Introduction by Seamus Heaney -- He...faced the choices and moral challenges of his time with solitude, honesty and rare courage. This integrity, and its ultimately gratifying effects upon his poetry, should command the renewed interest and respect of Irish people at the present time.
I've recently discovered that I love the poetry of Francis Ledwidge. I put off reading him for years, unable to dredge up the interest for nature poetry. Why didn't he write about war? Today, I'm older and just a little wiser, and can appreciate how he needed his poems to provide him with an escape from the terror around him. Every poem he wrote outside of Ireland was a wish to be home again. I did not know that he had fought on three fronts, including the disastrous Battle of Gallipoli. This little book is the perfect starter kit to the poet's work and life, thanks to Seamus Heaney's forward and editor Dermot Bolger's afterward. It is a privilege to see Ledwidge and his work through their eyes and understand the beauty and the grace in the selected poems. I might not love all of them but I can marvel that they were written at all when I consider the circumstances of their creation.
Growing up in Drogheda I had heard of Francis Ledwidge, who had lived in nearby Slane, but knew none of his poetry. So when I saw this book I took the opportunity to fill that gap. In truth I enjoyed the introduction and afterword more than the poetry itself. Ledwidge lived in a tumultuous period, and his decision to join the British Army in the Great War meant that opposing groups put their own spin on his memory. His poem in memory of one of the leaders on the 1916 rising, Thomas McDonagh ( “He shall not hear the bittern cry” is a line known by most Irish people ) ensured that he was remembered as a patriotic, nationalist poet. Most other Irishmen who fought in the Great War were, to our shame, stigmatized and erased from public discourse. He is known as a war poet, even though the subject is rarely covered in his work. The impact of the conflict does seem to come through, and his later work is more complex and rewarding. The pity is that a shell in Ypres in 1917 ensured his poetry wouldn’t continue to deepen and develop.