Fód na Filíochta a Sheasamh / Keeping Your Ground
Fód na Filíochta a Sheasamh
Luigh ar do chranna foirtil
I gcoinne mallmhuir is díthrá,
Coigil aithinne d’aislinge,
Scaradh léi is éag duit.
Cailleadh Máirtín Ó Direáin sa bhliain 1988 tar éis tinnis fhada. Dúradh leis i 1978 nach mairfeadh sé níos mó ná sé mhí, ach d’fhógair sé nach raibh sé ‘ag dul in áit ar bith’ agus mhair deich mbliana eile.
Bhí Ó Direáin an-fhlaithiúil lena chuid ama agus is iomaí dalta scoile a ghlaoigh air lena chomhairle a lorg. Lá amháin, agus é ag dul faoi scian, dúirt banaltra go magúil leis nach maithfeadh sí dó riamh gur theip uirthi i scrúdú Gaeilge na hArdteiste mar gheall air agus go bhféadfadh sí a scornach a ghearradh anois agus an deis aici!
Chomh maith leis an aitheantas a fuair a shaothar ar chlár na scoile, bronnadh lear mór duaiseanna náisiúnta agus idirnáisiúnta ar an Direánach freisin, Duais na Comhairle Ealaíon (1965), Duais an Bhuitléirigh ón Institiúid Ghael-Mheiriceánach (1967) agus Duais an Oireachtais (1981) ina measc. Ba bhall é d’Aos Dána chomh maith.
An gradam ba mhó a bronnadh air ná an Ossian-Preis san Fhilíocht ó Fhondúireacht Freiherr von Stein, Hamburg (1977). Seans gurbh é seo an gradam ba thábhachtaí a bronnadh ar scríbhneoir Éireannach ó bronnadh an Duais Nobel ar Samuel Beckett i 1969. Bhí duais airgeadais suntasach de £5,000 ag roinnt leis freisin, rud a d’fhág go bhféadfadh sé a theach féin a cheannach ar deireadh thiar.
An gaisce ba mhó a rinne Ó Direáin, áfach, ná an oidhreacht a d’fhág sé le huacht ag na scríbhneoirí a tháinig ina dhiaidh. Mar a dúirt Seán Ó Ríordáin, bhí “a chantam féin den nGaeilge direánaithe aige.”
“Bhí ceirnín Sheáin Uí Ríordáin agam agus ceann Uí Dhireáin. Is cuimhin liom bheith ag éisteacht le Ó Direáin i lár na hoíche nuair nach bhféadfainn codladh is é ag rá, ‘Faoiseamh seal a gheobhadsa…’ An guth a bhí aige! Chuirfeadh sé gráinní ar do chraiceann. Is thosnaíos ag scríobh ansan de réir a chéile.” Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill
Crannlaoch do Mháirtín Ó Direáin
Sheas ar leac an tinteáin
Duilliúrdhánta ina láimh
Glór mar cheol toirní
Súil dharach an chrannlaoich.
Dearcán solais dár thuirling
De ruachraobh anuas
Phréamhaigh i ndán ar lár
Ár lomghoirtín is d’fhás.
Michael Davitt
Keeping Your Ground
“His work touched a deep chord in the common culture... [and] verified a dream of ourselves as a displaced people.” Séamus Heaney
Keeping Your Ground
"Lean on your own strong oars against neap and ebb tide, keep the coals of your dream ablaze: to part from that will be your death."
Máirtín Ó Direáin died in 1988 after a long illness. He was told in 1978 that he had no more than six months left to live, but exclaimed he had ‘no intention of going anywhere’ and lived for another ten years.
Ó Direáin was very generous with his time and often received phone calls from students looking for advice on his work. One day, as he was entering the operation theatre, a nurse declared that she would never forgive him for making her fail her Leaving Certificate Irish exam and joked that, now that she had him, she could ‘easily cut his throat!’
In addition to being recognised on the school syllabus, Ó Direáin was honoured with a number of national and international awards such as the Arts Council Award (1965), the Butler Prize from the Irish-American Cultural Institute (1967), and the Oireachtas Award (1981). He was also a member of Aos Dána.
The most notable award he received was the Ossian Prize for Poetry from the Freiherr von Stein Foundation in 1977. This was perhaps the most significant award presented to an Irish literary figure since Samuel Beckett received the Nobel Prize in 1969, but it also came with a substantial monetary award of £5,000 which allowed Ó Direáin to finally purchase his house.
Ó Direáin’s most significant feat, however, was the path he opened for the poets who came after him. As Seán Ó Ríordáin once commented, he ‘direáinised’ much of the Irish language.
“Is mó ná duine é anois. Is traidisiún é. Is treo é go bhféadfadh file eile dul.” Seán Ó Ríordáin
Hearts of Oak for Máirtín Ó Direáin
When he stood on the hearthstone
His hands would rustle with new poems.
A peal of thunder when he spoke.
His eye was a knot of oak.
A little acorn of light pitched
Into our bald patch
From the red branch above
Might take root there, and thrive.
[Translated by Paul Muldoon]
