[grymmrp]

𝐎𝐇, 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋, 𝐅𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐖

You have dragged me on through the wild wood ways, / You have given me toil and scanty rest, / I have seen the light of ten thousand days / Grow dim and sink and fade in the West. / Once you bore me forth from the dusty gloom, / Weeping and helpless and naked and blind, / Now you would hide me deep down in the tomb, / And wander away on the moonlit wind. / You would bury me like a thing of shame, / Silently into the darkness thrust, / You would mix my heart that was once a flame / With the mouldering clay and the wandering dust. / The eyes that wept for your sorrowful will / Shall be laid among evil and unclean things, / The heart that was faithful through good and ill / You scorn for a flutter of tawdry wings. Body text excerpted from "The Body to the Soul" — Eva Gore-Booth Title — Rumi

𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝑰 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒂 𝒉𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔.

the notion hub has been updated to include information about souls.

[scarletzfever]

⋆･ﾟ:✧⋆･ﾟ:✲ﾟ✧✧ﾟ･: *✲ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✲ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

The Incarnate

By Eva Gore-Booth

(๑･ิ⌣･ิ)ε ･ิ🌸 )

Deep in the soul there throbs the secret pain

Of one homesick for dear familiar things,

When Spring winds rock the waves of sun-lit rain

And on the grass there falls the shadow of wings.

How should one bend one's dreams to the dark clay

Where carven beauty mixed with madness dwells?

And men who fear to die fear not to slay,

And Life has built herself ten thousand hells.

No wave that breaks in music on the shore

Can purify the tiger's bloodstained den,

The worms that crawl about the dark world's core

Cry out aloud against the deeds of men.

Alas the peace of these still hours and deep

Is but a dream that wanders from afar,

And the great Dreamer, turning in His sleep,

Smothers in darkness all our little star.

Yet in the gentle spirit of the wise

Light flashes out through many a simple thing,

The tired ploughman with impassive eyes,

Knows in his heart that he was once a king.

He sees in dreams the crown long lost and dear,

That glittered on a fallen spirit's brow,

A shattered gleam from some far shining sphere

Has dazed the eyes of him who drives the plough.

The long brown furrows of the broken soil

Lead in straight lines unto the sunset's gates,

On high green hills, beyond the reach of toil,

The vision of the twilight broods and waits.

The silence folded in about the heart

Whispers strange longings to the broken soul,

That lingers in a lonely place apart,

Stretching vain hands to clasp the secret whole.

⋆･ﾟ:✧⋆･ﾟ:✲ﾟ✧✧ﾟ･: *✲ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✲ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

Fire and Ice

By Robert Frost

(*｀□)<炎炎炎炎

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire,

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great and would suffice.

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1927 – Death of Constance, Countess Markiewicz, politician, revolutionary nationalist and suffragette.

Born in London, her father was a philanthropist, Henry Gore-Booth. He was an Arctic explorer and a landlord in the west of Ireland, who was married to Georgina May Hill, of Tickhill Castle, York, England. Constance was educated at the family estate in Lissadell, Co Sligo. She was noted as a fine horsewoman who had an excellent shot. Inspired by William Butler Yeats, she became interested in Irish…

[drumlincountry]

Its orientalist. Its imperialist. I know. I know. But also if it was 1918 and some academic dyke from the Ottoman empire became a key military strategist helping lead an Irish revolt against Britain. And her stated motivation was “I liked a particular [Irishwoman] very much, and I thought that freedom for the race would be an acceptable present”. Well. i'd lose my mind.

I just can't stop thinking of

I loved you, so I drew these tides of Men into my hands And wrote my will across the Sky and stars To earn you freedom, the seven Pillared worthy house, That your eyes might be Shining for me When we came

[moomanities]

Module 6

Re-Incarnation

BY EVA GORE-BOOTH

The darkness draws me, kindly angels weep

Forlorn beyond receding rings of light,

The torrents of the earth’s desires sweep

My soul through twilight downward into night.

Once more the light grows dim, the vision fades,

Myself seems to myself a distant goal,

I grope among the bodies’ drowsy shades,

Once more the Old Illusion rocks my soul.

Once more the Manifold in shadowy streams

Of falling waters murmurs in my ears,

The One Voice drowns amid the roar of dreams

That crowd the narrow pathway of the years.

I go to seek the starshine on the,waves,

To count the dewdrops on the grassy hill,

I go to gather flowers that grow on graves,

The world’s wall closes round my prisoned will.

Yea, for the sake of the wild western wind

The sphered spirit scorns her flame-built throne,

Because of primroses, time out of mind,

The Lonely turns away from the Alone.

Who once has loved the cornfield’s rustling sheaves,

Who once has heard the gentle Irish rain

Murmur low music in the growing leaves,

Though he were god, comes back to earth again.

Oh Earth! green wind-swept Eirinn, I would break

The tower of my soul’s initiate pride

For a gray field and a star-haunted lake,

And those wet winds that roam the country side.

I who have seen am glad to close my eyes,

I who have soared am weary of my wings,

I seek no more the secret of the wise,

Safe among shadowy, unreal human things.

Blind to the gleam of those wild violet rays

That burn beyond the rainbow's circle dim,

Bound by dark nights and driven by pale days,

The sightless slave of Time’s imperious whim;

Deaf to the flowing tide of dreams divine

That surge outside the closed gates of birth,

The rhythms of eternity, too fine

To touch with music the dull ears of earth—

I go to seek with humble care and toil

The dreams I left undreamed, the deeds undone,

To sow the seed and break the stubborn soil,

Knowing no brightness whiter than the sun.

Content in winter if the fire burns clear

And cottage walls keep out the creeping damp,

Hugging the Old Illusion warm and dear,

The Silence and the Wise Book and the Lamp.

