Paula Meehan is one of the most important contemporary Irish poets. Why does she describe herself as O’Malley’s child? How did her fascination with Emily Dickinson begin? And what is the source of her poetry? Urszula Abucewicz and Patrycja Zielke talk to the poet.

Patrycja Zielke: - Your poetry, though deeply rooted in mythological and Irish contexts, has an extraordinarily universal character. It is like music. Your work resonates deeply with many people. It is filled with feeling and tenderness, so that everyone can find a part of themselves in it.

Paula Meehan: - Time and again, whilst reading or listening to other authors’ poems, I have found something familiar in them, even if I didn’t know the language in which they were written, or understood only part of their meaning. This has helped me realise that I can identify with poetry from different cultures and eras – from ancient works to poems written today in distant parts of the world.

I believe that three elements play a key role in the work of most poets. The first is a personal vision of the world - inner experiences, emotions and dreams. For me, the connection between a dream and a poem is very close, as both are based on images, associations and ambiguity. An element of mystery is also present in both.

The second source of inspiration is the family. Regardless of place and time, most of us will find something familiar in stories about our mother, father, grandparents or children, as these are experiences shared by all or most of us as human beings. The third important theme, and at the same time the central motif of my work, is community - understood more broadly than just the family. These three pillars have influenced me through poetry from the very beginning and shape the way I write.

Urszula Abucewicz: - In your poem "The Exact Moment I Became a Poet", you recall the words of a teacher who told you that you’d end up in a sewing factory. I wonder, where does your poetry stem from?

- I think many poets do not have an easy relationship with authority. Poetry often arises from the need to question what is imposed and sanctioned by those in power. I believe that the purpose of poetry is to give a voice to those who cannot speak for themselves.

I come from a working-class background, and in the poem you’re asking about, I wanted to capture a defining moment from my childhood – the moment when I realised that language has the power to silence other people, to strip them of their self-worth and make them lose pride in their own background. It was then that I realised language can also work the other way round and possesses a positive power. It can give courage, lift spirits and restore a person’s voice.

I remember the moment when Miss Shannon said to us: "Study hard, girls, or mark my words, you’ll end up in the sewing factory". The classroom fell silent. Everyone felt the weight of those words, because many of the girl’s mothers and sisters earned a living in garment factories. Just like my own aunt. Three of my own younger sisterswent on to work in the factories. They secured good apprenticeships, set up their own businesses and, thanks to that, were able to lead a fulfilled life.

On that day, the teacher’s words about the hard work of women struggling to survive and support their families were belittling and humiliating. The words "end up" stripped their work of its dignity. It was then that I truly understood for the first time that language has immense power - it can strip people of their dignity, but it can also restore it.

U.A.: - Do you feel that you’ve managed to cheat fate and avoid the fate of your aunt or other women from your background?

- I was the first person in my family to go to secondary school and get a further education. The first in my community to get a degree. The opportunity to study was something truly unheard of for people from my social class - compare that with today where around 65 to 70 per cent of Irish school-leavers go on to get a higher education qualification.

We call ourselves O’Malley’s children, because it is to that visionary Minister for Education, Donogh O’Malley, that we owe our access to free education. When he took office and announced that he wanted to abolish fees in all secondary schools, he was told: "We can’t afford it. We’re a young nation. We don’t have the money for it", but that visionary  politician was unyielding and got his way.

A girl from my background would actually end up in a factory or working as a servant. If she was ambitious and had aspirations, she might at best become a shorthand typist. Thanks to O’Malley, I was able to get a secondary education and write my own fate, my poetry. I was really very lucky.

P.Z.: - I don’t think it was just a matter of luck. I’m convinced it was also down to perseverance and hard work.

U.A.: - I’ve heard that you learnt to read and write very early on.

- My grandfather taught me to read and write before I even started school. I was five at the time. So when I entered the school system, I already had certain tools and didn’t feel completely dependent on my teachers.

Learning to read and write is one thing. Another issue is that school also conveys certain ideas about authority, its structure and the ‘proper’ way to behave. At that time, the main aim of school was to prepare girls to be good and God-fearing mothers, rather than to convince them that they too could have a meaningful job or play a role in shaping the future of the state.

