He was 16 when he set off on his own to blow up parts of England. His time in a borstal gave him the materiel for a book. He wrote poetry in both Gaelic and English. He had famous friends across the globe. He stayed in the Chelsea Hotel. He drank himself to death. He was Brendan Behan. This is his poem.
Here is a gentle piece of verse from the roguish Irish poet and playwright, Brendan Behan. Teacht an Earraigh – The Coming Of Spring Springtime Oh you coarse Gaelic Cold! I hate your sour expression! The north wind blows: Tough tormented trembling Without vitality or verve Without youth or use Until the bright feast of […]