Poetry Podcasting hosted by Podbean!!!

MaryAnn is now podcasting poetry!

Check out her first recording at:

http://maryannmccarrafitzpatrick.podbean.com

or scroll down to see the embedded podcast player hosted by Podbean!!

After the Gleaners

I plucked the flowers sprouting from
your fingertips,
green, ripe for the taking,
those awkward stalks
you begged me take

into a jar I put them, onto
the sill they went,
each speaks in turn: I
was a night of sighs, and
I the lace of a cobweb
stretched against your hand,
voicing the insubstantial

and, after the gleaners,
she gathers what might yet
be found, the noise of the
combine harvester long gone,
only the birds for company

shining grains to hoard
against the future, held
hard in the fist, a
promise of bread

and your lands shall
be mine and I
shall be yours

Elements

the well has gone dry again--
and still you sit there
on my fire escape, drinking
cup after cup of sweet tea

barely touched by milk, your
wily fingers wrapped round
the crockery: white, splotched
with flowers, a secondhand

acquisition rattling in my basket
until I boiled it clean, the
thickness holds the heat you
wrap your mitts round, sometimes

wagging a finger at me while you
tighten your greatcoat, settle,
and sip again, your eyes, pooling
black, stare, those ink puddles

as I protest, you see there is
dinner yet to be done, the
potting soil to be swept up, the boxes,
endless, waiting to be checked

off, my signature royally
scrawled on a permission slip,
dinner (never good enough) slapped
with a crack upon the table--

and you would have me go to
Spain, where it would be warm,
your shivers would cease, and
we should live elementally

on sun, and water, and stolen
pears, our kisses thick-sugared, all roads
lead to, all roads lead to....

I laugh and pour
another cup

Gingerbread House

gingerbread edgings are only the
start--see the velvet curtains
of the interior, your fingerprints on
the silver coffee service on the sideboard, a gift
from your aunt

is it bitter, now, in the winter? how are
the schools?

the felines lounge and stare--
they are not discomfited--they
will still be fed

in the middle of all towns there
hangs the traffic light-go-wait-
stop-green, gold, blood by turns

we wait to be told what to do,
we turn, thick with sleep, to
spill barely formed words upon
the table

we throw the stones, the bones,
upon the creaking floorboards--
they speak, tell their tales, in the night, the
long night and the moon
silvers over the grass, this

accidental working of metals, plucking
the strings there, and there again,
long time gone

the wind plays the grass--sweeter still
when cut and burnt over by the sun

New Facebook group -- Irish-American Poets

New group on Facebook!! Irish-American Poets.......check it out!!

Laundry List

so much of the domestic round,
the crumbs burnt black, the
bloodied meats shaken over
with salt, the neverending

circle of fortune turning, the
plate spun round while icing
chocolate cake with white ribbons, the
sugar cloying with sweetness,

the too much of it, the fist of
weariness crushing the cerebellum
so as to preclude speech--what
word comes next? I do not know.

powdered bleach and ammonia, preparations
of pine and lavender, the smiling
woman sells them--does she smile
when she uses them? Oh, the dull

domestic round, broken by sleep,
doctor appointments, church services,
putting on a face to face
this world, time passes through the
fingers like sand, like
floor sweepings thrown into the
bin, all the old dreams and
desires, having been neatly labeled,
tied into parcels, they are:

soft to the touch, fragrant, the
turkish towels (a wedding gift),
ribbonsilk bordered, embroidered, too
good to use.....

the hidden luxuries of thought, the
insurrection of letters strung together

Night of the Hospital: Mount Vernon, Bronxville

the white flags fly on the green,
(visible even in this dark)
flitter in the wind by the drive
cordoned off by orange, the
blinking cruisers follow you in, follow
you out, these uneasy escorts

the night of the hospital: the
faces swim behind the bulletproof
plastic bored with holes for speech to
trickle through

the forms written out in triplicate, the
scrips to be filled, the voices
over the telephone, yes, this,
but not that, watch for the red lines.....

milky liquid, ruby liquid, squirting
syringes, so much of sickness and then
--to sleep

"Chamber Music" published in The Mount Vernon Independent

"Chamber Music" (see earlier posts) was published in the 24th August edition of The Mount Vernon Independent.

