Irish poetry has lost the ready ear and the comforts of

“Irish poetry has lost the ready ear and the comforts of recognition. But we must go on. We must be true to our own minds.” Thus spoke Austin Clarke, inheritor of a great but burdened tradition, whose voice carried the sorrow of loss and the flame of perseverance. His words are both lament and command: lament for a people whose poetry no longer found an immediate home in the hearts of the many, and command to the poets themselves that they must not falter, but remain faithful to their vision, even in obscurity.

The meaning of this saying lies in the acknowledgment of estrangement. Clarke observes that Irish poetry, once woven into the fabric of the people, had lost its “ready ear”—that natural audience who once welcomed it as song and story, as memory and identity. The comforts of recognition—the applause, the shared cultural understanding, the sense of belonging—were gone. Yet his words rise beyond despair. For he insists that the poet must go on, that fidelity to one’s own mind, to one’s truth, is greater than the comfort of being understood or admired.

The origin of Clarke’s declaration is found in Ireland’s long and tumultuous history. The poets of old—bards and filí—were once revered, their words carrying political, spiritual, and communal weight. In Gaelic tradition, poetry was not a private ornament but a public necessity. Yet with colonization, suppression of the Irish language, and the rise of new literary fashions, the old bond weakened. Clarke, writing in the twentieth century, felt the pain of this severance. His words reflect a poet standing in the shadow of Yeats, wrestling with a diminished audience, yet refusing to surrender.

Consider the story of Gerard Manley Hopkins, who, though not Irish by birth, spent his final years in Dublin. He wrote poems of extraordinary originality, but in his lifetime, they found almost no audience. Hopkins too had lost the “ready ear” of recognition, and died in obscurity. Yet his fidelity to his own mind, to the rhythms and images that no one else could hear, ensured that his work would endure. Today, his poetry is treasured as some of the most innovative of his age. In this, he stands as an example of Clarke’s wisdom: the poet must go on, even without recognition.

The lesson is clear: to live faithfully as an artist—or indeed as any truth-seeker—one must not be swayed by the applause of the crowd. There will be times when the audience is deaf, when society’s ear is elsewhere. In such times, the temptation is strong to conform, to soften one’s vision in search of approval. But Clarke warns us: this path leads only to the death of integrity. The poet, and by extension every soul, must remain true to their own mind, even if it means walking the road alone.

Practically, this teaching calls us to cultivate resilience. Create, speak, and act not for recognition, but for truth. If your work is received with silence, continue. If it is misunderstood, continue. If the crowd cheers louder for lesser voices, still continue. The history of art and thought is filled with those who labored unseen, only for their work to shine brighter in the generations that followed. Recognition is fleeting; truth is eternal.

Thus the teaching endures: Irish poetry may lose its easy audience, just as every tradition may face decline, but the poet’s duty remains. It is not to chase applause but to honor the flame within. Clarke’s words are not only for poets, but for all who struggle to remain faithful to themselves in a world that often turns away. “We must go on. We must be true to our own minds.” This is the charge of the ancients and the moderns alike: to walk in fidelity, even when unseen, for in that faithfulness lies the true victory of the spirit.