I recall Yeats conjured this Anglo-Irish ghost in a poem’s footnote:
Roger Casement, diplomat, rustling the edges of other people’s
history. Exposing Europe’s greedy empires, he lists slavery, stolen
mines, genocide in the Congo and Peru; Great Britain knights him.
Comes World War 1: Sir Roger’s eyes turn homeward; isn’t he,
yes, Irish? And we Irish are England’s cannon-fodder, pawns!
1916: he plots to get German arms to the rebels; he gets caught.
Traitor! the British howl. And because the big man bedded
men: rough trade, many, and kept records – or are they fantasies?
the British publish them, blare his sin, squelch middle and upper
crust support. He strides to death in Pentonville; the Easter
dissidents get a firing squad, he’s hanged. But the Rising feeds
Irish rage unto revolt and independence – yes! Flick to World War
II when to be gay in Germany’s a death-defying identity; like a yellow
star a pink triangle is lethal. Yes, we died. Gays still, today, face
pulpit bans, fists, executions. But 2013 in Aotearoa: Yes! We pass
the Marriage Amendment Act! Queers can marry! Law’s love
shreds strangling webs, melts icy battlements; 2015: to Roger
Casement, late honour. And still in parks, backyards, over family
trees, at unmarked graves, in secrecy, we bless our unblessed brave.