At the Races

Michael McCarthy

• Publisher: Smith|Doorstop Books
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN: 9781906613099
• eBook ISBN: 9781906613556
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: European Poetry
• Index: Literature

Michael McCarthy grew up on a farm in West Cork, Ireland. His first poetry collection Birds' Nests and Other Poems won the Patrick Kavanagh Award. His children's books have been translated into seventeen languages.He works as a priest in North Yorkshire.

At the Races

Michael McCarthy

Acknowledgements

Thanks to the editors of the following, in which some of these poems first appeared:

London Magazine, The North, Other Poetry, Poetry Ireland Review, The Rialto, The Shop, Stride, and The Tablet. 'The Fields' won the Leslie Richardson Award.

Some of these poems appeared in the pamphlet Cold Hill Pond (Smith/Doorstop Books, 2007).

Also by Michael McCarthy:
Birds' Nests and Other Poems (Bradshaw books)
The Story Of Noah and the Ark (Barefoot Books)
The Story of Daniel and the Lion's Den (Barefoot Books)

Contents

Dedication
Acknowledgements
Contents

The Fields
Our House
Below The Well
To School
Blue Jumper
Learning
Heading Home
Knitting
January
Everest
Smoking
That Summer
English Exam

Bobby Kennedy
Shroggs Park
Shillelagh
37 Grasmere Drive
Olive
Theologically Speaking
Saxton Churchyard
Room at the Inn
Remembering Hanyang
In The Beginning
Noddfa
Transfiguration

Long Road to London
Irish Mice
Jasper
Stainless Steel
Brains of a Teapot
In Reverse
Arriving Back
Beachcombing

Underpass
The Accident
Tread Softly
Delayed
Cold Hill Pond
Returning
Not Being a Singer
Is It Yourself
Scarf
Eclipse
The Town
Portrait

The Appointment
Passing Out
Patient
Mistaken Identity
Asparagus Tips
White Flowers
Volivoli
Duet
At The Races
Last Will and T

Biography

The Fields

Before Aunt Nora ever sent me that prayer book

with the red cover, before St Albert the Great

and The Man Who Got Even With God, before

school books and books from the Library Van

I was reading the fields and the run of the land.

The pathway that ran straight as a story

through the middle of the field below the house

coming to a full stop at the well. The pond

where the gander ruled and the geese hissed

the hill-field, and the meadow with the chained bull.

The brake, its folds dressed forever in yellow furze

with spiders hiding in their nylon webs. Pairc na Phurt,

the bog, the field where the rabbits sat on the rock

and the Camlach field, and the road that ran down

to the inches, to the river singing its own song.

The big inch where we learned to swim, the coarse inch

where we galloped the horse, the long inch where

the hares had their set and the flood came out,

and the spot where my father hid, up to his nose

after drowning the dog, the time of the Black and Tans.

The gravel field with the dug-out where they slept,

the briar field, Catherine's bog, Conaic na Muc,

Graif na Linnga, Claishe Ghapail, the fields by the road,

the field at the cross. The Moonaideen, Pairc na Bharrica,

the cabbage garden, and the field in front of the house.

Fields where cows grazed in summer then trudged home

weighed down with milk; where heifers stood stock-still

under trees, drizzle gathering like jewels on their backs.

The field where the fox jumped out through the ferns

brazen as the sky with a hen in his mouth.

Fields in spring where potato drills were lines on a page.

Autumn fields lyrical with oats, verses of barley in stooks.

Turnips in winter fields, exclamation marks on frozen ground.

They're all one field now, ditches a thing of the past.

Under my bare feet still the grammar of the grass.

Our House

In the hallway: a holy water font on the door jamb.

On the hall-stand your father's hat. Beside the stairs

- linoleum covered with brass rods - a picture (a woman

in a blue dress) with verse: The Road of Friendship,

and framed, a list of names: West Cork's Heroic Dead.

In the kitchen: the fireplace between twin hobs.

On the range - Modern Mistress - a kettle and large pot.

From the chimney the smell of soot. On the clevy:

a come-lately radio, a tea caddy with sailors, sugar

in a Fox's Mint jar. Nine rosary beads hang from a hook.

On the wall: the clock with key inside. A lamp flickering

before the Sacred Heart. Next to the settle bed, a bucket

with spring water. A dark ring on the ceiling over the Tilley lamp.

On the dresser: a jug of milk, large Wilton patterned plates,

glue marks where a tinker repaired the cracks.

In the parlour: a big round table, six horsehair chairs, one broken.

A chaise longue. Chiffonier with purple breakfast cups and china set.

Silver teapot. Another, elephant-shaped, with black woman riding on top.

A clock on the mantel-piece, the time always at five o clock.

On the wall: your parents wedding; a picture of your brother aged ten.

Below The well

Mushrooms grow wild in the round field,

The dewy grass hides each bald head.

You can pick a few and bring them home,

As many in your hands as there is room.

Don't put them in your pocket, you'll forget

and they'll only get bruised and break.

Peel them, lay them on the range, let them sit.

Watch their pink ridges darken and go flat.

When they start to sizzle put them on a plate,

Let them cool, then sprinkle them with salt.

Lift them up with a fork, don't spill the juice.

Shape your lips like you were giving a kiss.

They'll be like the host on your tongue only hot

and they won't stick to the roof of your mouth.

To School

Summer time and the short sleeves, and no shoes

and rabbits bobbing west-side of Sean Neill's bog.

Dew on the grass, and the gap in the ditch,

and frog spawn in the long-go flax pond,

and the water-works and the briars by the big tank

and smoke from Johnny Noonan's one chimney.

The faucet lik...

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