U.A.: - Your grandfather was your first guide into the world of words and language. You emphasise his role in your development and creative work, but I get the impression you overlook your mother’s role - why is that?

- No, I don’t overlook her role. She had a very hard life, yet she was an absolutely brilliant woman. I have no doubt that had she lived in different times and circumstances, she could have fully developed her talent.

She was also an excellent craftswoman. She embroidered and knitted. She sewed our clothes. At the time, we couldn’t appreciate it, and we were even a bit ashamed of it. She was involved in the local community and showed a flair for organisation. In the 1960s, she set up a football club for boys and organised various initiatives for children. She had enormous potential, but depression, poverty and the never-ending struggle for survival proved devastating. She died at the age of just 42.

I knew many women whose lives were similar. 

P.Z.: - I remember your words from one of your interviews, that "your mother and grandmother won’t let you stop writing".

- It’s a peculiar feeling that they want to speak through me. Or perhaps it’s just the way I explain my own need to write?

U.A. - One of the first books that fascinated you was a collection of Emily Dickinson’s poetry. Did that experience shape you for years to come?

- I was partly raised by my grandparents - my parents spent some years in London, economic migrants, and I was left, very happily I should say, with my paternal grandparents. There weren’t many books at my grandparents’ house. There were just a few volumes on the bookshelf, and I remember them all perfectly. There was a series of self-study accounting textbooks, because one of my uncles was trying to get ahead and was studying correspondence courses in bookeeping. My grandfather, like most of the men in our family, loved horses and dogs. He worked at the racecourse, which is why his bookshelf contained books on the history of horses, their anatomy and pedigrees. As soon as I learnt to read, I read them all.

Among them was also a volume of Emily Dickinson’s poetry. My aunt had received it from a pen-pal in America who had come to Ireland to study for a while and, before leaving, had given her this special book. I remember the feeling I had when I opened the volume. I looked at those short four-line stanzas and felt as though they looked like little jewels scattered across the page. "Why is there so much white space there?". I wondered, because in other books I’d read, there were solid blocks of text.

To think that a few years ago, and this year too, in the curriculum for the  Irish Leaving Cert, the final secondary school examinations, students had a choice between poetry by Emily Dickinson and poetry of mine, amongst other choices. To find myself alongside her was incredibly moving for me. It was a huge honour.

U.A.: - You describe yourself as a guardian of memory. In your view, is that the role of poetry?

- Boris Pasternak, the Russian poet, once said that every word carries its own ghosts. Each word we use has its own history, which is constantly in flux. Take, for example, the word "nice" in English. If I say to you, "Oh! You have a nice coat", you know it’s a compliment. Yet in the past it meant "careless", "stupid", "silly", "foolish", from Latin "nescius", literally without science. It meant quite the opposite of what we understand as nice.

Poetry is, among other things, an attempt to preserve language - to ensure that words mean what they are meant to mean and to protect them from misuse. Poetry is a form of memory, and memory is, after all, tied to time. And this is entirely independent of whether one brings personal, family or communal memory into a poem.

When people talk about the history of Ireland, it is often presented as a single, shared narrative - yet there are many micro-histories - of families, neighbourhoods and communities. That is why I weave not only my own memories into my poetry, but also draw on the experiences of my loved ones and my community, because they challenge the official memory and cast a different light on it.

U.A.: - I wonder, just as you are a guardian of memory, do you also wish to become a "guardian of the family line"?

- I do not feel responsible for the entire family line, but I do feel responsible for fragments of my own history - the history of my family and the community from which I come.

Even if I don’t write directly about lineage or heritage, I feel immense gratitude towards my teachers. One of the most important to me is the American poet Gary Snyder, who recently turned 96 and still lives in California. He is a Buddhist, and his essays on ecology were way ahead of their time in their understanding of the interrelationships between the environment, animals and people. He has had a huge influence on me and continues to do so.

