Máirtín Ó Direáin (November 29, 1910 - March 19, 1988) born in Sruthán on Inishmore in the Aran Islands was an Irish language poet.
The son of a small-farmer, Máirtín Ó Direáin spoke only Irish until his mid-teens. He worked as a civil servant from 1928 until 1975. His main works include the poetry collections:
* Rogha Dánta (1949) * Ó Mórna agus Dánta Eile (1957) * Ar Ré Dhearóil (1962) * Cloch Choirnéil (1967) * Crainn is Cairde (1970) * Dánta 1939-79 (1980) * Ceacht an Éin (1984) * Béasa an Túir (1984) * Tacar Dánta/Selected Poems (1984) * Craobhóg: Dán (1986)
His autobiographical essays are collected as Feamainn Bhealtine (1961). His awards include the An Chomhairle Ealaíon/The Arts Council Awards (1964 and 1971); the Butler Prize, with Eoghan Ó Tuairisc (1967); the Ossian Prize for Poetry, FVS Foundation, Hamburg (1977). He was a member of Aosdána.
Carraig agus cathair: Ó Direáin is a recent (2002) biography. Its title ('Rock and City') refers to Ó Direáin's journey from his native rocky island to Dublin, where he lived most of his life.
On 27 May, 2010, An Post (Ireland Post Office) issued a single stamp to commemorate the birth centenary of Máirtín Ó Direáin featurig a portrait of the poet.
The Emperor's New Clothes is the best story ever told in my opinion, and Cré na Cille is the emperor's invisible suit here. Academics love this book because it is cryptic and difficult to understand, and it enables them to set difficult exam questions on it. They seem to think that it has a deeper meaning, hidden within it. If it has, it is one that was known only to the author, Mairtín Ó Cadhain, while he was alive. I am reminded of Frank McCourt, the writer of Angela's Ashes, who said in an interview that if he had to sit an exam on his own book, he would fail. There are dozens of books in the Irish or Gaelic language that I could recommend before this one, yet Cré na Cille gets all the praise from the academics. The author, in my opinion, was a bluffer because he went out of his way to make the book hard to read. You are never sure, for a start, who is speaking because he does not indicate which of his characters is doing so, and it is laughable how he imitates James Joyce here and there. The book is boring – and repetitive to an amazing degree.