
Michael Longley, one of Ireland’s most esteemed poets, died at the age of 85, on 22 January 2025. He leaves behind a remarkable legacy spanning over half a century, and his death marks the end of a significant generation of Irish poets.
Like Seamus Heaney (1939-2023), Longley was born in 1939 – Longley, to English parents in Belfast, Heaney in rural Co. Derry. Completing the triumvirate of poets who gained early recognition in the 1960s was Derek Mahon (1941-2020). All three benefited from the post-World War II introduction of free secondary education in Britain. Longley attended the Royal Belfast Academical Institution, where his passion for literature took root. Later, at Trinity College Dublin, he immersed himself in the study of Classics, a discipline that deeply influenced his poetry.
Longley’s connection with Heaney and Mahon was pivotal. The three poets, each from different denominational and cultural backgrounds, became leading figures in the North of Ireland literary renaissance of the 1960s. As part of the Belfast Group – a writers’ workshop led by Philip Hobsbaum – they established a new benchmark for poetry in the region.
Reflecting on his identity, Longley embraced the complexities of being both Irish and British, acknowledging the cultural influences of his English parents while affirming his Irish soul. “I feel Irish … Ireland has given me all the data out of which I make sense of life, and I think my soul would shrivel if I denied the Britannic side” he said. This duality allowed him to explore themes of belonging and identity with nuance and depth.
Longley’s sensitivity to nature and the landscapes of Ireland was a hallmark of his work. His second home in Carrigskeewaun, County Mayo, became a recurring motif in his poetry, described by him as hi “soul-landscape.” Through precise and evocative language, he celebrated the natural world while also grappling with themes of mortality and loss.
Longley’s oeuvre includes 13 collections of poetry, beginning with No Continuing City (1969) and culminating in The Slain Birds (2022). He covered themes of love, nature, politics, and history, including the First and Second World Wars. His poetry’s breadth and depth earned him prestigious awards, among them the PEN Pinter Prize, and the Feltrinelli International Poetry Prize, the Whitbread Prize, the TS Eliot Prize, and the Griffin International Prize.
Throughout his career, Longley’s work remained deeply connected to the political and social fabric of the North of Ireland. His poetry often reflected the human cost of conflict, particularly during the Troubles. One of his most famous poems, Ceasefire, published after the 1994 IRA armistice, captures the spirit of reconciliation through a retelling of an event near the end of The Iliad. He condenses this scene from the extensive epic, into a Shakespearean sonnet.
The Trojan War began after the abduction of Helen of Sparta by Paris, the Trojan prince. Agamemnon, brother of Helen’s husband Menelaus, led an expedition of Greek troops to Troy, laying siege to the city for ten years. After the deaths of many heroes, the city fell through the cunning of Odysseus and his Trojan Horse. Homer’s The Iliad is set during a short period in the final year of the Trojan War, focusing on a span of just a few weeks. It does not recount the entire ten years of the war but rather zooms in on key events during the war’s closing stages. Priam is the king of Troy, and Achilles is a Greek warrior. Achilles had withdrawn from hostilities for some time, when Priam’s son Hector kills his closest companion, Patroclus. This spurs Achilles to revenge.
In the scene taken by Longley from the twenty-fourth and final book of The Iliad, Priam visits Achilles’ tent in the Greek camp at night. His goal is to plead with Achilles for the return of Hector’s body, Priam’s eldest and most beloved son, for burial. For Achilles, Hector is the killer of his best friend, Patroclus. Longley distils the passage from The Iliad into the vivid imagery of this poem, drawing nearly all his words and images directly from the epic. Ceasefire focuses on the moment when the two men meet.
Ceasefire
published in The Irish Times on the eve of the IRA ceasefire, 1994 [from The Ghost Orchid, 1994]
I
Put in mind of his own father and moved to tears
Achilles took him by the hand and pushed the old king
Gently away, but Priam curled up at his feet and
Wept with him until their sadness filled the building.
II
Taking Hector’s corpse into his own hands Achilles
Made sure it was washed and, for the old king’s sake,
Laid out in uniform, ready for Priam to carry
Wrapped like a present home to Troy at daybreak.
III
When they had eaten together, it pleased them both
To stare at each other’s beauty as lovers might,
Achilles built like a god, Priam good-looking still
And full of conversation, who earlier had sighed:
IV
‘I get down on my knees and do what must be done
And kiss Achilles’ hand, the killer of my son.’
At the heart of the poem is Priam and Achilles’ loss and shared grief. Though each man mourns someone dear to them, they are both aware of a human condition that transcends enmity. In grief, they develop a profound understanding of one another. The poem opens with Achilles’ empathy for Priam because he is reminded of “his own father”. In the first stanza, Achilles holds all the power, but he does not abuse it. He treats the king with kindness and gentleness. Priam has no power here, he humbly curls up at Achilles’ feet. Their shared sorrow fills the surrounding space. At a phonetic level, many of the sounds of stanza I subtly echo Achilles’ name: king, curled; until; filled; building. This creates a connection to Achilles’ presence and dominance in the scene. There follows a movement away from the focus on Achilles and his actions in the first three lines to shared grief, togetherness (wept with; their sadness).
The second quatrain depicts Achilles handling Hector’s body himself, treating it with care and respect for Priam’s sake. The stanza’s focus moves once more from Achilles’ actions to Priam. This shift is subtly underlined phonetically with the introduction of echoes of Priam’s name – Ps, and especially Rs: uniform; ready for Priam to carry; wrapped; present, Troy; daybreak. Priam’s less dynamic presence emphasises his fragility as well as his powerlessness in the situation. Though Achilles had taken something immensely precious from the Trojan king, he now gives him what matters most under the circumstances: the right to bury his son with dignity. From The Iliad, we know that Achilles grants Priam an eleven-day ceasefire to give Hector a respectful funeral. While stanzas I and II both open with the word “own” – relating to Achilles’ mind and actions – the second quatrain ends with the rhyming word “home” for Priam’s Troy.
The third quatrain introduces a new quality by focusing on the intimacy and equality between the two men: “together,” “both,” “each other’s,” “as lovers.” Their parity is highlighted in a single line: “Achilles built like a god, Priam good-looking still,” where the balanced structure emphasises their mutual recognition and respect. Each half of the line mirrors the other, with the caesura providing a sense of balance, underscoring their equality. In this instant, they recognise each other’s beauty, perceiving one another as godlike (“like a god,” “go(o)d-looking”), even as lovers who gaze upon each other with great goodwill. This scene reflects Longley’s fidelity to Homer’s The Iliad – with Achilles, a demigod, and Priam who is described as godlike.
This fleeting moment embodies the hope that grief and loss can transcend enmity, allowing enemies to acknowledge one another’s humanity. The phrase “And full of conversation” captures a moment that moves beyond pity toward reconciliation and shared humanity. Here, Priam has become active, giving as well as receiving, and willing to enter a relationship of equality.
However, the poem would be far-fetched and unfaithful to The Iliad, theNorth of Ireland and situations of great tension elsewhere, if it ended on this note. Longley uses the final half-line of stanza III to prepare for the poignant couplet. From the intimacy of “conversation,” the narrator recalls Priam’s trepidation as he approached Achilles’ tent:
who earlier had sighed: // ‘I get down on my knees and do what must be done / And kiss Achilles’ hand, the killer of my son.’
This is a poignant ending. It reminds readers of the monumental step Priam had to take and the unimaginable strength both men needed to reach this moment of mutual acceptance and respect. The hand that killed Hector is also the one that treated Priam and his son’s body with respect – Hector, the killer of Patroclus.