In the Buddhist tradition, the continuity of transmission is very important - that is, from whom one receives knowledge, spiritual guidance or a kind of symbolic authorisation to continue the tradition. It is not about formal ‘permission’, but rather about recognising the continuity of teaching and a sense of responsibility towards those who came before. And because I am Irish and come from a postcolonial background, particularly in terms of language, this idea has always seemed complicated to me. For my generation of poets and artists, it was rather characteristic that we did not ask for permission. We simply granted it to ourselves. If we had asked for permission, we would most likely have been told ‘no’. That is why I am sceptical about the very idea of lineage and who grants whom the right to speak or create, though at the same time I find it very interesting - provided it is not romanticised.

In pre-colonial times, a legal system known as Brehon Law was practiced on our island. It was written down in the Middle Ages, but it stemmed from a much older oral tradition. This law contained a profound understanding of the relationship between humans and nature. There was, for instance, a whole set of laws on how to treat bees. If someone interfered with a hive, they had to face the consequences, but if the bees attacked a person for no reason, the hive was destroyed. There was a sense of interdependence in this, much like in the approach to forests and trees, which were treated as a common good. You could not simply walk into the forest and cut down trees. There was a penalty for doing so. Harming a tree was treated almost as if one were harming another human being.

The colonisation of Ireland began with the Norman invasion in the 12th century, and the subsequent English domination over the centuries shaped our relationship with language, culture and memory right up until independence was regained just over a century ago. That is why my relationship with prehistory - if one can call it that - is strongly linked to knowledge of indigenous communities that survived into the 20th century. I see in them traces of what our lives might have been like before colonisation.

So I think that not only in the case of Ireland, but across the world, the wisdom and practices found in indigenous cultures can - and should - influence how we understand our relationship with Mother Earth today; that is why I half-jokingly call myself a ‘neo-Aboriginal’. I would like to see indigenous ways of thinking integrated into contemporary  life. In Ecuador, when their  constitution was revised some years ago, Pachamama (Mother Earth or Mother of the World) was enshrined in their constitution and her rights recognised, acknowledging that she cannot be exploited at the expense of the health of the people living on her territory. Thanks to this, people fighting, for example, against open-cast mines or dangerous mining practices have gained concrete legal tools. Whether they are implemented is a whole other question. But I would like to see similar values enshrined in the Irish constitution one day.

P.Z.: - The motivation for some of your poems seems to be your search for the inner meanings of words. What role does etymology – that is, the meaning of words and their roots - play in your work?

- Because I write in English, a language shaped by imperial expansion, etymology is, for me, knowledge of the history of a powerful imperial language. Wherever the British Empire reached, it absorbed words and incorporated them into its canon. Words drawn from Irish, Hindi or other languages of the conquered lands seeped into English, giving it new meanings, nuances and subtleties.

During the lecture, I said that you could look up a Latin word in the dictionary and, wanting to sound erudite, say "perambulate", but you could also open the Anglo-Saxon section of the dictionary and "go for a walk". So we have different nuances thanks to the richness of the English language. That’s why I always say it’s a wonderful language, a terrible empire.

Many issues from the days of the British Empire remain unresolved, but the language itself is incredibly vibrant and flexible - full of irony, tension and subtle meanings. Knowledge of etymology may seem like a turn to the past, yet that is precisely why we return to it - to better understand the present and be able to move forward. Returning to Pasternak, as a poet, if you manage to harmonise all the ghosts of all the words in a line of poetry, you will likely have a powerful ine of verse.

Years ago, I came across a line and I often think of it. It goes: "I was petrified and ran". Yet to be petrified is to be paralysed with fear and stand still, literally turned to stone. One cannot be petrified and run. Think of the Bible: "You are Peter [that is, the Rock], and on this Rock I will build my Church" (Gospel of St Matthew 16:18-19). So a study of etymology helps the understanding of the kind of power that language possesses.

U.A.: - You can see just how powerful language is during street protests.

- When I was a young woman, contraception was illegal in Ireland. Divorce was illegal. Same-sex relationships were illegal. All that has changed. Largely because we took the fight to the streets. We chanted slogans back then: "Take your rosaries off our ovaries", "Not the church not the state, women will decide our fate". So there were shouts, swearing and provocative statements, because that was the whole point - to act in a subversive and uncompromising way.