However.......there are five typographical errors in the text.

Cricket Song

what difference, whether she
wears her hair waist-long or
up around her ears?

her irises still shift, from
grey to blue, the smocked
dress threaded through

with green, the crickets
sing a summer song, a
summer song of april

long since gone, the golden
strands floating, tangled in the
air thick-fogged after

the driving rain has torn
the heat up from the pavement,
thrown it skywards to hang there,

obdurate, a thick soup to
push my limbs through as I
think of you, floating towards

the ceiling, my red balloon,
my joy, my lost light, the
words that greet me in the night

ever, ever, and again the
words drift up to the windowpane.

they leave their marks.
I scratch them down.

Article on autism and housing discrimination published on Associated Content website.......

MaryAnn's third article has been published on the media website Associated Content.

Link to article:


http://www.associatedcontent.com/user/94676/maryann_mccarrafitzpatrick.html


or, simply click on the link to your right!!


Associated Content, The People's Media Company

Bread and Raspberry Jam

the truth lies in the middle, the
jam in the sandwich, the sweetness
spread amongst the pips that stick
in ones teeth, thicksmashed raspberries

the stones in her shoes, too, the
pebbles worn to pearls by her heels,
the round rock-teeth that Hansel
threw to glitter under the moon,

foiling his stepmother, that mad bitch,
calculating the slices left in the
loaf of bread, the number of breaths left
before she'd be boxed up--

this famine or the next--what difference,
really--except for that still surprise of
a breeze upon your neck, the relief of
quenching water when least expected

a dream of another found and lost
again (sleep-crumpled as the sun streams
in at the cracks) ebbing, ebbing as the tide
draws ever away

All the Pretty Maids

all the pretty maids stand in a row
waiting for their blossoms to emerge

two and three at a time, riotous, flashes
of color over the green, the voices bleared

through the air, quick brushstrokes of paint, now
here, now there, such a pleasant portrait

to contemplate as the sun stares down, streaking
their hair with gold and red, the copper, the brass

to line pockets, the pretty maids, with their
placid hands gathering, always gathering their

blossoms back to their sides, palm against palm,
the best way to walk

Notice to subscribers.......

I don't know why, exactly, but feedburner recently (twice) sent out a poem from last year. I'm not sure, quite, why this is.....but I do apologise.

Also.....for those of you who are Westchester residents.....check out the current issue of The Westchester Guardian (page 17). It's prose, not poetry, but I have (huzza!!!) half a page. Unlike the Times, they didn't edit me a bit!!

all best,

MaryAnn

McCarra--Poetry

Chamber Music

cutting clover in wide swathes, the
machine sputters and chokes, sighs and rests beneath the sun

how much better for the cows to
eat it, my blue-eyed boy, your
limbs mirroring mine as we walk along.....

four chambers, there are, four, and
each a room and place and time
unto itself entirely, the clock stopped
still in some, the ringing of the
hours halted, replaced by breaths, the
whispers marking time long since spent

each with their own inhabitants, these
boarders, pale chimera of what once was,
brought to life in an instant with a word,
a taste, a scrap of song the meat and
bread and wine to nourish the blood

a little longer
a little longer

the evening chorus in the green, in the green,
sun glistering down........
the blue darkens to dark, dark, the
sweetest song is a nightsong, the
dearest words those remembered.

The Vig Has Come Due........

and with it the ringing of the
telephone, echoing within this cave
of plaster and paint, the moldings
straightedged to the corners

ringringringringringring
ringringringringringringring......stop and silence

hangs heavy in the room, burgeoning down upon
these stooped shoulders, it drips, like treacle,
to the floorboards, a mess, a mess again--
clean it up with rotten rags and white vinegar

in the land of cornflakes the queen of the
weiner (red hots, get your red hots, red hots here....
see them pan-sizzled, black with bacon drippings)
tap dances across the kitchen floor,
each tap a morse code, no more, no more, no more

she cannot frame the words ego te absolvo,
pax tecum, go and sin no more: the
damage is done---it growls from her
stomach like a bear chained and baited,
the wee ones in short pants pummelling the
floor, fast as heartbeats, soles worn tissue thin,
blissful in their baby ignorance

the answer is yet unanswered, yet it shall
come, come, come, sure as Christmastide,
plain as the face of the full moon,
written out in the pages of the Daily
News, the public, the private, the
lawyers letters---all must add up to
something, surely---the tottering figures,
that tower of babel
these debits and credits on creased
papers, the ant-like ink an insult
to good sense, but still, and always,
nil desperandum

