A poem by Conor Lynam.

Men with steely skin stand where others kneeled.
Uniforms discarded and defiance deliberated through determined abstinence.
Salty water and smiling screws for breakfast.
Struggles always find the smallest things, even during the darkest of nights.
Cages can never hold a dream.
Small birds through steel bars carry our hopes neath their free wings.
The smuggled words, contraband communications slipped through hopeful hands.
Paper thin notes passed and publicized with determination.
Scrawled on filthy British walls, their solution to our hungry struggle.
I remember when I was small,
My mother grew flowers from seeds, when they bloomed the bees came.
I watched them, provoked them and then captured one.
His wings washed the jam jar as I fastened the lid.
I dropped flowers in, each more colourful and perfumed than the last.
I tried to sell him a dream that was all mine, never his.
It mattered not, the bee was trapped, force fed flowers and denied his home, family and freedom.
Perpetually planning his escape.
I learned that day, that freedom is not easily won.
It spills from our ghosts tongues like raindrops falling from drenched leaves.
But nothing that is beautiful comes without toil and tears.
No such thing as an easily won Irish struggle.
Twisting the stubborn lid I heard a beautiful sound.
Wings buzzing, black and yellow beauty neath an Irish sky.
I would never do it again.
There is something special that only freedom can explain.
Let fallen men and thoughts of freedom forever light the way.
Hunger for justice, truth and beautiful things.
I read about them, the 22 men that is.
They starved, so we could feed.
But not for a pseudo republic written by men but deliberately sold by cowards in suits that cost more than their souls.
22 men told a story.
If you didn't listen then lend me your ear as I lend you my heart and soul.
A man with a pen and a revolution in heart is what the pretenders fear.
Imposters to our republic.
Never be afraid of the impossible.
Revolutions begin in the mind, the heart and in the souls of patriots.
Rebellion is the opening of hearts, the turning of fists, and the buzzing of wings.
It is not those that inflict the most but those that can suffer the most will conquer.
MacSwiney forever in my heart.
Stand proud as men and women once did and continue to do.
Hunger for the Republic and see it through.
An insatiable hunger until freedom is won.
I will never let the memories of men that proudly stood fall.
For right or wrong I tried to free my land.

➽Conor Lynam is a Dublin Republican


  1. Thank you for taking the risk in sharing this with us on here.

  2. Ps I imagined a reference along the lines of “special Bee” (B-Specials) when reading it.

  3. Beautiful sentiment as ever a chara.

  4. For a moment there I imagined I had something to say ...

  5. Look HJ Sean is back, just say anything to get your comment posted close to his, and he might notice you.
    Imagine if he responded! It would be a non-denom Christmas treat come early for you wouldn’t it?

  6. Dáithí,

    have a peep at my last comment on this thread. It might explain.

  7. No idea what this is all about?

  8. This HJ “.... So I'll close off on this thread in particular and moreover on these matters in general....”?
    I thought the imagine line alluded to me, did you mean for your comment to be read literally?

    Sorry Conor, thought HJ was having a dig so I returned the serve. I’m confused now too.

  9. Lads, you like the poem or don't, either way is fine. As a writer I take the good with the bad.

  10. Conor - don't worry yourself whether it is liked or not. It is published and that is all you need to do. You neither have to defend it nor promote it. And quite often what they will debate is something else. A poem like this can prompt discussion about the sentiment beneath it not the actual poem per se. Given that it is a truism that more people write poetry than read it. You have achieved in that Hunger is getting read and prompting discussion.

  11. I particularly like the bit about the bee in the jar with the flowers. Not everything is autobiographical so don't know if it really happened but it's a fine metaphor.

    Agree with the sentiments, Conor. Thanks for the poem.

  12. Good stuff chara, I just didn't understand a comment but better to be talked about and all that.
    Thanks for publishing and I'm only a message away if you want more

  13. Dáithí,

    a late night comment after a few wine-gums too many ... a last moment expression of restraint, the brakes applied to what was on the verge of becoming an unhealthy habituated response pattern.

    Its worse than futile responding to these fanatics whose positions are well beyond the pale of reason. I described it previously as intellectual and political necrophilia. Responding to their shibboleth affords their position an unwarranted legitimacy.
    Its like arguing theology with Jehovah's Witnesses on the door-step; resistance and debate merely providing meaning to their absurd efforts and becoming grist to their mill. In their fantasy they imagine fruits blossoming from their endeavours, besotted with their delusions rather than facing and acknowledging the pestilence they peddle.

    I don't believe in censorship Dáihí, in fact I'm a strong supporter of free speech; of the testing of ideas through debate and challenge, leading in turn hopefully to the dismissal of excessively flawed thinking and a broader acceptance and adoption of more useful, life-affirming and workable ideas and patterns of behaviour. In that vein I'd like to think I've clarified and refined my thinking and behaviour in several domains. However, obsessively continuing to challenge and debate beyond a certain point only gives oxygen to the failing embers of others fallacies.

    If some sad cunts are obsessed enough to keep blowing into the ashes, blowing into the ashes, huffing & puffing ... and insanely willing a phoenix to manifest, then from here on, I believe it more responsible to leave them at it and leave then uninterrupted in their fabricated fairy-tale world.

  14. Thought it was great peice of poetry myself. As a rule of thumb poetry is like Jazz and Marxism in my ears, sometimes it is too complex to understand.

    Conor, I enjoyed every line...

  15. HJ, been there often myself. I wonder if you are already seeking converts though? your clear contempt for Republican lore results in a moral condemnation not so much an appeal to reason. I took it that was how you got your kicks, and there are worse ways so I don’t judge.

  16. Dáithí,

    sure, there is more than a hint of moral condemnation in many of my more recent utterances. My comment above is a recognition of the inherent futility of such responses (what we resist persists) and all that.
    On the other hand though, there really haven't been many cogent or sustainable rebuttals to many of the positions I've taken ... and despite Brexit and the talk of an 'Agreed Ireland' the proclaimed republican theology still remains very much passé, so last century.

    Did I get kicks from unpicking it? Probably ... what fucking sad lives we sometimes allow ourselves live. Enough, enough, enough. There are better ways to live. Let the fuckers stew in their own putrid juices. Done, done, done. No more, no more, no more!!!!!

  17. HJ, I feel that way when ever I discuss Islam. I’m not a member of any political party, I fight to stay off electoral roles, it’s cost me money, and may affect future job opportunities negatively, and it’s very rare that anyone deals with the points you make, it’s always some conveniently incorrect summary they then proceed to answer on. Quoth the Raven, Nevermore. Until the next time at least.