U.A.: - It is said that thanks to your poetry, women have a voice in Ireland. Here in Poland, there is a debate about the use of feminine forms.

- Sometimes, though rarely, I am called a "poetess". It is charming in its own way - it stems from a time when it carried the implication of swooning, a kind of febrile nerviness. "Poetess" is a completely different register to "poet". I’m mainly called a poet.

It’s similar with the profession of acting. Actress? That form is hardly used anymore. Most people who act in films or perform on stage want to be called actors - without any reference to gender. And this is also the case in other professions, because, after all, the idea of equality implies operating according to the same rules - as if we were all playing on the same pitch - which is why the use of feminine forms in English is now really rare.

P.Z.: - That’s interesting, because in Polish it’s the opposite. We’re fighting for these dual forms.

- I think this is a different issue altogeter. Maybe a linguistic issue? I was talking about redundant forms of a handful of nouns. Poet - poetess. Actor - actress. We have fought hard in Ireland not to assume a lawyer automatically means a male lawyer, or a doctor automatically means a male doctor etc., etc. Now we more likely say "he or she", "him or her", if we are not sure of the gender of a particular professional. In the case of non-binary  folk where, when we know it to be the case, we use the pronoun "they". It’s impossible to completely control internal perceptions and ingrained beliefs about which professions ‘suit’ women and which suit men. Although I consider myself a very open-minded and liberal person, I remember a situation when a tree surgeon was due to come to my house to deal with a tree with a damaged branch that needed removing. I was expecting a man, but a lovely young woman turned up with a huge, heavy chainsaw. I realised in that moment the power of preconceived ideas.

It’s truly fascinating and revealing of oneself and one’s culturally modified prejudices to observe the images that spring to mind and how one can, with the best will in the world, automatically assign gender to specific roles or professions.

U.A. - Are you a feminist?

- Yes, whatever that term means today. I’ve spent my whole life fighting for equality, but I’m not a separatist. We’ve often had tremendous support from men in our struggles: men of my own generation, of previous generations, and especially of the younger generation of men, who have had, themselves, feminist mothers,

Growing up women’s solidarity in the common struggle were essential. It was never just my own affair. The struggle is part of a proud tradition stretching far back in time. Our predecessors fought for workers’ rights, equal pay and access to education. One recent symbolic moment was the naming of the new bridge over the River Liffey in Dublin after Rosie Hackett. Rosie was a young factory worker who became involved in the formation of the Irish Women’s Trade Union, playing a huge role in the struggle for independence. We have an incredibly noble and truly powerful history behind us, which we must live up to.

It is very sad that we live in times when ultra-conservative parties are gaining popularity and women’s rights are being curtailed. Women are being denied the right to education, and in some places even the right to sing in public. Can you imagine not being allowed to sing in public?

In Ireland, we are seeing a very clear rise in fascist sentiment. We see how these movements are organising themselves and how their strength is growing. What is most frightening, however, is that they are trying to appropriate our flag - a symbol of peace between the green and the orange, that is, between the nationalist and unionist traditions. The white in the Irish tricolour is meant to signify peace.

U.A.: - What do you think would be the best response to this language and this attitude?

- Artists have the tools to counter hate speech. They go into schools and communities, working with children, young people and older people, using empathy and creativity as a way to build understanding.

I believe that art plays a huge role in disarming hateful narratives that try to tell us how to live and who should be in power.

I see artists in action and I must say that it is very heartening when, through creativity, children are able to stand up to the hatred they may encounter at home. This is what gives me great hope for the future.

And also the reality that when our proto-fascists and fascists have stood in local and national elections peddling hate, the people have not given them their votes. They have been doing really badly. That gives me hope too.

U.A. - Let’s talk about the craft. Does writing poetry require discipline? Do you wait for inspiration to strike before you write?

- There’s no such thing as inspiration. There are only deadlines!

When I open my diary and see that I have no commitments for two or three days, I think to myself that I’m very lucky, because time for poetry is a real luxury these days. Some poems come to me on the bus. Each one seems to have its own way of appearing.

