MICHAEL HARNETT

A POET OF SUBSTANCE

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At 16 I had my first experience of a poetry reading at the City Theatre in Limerick city. Three poets were assembled to read from their works but the only one I can remember is Michael Hartnett from Newcastlewest, I remember him for two reasons: the power and beauty of his poems and his demeanour on the evening. Hartnett was dressed in a plain black suit with white shirt and tie and had his elderly father accompanying him, both sitting behind a long table with two pints of Guinness before them. The other ‘poets’ were decked in more avant-garde gear and while looking the part of the free-spirited artistes their readings did not deliver the punch of Hartnett’s pieces. I learned a valuable lesson all those years ago, it’s not the appearance that matters but the substance and he as an upcoming writer dazzled and impressed with the quality of his compositions.

About 25 years on from that initial encounter I again had the pleasure of attending a reading by Michael Hartnett this time in the medieval splendour of king John’s Castle. I arrived at the event early and had the opportunity to meet the poet for a few minutes before the event. He told me that he had got the bus down from Dublin (where he then lived) as his wife would never allow him to travel on the train because of the onboard bar facilities. By this time he was an alcoholic and much of his later poetry hints at the shadow of this spectre which remained with him all of his life. At that meeting I got the opportunity of telling him how he had impressed me as young man, by then the ravages of his addiction were evident in his frail frame although his voice had lost none of its rich tenor and commanding delivery.
For about 10 years Hartnett wrote only in Irish describing English as 'the perfect language to sell pigs in‘. This move severely restricted his readership and in monetary terms cost him dearly but it shows the integrity of the man in his chosen craft. He died in 1999. ~ Gerard O'Shea ~

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The Blink Of An Eye

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I see the Morning Star

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Through my childhood skylight

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And close my eyes and dream for fifty years,

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Re-living every set-back, every high-light;

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I open my eyes and there’s the Evening Star.

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And suddenly it’s twilight.

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Michael Hartnett