Author: martinmccarthy

Reunion Song

Dec 17th, 2022

Everything good takes time;
I know this now, and I’m
inclined not to ruminate or rant
too much about this dark event,
which we must still live through
before I gladly return to you.

Everything good takes patience;
and each small act may be immense
in its effect on others;
so here, as the danger dithers,
it makes sense to weigh the risk
of being too impetuous and brisk.

Everything good takes faith;
I know this now, because eight
weeks have passed, and I’m free
to step outside and see
this awesome sunlit horizon
that evaded a heart in isolation.

Everything good takes trust;
and someday one who must
will glance back and take stock
of how death suddenly took
so many, while I and others hid
and dreamed of days less morbid.

Everything good takes time;
I know this now, as the grim pantomime,
or nightmare, is coming to an end,
with no burning bridges to mend,
and no second Covid wave, as yet,
to impede the path our love has set.
A Changed World

Dec 17th, 2022

for Sarah

You have come back today
to a world that has changed utterly,
in how it behaves socially,
since you were away.

And here you are, casting a cold eye
on one who practices the new art
of keeping two metres apart,
before it’s time to say goodbye.

You have come back in sunlight, like a butterfly
who has opened her wings
to the thrill of natural blessings,
nobody needs to buy.

For the world about us is frailer
than it was, and learning what it is
to go on living with a virus,
like a real-life drama with no trailer.

But you are composed enough to smile at the way
you were locked up in a lockdown, and how
all the weirdness that is happening now,
didn’t seem so weird to a mind gone astray.

In the distance, a radio is turned on,
and Sinatra is singing, as only Sinatra can,
the best is yet to come.
‘And maybe it will,’ you say, ‘when this is done.’
A Survivor Gives Thanks

Dec 17th, 2022

Before it grows too late …
before they turn the sod
and hide the green and hire the hearse …
I want to thank you, God,
for a life that wasn’t great,
but could have been a whole lot worse.
Escaping the Carnage

Dec 17th, 2022

for the freedom fighters of Ukraine

It was like coming out of a coma, or a long deep sleep
in which all the pleasure of the world before,
and the days before, and the nights before,
when everything seemed so tender and vibrant and good,
was no more than a thing imagined,
and the actual world was forever that one –
that grim hellhole, with its perpetual darkness,
and its muddy trenches of confined people,
with no dreams left, and no thoughts ever
of getting up, getting out, to where there might be
some ladder to the elusive stars; but then,
from somewhere, something shifted … and there was a voice,
a light, a smile … and you were beside me,
beside the bulletless boundary of my bedside, when I woke up.
Casualty

Dec 17th, 2022

What a joy it would be to wake
beside you in a world
that’s pure and uncorrupted by wars;
to wake beside you
and feel the soft fire burning
in every movement of your body!

What a joy it would be to see
your exposed breasts
gleaming in a golden room,
as the dawn breaks once more
on the ordinary
miraculousness of existence!

What a joy it would be to touch
the newness,
the wildness,
of that mysterious
haven of awe and wonder,
beyond this battlefield!

What a joy it would be to begin
again at Genesis;
to begin again,
with all our senses undeadened
by horror, or hatred …
and all our chances before us!
Words from an Air Raid Shelter

Dec 17th, 2022

In the latest TV report from the war in Ukraine,
a young mother and her two children,
(who are holding a blanket and two small teddies)
are huddled together beside, at least,
a hundred others, in a semi-dark air raid shelter,
as the snow-cold night takes hold around them,
and the sirens wail above them, compelling her
to say something we’d do well to remember,
long after the fighting stops, and the war is over.

She says: ‘All I want is to go back to the heaven
of my old anxious life, and all its small worries
I thought were so big, before the tanks came
and the bombs came, and my whole world exploded
for real. Now, there is only this … to be thankful for!’
Gasp

Dec 17th, 2022

I did not expect to find you here,
among these little shells and things
skittering from shore to shore
in a vast eternity of sea-foam;
but here you are, light years
from when I met you,
seeing the sea with eyes
still open to astonishment.

I did not expect to see you,
with your face lit up in eager joy,
nor to feel the fading day being charged again
by the sudden voltage of your touch;
but here you are, as the night undresses
in an alcove of dreams and moonbeams,
uttering the long tidal gasp
of a longing echoed from every shore.

Gasp was featured on The Chained Muse website, in a post titled Waves of You & Other Poetry, where it received some very positive feedback.

Email from The Madrigal Press:

Dear Martin,
We found your work to be a truly striking, eloquent, and exceptional piece of art in the reading of our submissions, and we would be delighted to offer your poem ‘Gasp’ acceptance into our Verity issue.
The swelling emotion, the elemental grandeur, your delicacy of reference to the subject. It is measured and marvellous. It is, quite frankly, exactly the type of piece we had in mind when drawing up the idea for this issue, and we cannot commend you enough on the sheer loveliness, thought, and talent you have put into this work. It would be an honour to publish it within this collection.
Warmly,
Helen and Tomás
THE EDITORS
The Madrigal Press, Dublin.
Entering the River

Dec 17th, 2022

Because of the dirge in the dance,
because of the salt in the wave,
because of the fading glow
of the perfect ring,
you have rarely shared
the full warmth of your love,
but now you do … and so,
in the sunset spell
of something silently sexual,
at the end of a day
that is not the end of us,
your eyes say to me:
‘Let’s go where the stars undress,
let’s feel the flow
and risk of the eternal river.’
Rendezvous at Sundown

Dec 17th, 2022

You do not speak about the sky
at evening time and the old highway’s
last offering of fire,
or the chance that love may still
embrace you at the sea’s edge.

You do not mention the jewelled
tower overlooking
the harbour, or those flameless rituals
repeating themselves
for whatever warmth they bring.

You do not utter a single syllable
about the man
who lies beside you,
the man who knows nothing
of your true desires.

You do not talk of the intimacies
lingering beneath the skin
of all that can’t be said,
or how I’ve been travelling
here to meet you since Eden blossomed.

You do not spare a thought
for the way the light gleams
on the bracelet
I saw you wearing
back in the room before birth.

But all evening, you quietly
fan and flex the hope
your present path is not forever;
all evening, your hands
are everywhere and you are happy.
Forever

Dec 17th, 2022

We are way out here on the edge
of town,
and a breathless, gushing ocean
clings to your tidewash of shards.

We are way out here on the edge
of darkness,
and your smile assuages
all the graves on the hill.

We are way out here on the edge
of tomorrow,
and other lives return to us
from the spindrift of another time.

We are way out here on the edge
of love,
and you have been forever the wind
that carries all my songs.

This poem was featured on The Chained Muse website, in a post titled Forever & Other Poems, where it received a record number of positive comments.