I also receive many public commissions - though I prefer to call them requests. A neighbour asks for a poem for a child, or a museum commissions a text. And that particularly pleases me, because a museum is, after all, a place for objects beloved by the Muses. That is the etymology of the word from the Greek. And the Muses are the daughters of Memory. I collaborate with various groups of people and often draw inspiration from their experiences.

The most precious poems come of their own accord. Unasked for and completely crucial. I don’t even want to know where they come from. They are rare and wonderful. I am very grateful for them.  And these are the inspired poems, if we remember that at the root of the word "inspire" is the sense of "blow into, breathe upon". I love that.

U.A: - Can you imagine a different career path? Is being a poet your destiny?

- When I was young, I did just about every kind of job imaginable. I picked olives and oranges in Greece, I worked in cafés, bars and hotels. My first "proper" job was organising literacy courses in Dublin city centre. I say "proper" in the sense that I was using skills I’d developed in my training as a poet, rather than just manual labour. I really enjoy physical work and I think I could have become a gardener or a botanist, as I’m particularly interested in wild plants.

When I was younger, there were times when I didn’t want to be a poet. I look at young poets in my country today and see how easily they can be hurt, because they often say things that are uncomfortable or untimely, or get involved in activities that put them in danger. I remember moments when I thought: "I can’t do this any longer. My head is about to explode from the pressure of these thoughts", but at the same time I couldn’t resist it, my fate.

It’s also funny that people start saying about you, "you’re a poet", before you dare to think of yourself that way. They’d come up to me and say: "Oh, you’re that poet", long before I was ready to use that word about myself. So in a sense, that identity was bestowed upon me. And finally the moment came when I said to myself: "Right, I’m a poet and I’d better face up to the responsibility". It was given to me as my destiny and I decided to accept it.

I keep saying that I’m incredibly lucky, because I’m published, people support me, I can make a living from poetry and live reasonably comfortably. But even if I don’t expect armoured cars to pull up outside my house, uniformed men to break down the door and take me off to a labour camp, I think all poets live as if something like that could happen. It is the legacy of the 20th century - what Anna Akhmatova called "the terrible century". The 20th century - and, so far, the 21st as well - has made being a poet a very dangerous occupation.

U.A.: - You quote Russian poets. Are you familiar with the work of Polish poets and writers? With whom do you find similarities?   

- Thanks to Seamus Heaney, I came across the work of Czesław Miłosz. Heaney was friends with the Polish poet; he told us about Miłosz, quoted him, and recalled their time in California. We associate Polish poetry above all with an extraordinary ability to transform absurd political situations into great art. It’s something that makes a huge impression on us. Among contemporary Polish writers, early on I read Olga Tokarczuk’s novel "House of Day, House of Night" - I really liked it. And I’ve followed her work since.

I recently saw for the first time my own collection of poems "The Solace of Artemis" beautifully published in book form in Polish, translated by Tadeusz Sławek. The layout of the poems alone looks wonderful. Even though the language is completely foreign to me, I recognise the shape of my own poems. And I am grateful to Maria Fengler who has been translating and publishing selections of my work in journals. I have Polish friends in Dublin and it is a thrill to watch and hear them read my poems in their mother tongue.

It is a huge honour for me to be here, to meet people, to talk, to walk around. My experience is mainly with Celtic and Romance languages, so Slavic languages are something completely new to me. They sound fascinating to my ear.

P.Z.: - How do you feel when you hear your poems read in Polish? Despite the unfamiliar sound, is there something familiar about them?

- Yes. You can hear how the line of the poem unfolds, feel its length and tension. It’s extraordinary.

Once, my partner organised a reading of Joseph Brodsky’s poetry in one of the old churches of the city that today often serve as venues for music and poetry. First, Brodsky read them in English and everyone reacted rather politely: "That’s very good". But when he began reading them in Russian, the whole place suddenly came alive. You could feel the electricity in the air. It was an incredibly powerful experience. Even though only a handful of people understood Russian - the language really moved them. And that is precisely what poetry is all about. The language in which a poem is written can transcend mere comprehension of meaning. It works like music. Just as when listening to music you don’t need to know the language or the context to feel its power, so it is with good poetry. We can feel its energy, even if we don’t understand every word.