Untitled

tears prick the eyes,
these tiny knives, not yet
released to the cheek, the
bitter drops collected in cupped hands

even the back of the brain
cannot comprehend
this sorrow, the hearts
run through with swords
glinting like the bullet-flash
that brought our loved ones low,
flesh of our flesh, our
children, behind walls of
bricks and books and
papers left unwritten, the
proctor smiles and says
time's up

the sand run through already?
it cannot be, but is

Digging for Worms

he's building her a pink house
with a garden--here's rosemary
for remembrance, for

Old Mother Hubbard peering into the
larder, stocked full now, with
sugar and spices and boxes upon

boxes of comestibles large and small,
the palate-pleasers cooked over
quickflames while the sun penetrates

the gauzy curtains of the pink house,
skirtingboard cream-colored, a band of
blue where the wall meets ceiling, the

mirrors reflecting the walls, many spined,
close written titles, ink-printed, so many words,
words, words,

and quiet floors, soft-padded with floral
knots, hand tied and cut,

the dawn chorus wakes us up and
we are sung to sleep in the
dark blue

we have had our milk and bread,
we are good children, both of us

Collateral Damage

who are the sound and
who are the rotten?

the limbs pile up like driftwood,
salt-sealed the wounds, red the
common color to all, the demarcation
line of the tearing, flesh from flesh

you have it to eat, cannibal, on
your polished plates, thrice times daily

and still he says:
dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,
and this he believes, walking in
the Pennsylvania hills close-skirted
by trees

and still the lozenge-boxes, shinyhard,
wrapped in striped paper, come home to us,
these sad sarcophagi in which
warriors sleep

as the rubber wheel of the meds cart
catches against a broken tile, the
tiny droppings in the corner spell out:
whither shall we go from here?

He Speaks Upon His Lines

Look kindly upon these verses short and long
Restrain the blue pencil in your hand
Who, but the poet, should write his song,
The letters, breaks, and lines make the land
Of this verse, while undivided remaining
Transmitted from author eyes to page
A message needing no retraining,
No remoulding, its wish only to engage
Readers eyes as was meant to be read
The sense and rhythm still unbroken
Untouched by other hands, the thread
Of thought just as it was spoken
So, kind editor, read these words true and fair
And print his letters as written if you dare!

Poetical Disputes

all this argy-bargy over words--
it's too much, really--the
shaft-spears thrown across
list-servs at mild-mannered academics,
blue eyes floating in the milky puss
above his fine-knit sweater
as he protests--
no, that is not what I meant,
atall, atall
in an attempt to pacify the
lion man with his
sharp-toothed replies, his
glassy eyes bright after
their firing, white-hot liquid,
boiled sandgrains to these
cracks and chips of color
wreathed around the inky pupil,
a deep well, a black hole

the stars still pock the sky,
the sun still burns over the desert

Lux et Veritas, Lux et Pax

Lux et veritas
Lux et pax

the light, the light through
the bubbles of sunlight soap,
those rainbow spheres, those
thin worlds upon worlds, a
stream of small planets exploding
on his bare arms, to his delight,
his great delight

oh, mama, see, see--the
black flash shoots from tree to
tree, branches aquiver, then still veins
against a grey sky, pre-snow,
a blank page inviting ink

spattering truth upon the pages,
show us the way to light and truth,
the words of all days over and
again, leading us to the
peace of mid-morning
and the sidewalks dashed
with salt ground beneath the sole

as black-coated men stand soberly,
the highway traffic roars past,
another flower falls from the stem,
and again, we shall have peace,
and light, and truth, all
these ancient lines refreshed
by our tears

as the catering van beats the
light, I am hungry, I am
hungry, an gorta mor

for light, and peace, and truth,
the finest food of all