Eva Gore-Booth takes us on a journey in her poem of what it could feel like to experience reincarnation. The protagonist details of slowly watching everything fade away, including herself, as she feels herself passing on to the afterlife. “The world’s wall closes round my prisoned will,” is a metaphor for how trapped she feels, unable to further see the starry sky, the glistening waves, the grassy hills. She eventually goes on to accept her descendence, feeling satisfied with what she has seen, what she knows, and accepts that she will not be going further, as Time has decided that hers is up - she is “the sightless slave of Time’s imperious whim.” This is to represent that none of us have a say in how much time we get in this world, that “Time” is a dictator and will decide it for us. She then ascends back to reality, ready to start her fresh life anew.

Gore-Booth’s use of imagery really helps the reader to visualize each stage that the protagonist is passing through on her journey. You can almost picture the “star-haunted lake” and the “dewdrops on the grassy hill.” You can almost hear the “wet winds that roam the countryside” and the “flowing tide of dreams divine.” Her description of dark nights and pale days almost compares the transition to be similar to that of seasons changing. She writes “Bound by dark nights and driven by pale days, The sightless slave of Time’s imperious whim” which is symbolic of her feeling trapped in a long, cold, dark winter away from everything she loves and knows.

[tikkisaram]

Something Shamrocking — My Top Seven Irish Poems

These poems are 'Irish' for having been written by poets from Ireland, but also in that they capture something central to Irish identity. The selection is wide due to the sheer diversity of Irish culture, as well as the nation's rich history! ;^)

1. Moyra Donaldson - Nest

While the masses will often refer to actors born in the Northern Ireland who identify as Irish as such, the same luxury is not given to poets. Poor Donaldson is often misidentified as British, so I had to include her in my Irish pweek! This poem discusses both the beauty of horses and their unmatched loyalty. The horse in this poem is abandoned by its owner and waits in the same spot until their death — a haunting image indeed. This image is a clever metaphor for British people not being interested in the Irish who suffered terribly under their rule. Let this poem be a warning that we all need to take care of that which we are responsible for!

My horse is waiting, Bright and patient, His skin sunlight And his breath air Amongst the moss His bones are white and dry

2. Eva Gore Booth - The Eternal Rebel

Gore Booth is the sister of one of Ireland’s most famous women in history — Countess Constance Markievicz. While Markievicz took to the streets to fight for what she believed in, Gore Booth performed her activism through poetry. This is a deeply sad poem about soldiers being haunted by past demons and their injuries; Gore Booth ensures that these people are not forgotten and reminds us that their cause of eventual peace was more than worthy.

Free soul of fire, break down their chains and bars, Drive out those unclean phantoms of the brain, Till every living thing be friends again, And our lost earth true comrade to the stars.

3. Brendan Kennelly - Begin

I consider this beautifully uplifting poem especially suited for the list because I wanted to include an entry featuring swans, the importance of which in Irish mythology and culture cannot be overstated. While I thought about including a poem about the classic Irish myth of The Children of Lír for this slot, I realized that it would not be fair to ignore this already-great poem with swans in it. Kennelly describes the birds perfectly, realising that they are graceful from a distance but that up close they can be quite rude animals. They often do not travel in groups and they do not seem able to communicate with other species. Swans are rarely included in poems about everyday Irish life so it is nice to see Kennelly break from normativity! ;^)

Begin to the pageant of queuing girls the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal

4. Gofraidh Fionn Ó Dálaigh - A chláirsioch Chnuic Í Chosgair

I simply had to include a poem in ancient Gaelic on this list; it is one of the most beautiful languages that I know, which is really saying something. This poem is equally beautiful and discuses how harps are superior to other instruments. This poet from the 14th century takes their time in detailing all that the national instrument of Ireland has managed to accomplish — including keeping them from committing sins!

A bháthadh gacha croinn chiúil, a chrann taitneamhach taidhiúir, a chomhnaidhi eidir chloinn gCoinn, a chroinn donnbhuidhi dhíoghainn

5. Uinsionn Ó Domhaill - An deoch is fearr

Modern Irish is as under appreciated as the ancient Gaelic, so I wanted to include both. Luckily I speak both language fluently so had a wide range of options to chose from. I found this cute poem about tea by the skilled modern writer Ó Domhaill to be perfect for our pweek; I chose tea over whiskey as both are national drinks of Ireland and one is clearly superior to the other. ;^)

Cupa tae, Is maith liom é, Am ar bith, I rith an lae.

6. Seamus Heaney - The Early Purges

Loyal Tikki Troops will understand that I simply had to include Heaney this week. This poem describes the brutal relationship between life and death in rural life; of course — as is the case with most of Heaney’s poetry — there is an underlying queer aspect here. Heaney laments the fact that in cities and places of large populations one would find it extremely difficult to get away with murdering a homosexual or beating them until they claim their sexuality has changed; in more isolated areas, however, it is much easier for such behaviour to go unchallenged. I admire how Heaney chooses such an interesting way of putting his suffering into words! :^(

'Prevention of cruelty' talk cuts ice in town Where they consider death unnatural But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down.

7. Samuel Lover - The Four-Leaved Shamrock

Lover is more famous for his songs than for his poetry; this is a shame, because he has written some truly beautiful verse. This is my favourite of his poems, and it is about one of Ireland’s most important symbols to boot. It is believed that finding a four-leaved shamrock will bring you luck and good fortune; Lover doesn’t want to use this luck on himself, however, but on those less fortunate than he is. What a selfless soul — surely worthy of his last name! ;^)

I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock in all the fairy dells, And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I'll weave my spells! I would not waste my magic might on diamond, pearl, or gold, For treasure tires the weary sense,—such triumph is but cold; But I would play th' enchanter's part, in casting bliss around,— Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found