Black and White Photograph

14 April 2009

to look upon you, young again,
is to feel a spring rising in
my heart that will ever
flow

those founts, flowing pure, over
the stones, speak again, in
whispering tones, day and night,

those pearls of words, worlds,
clattering to the floor, I
gathered up, lining my pockets

with their smoothness, fingering
the beads and whispering back
yes, I am here,

and here I will stay, and
speak, for awhile yet, listening, always
to the founts pure flow

The Incident on Azzarox Street (or "Wrath")

one of these fifteen-minute eggs
Ira was, and such a temper
(though that is a word for

children and he a was a man
from the soles of his boots up and not to be
trifled with)

smashed the

windows, he did, in his house
on Azzarox Street, then held
her rigid, by her hair, as a

butterfly, pin-pricked, for
his devouring, framed by
the stairwell down to the

cellar and the furnace
burning red, her face held
too close to his flame, burning,

burning, burning

The Far Pastures (or "Envy")

moss-green his eyes were as
he hung the chains about
her neck and she,

she wore them willingly,
casting glances at those
other, grander pastures

forbidden to her, behind stone walls, and
the longing wore her away
to bone, her heart, ribbon-

cut, meat sliced, rare, upon
a platter, shuddering within the
whitened hulk of her ribs

oh, how the chains weigh down
now, their indelible impressions
leaving their weird script upon her shoulders,

oh beware, beware, his greening eyes,
his hands about your neck,
the curling lip of his invidious smile

An Old Receipt (or "Gluttony")

butter, flour, six eggs and
more, cream from the
top of the jug, the

fine-ground caster sugar
the Madeira wine spilling
over the glass and onto

his tongue, shifting his limbs,
gout-inflamed, seeking relief
from the jagged appetites

never surfieted, never satisfied,
always chasing the last crumbs
round the plate, sopping the

gravy with still-warm bread
while others hungered for
the crumbs from his table,

his veins hardened and cracked,
blood sluggish and stultified,
knife and fork ever at the ready

Don't Lose the Morning (or "Sloth")

a dream of rest extended
until mid-day; if you lose
the morning you'll

be running the rest of the
day to catch up....still....
delicious to close your

eyes against the world and
lapse again into sweet sleep
and those oft-coursed dreams

of what? Desires
in a dressing-gown, moving, sluglike,
room to room, leaving a clobber

of debris behind, teacups, the
crusts of a late breakfast, the
kitchen, hastily cleaned before

drowsing into a late afternoon
slumber........

Another Mills and Boon Romance (or "Lust")

and so, Admodeus passes a sweet
from his lips to hers and she
hungers for his limbs with a thirst

in her throat born of the desert, those
barren moonlit nights her body
was silvered over and the

peacocks screeched in the
zoological gardens and she
longed again for that thrust

and retreating from her, the
taste of his mouth, hard upon
hers, the bristle of his hair,

hell-singed, his eyes blackly
staring upon her whiteness, those
pillars of ivory borne down

upon to the breaking point and
then, the shattering of the
sky, broken so by his laughter

Goldman Sachs (or "Greed")

grasping, so, he places the paper,
made flat to stack, in the
storeroom, these notes that will
grow grey, then golden, over the
course, the term of years set down
in inky black, always more and
more, and more again, singularly
unsurfeited he is, the small
voice in his soul bellowing, belligerent,
in polyester trousers, crowned with
beads of sweat, the veins roping out
of his neck, coursing blue--he

cannot

get

enough

to satisfy the counting-house of
his mind, the calculations of
compounding interest lulling him,
finally,
into fretful sleep

Lucy in Her Courtyard (or "Pride")

Lucy tosses her locks, superb in
this sylvan suburb of
pleasant oaks and holly-hocks,
the ivy curling round the grandly
gated house, her
haughty step a clattering of
well-shod hooves upon
the paving stones carved to
her exact specifications,
caressing her barefoot soles as
she ensures that the
neighbors see only the
best and brightest
made her adornments, the
stones ground and cut, displayed
in her hair, glittering tiara
hiding a baser metal, the
manacles, too, mind-forged, she
seeks to place round his wrists,
this young one, lean like
a whippet, head laid upon
her lap

MaryAnn and Brendan Walsh Christmas Greeting 2009

Happy Thanksgiving Greeting 2009

McCarra/Poetry Broadcast 4

On Veterans Day

Let us remember that "People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf." George Orwell (1903-1950)

"So Like the Phoenix" to be published in The Mount Vernon Times

"So Like the Phoenix" -- which appears on this blog, is to be published in the next issue of The Mount Vernon Times newspaper.

This issue is due to be distributed throughout the City of Mount Vernon and should be available shortly.

Third Broadcast over USTREAM.TV

MaryAnn's third broadcast was made this morning over USTREAM.TV

This one was shorter than the last so (hopefully) will be uploaded to YouTube without any difficulties.

Check it out:

http://www.ustream.tv/MaryAnnMcCarra

Cheers,

MaryAnn

Another reading broadcast live via USTREAM.TV!!!

Another reading-- (this time of some older work from the nineties....)-- was broadcast live this morning over USTREAM.TV

Apparently this is in the process of being uploaded to YouTube. We'll see how that goes.....

I Celebrate

I celebrate the rising of
the sun, I salute you,
yes, as we pass each other on
the street,

the divine in your eyes, in the
slouch of your hat, your hands,
stabbed into your pockets
so

I sing of the generations before
and after us, crops raised and
crops failed, the fresh-mixed cement
and the mortar crumbling to dust

of buildings with windows bricked over
to keep out the light, as we two
ride the rails, watching the passing
scenery, my country tis

as they serve us neatly plated breakfast
our hands break their hold

soybeans now, and more soybeans, then
corn, and more corn, far west of
that coast where we
first stepped down to touch earth

now we head for the mountains

I sing of children sleeping in safety
as the sun drops from sight, of
hope ever dawning in the heart, of
forever-freedom from want and fear

I sing and celebrate you, who
held my hand as the tape played
over and again, those oft-voiced
melodies, the old sweet songs, evermore

Halloween

and here is a goblin, and
here an elf, and here an
Indian with sacks outstretched

for sweets as the leaves turn
to gold, red, brown, carpeting
the sidewalks with autumnal tints,

the sureness of the seasons a
reassurance, yes, as much as
the turning of the moon and

sun into another year, that
time when one world may
reach into another with a touch,

the sliced loaf, the
cup of tea left sitting, stone cold,
overnight, a candle burning

in the lantern, glow-grinning visage
welcoming all

In Eighteen

when he came home from the trenches,
back in eighteen, after she had
rolled miles of bandages, the

carnations were mixed, unluckily,
red and white, in a large glass upon the windowsill

petals blotted the pages they
were pressed between, the
black and white type repeated endlessly

quinine tablets and rum and
white sheets for the windows

the eyes above the white-masks,
beds neatly rowed, taking
a fresh air cure

while others kneeled upon the stony steps of
Holy Cross, desperate words
winging heavenwards

Musing

she greets me with a bowl full
of pebbles, polished white, fit
for any garden but mine, where
the weeds straggle up, poor

shades of their packet-pictures, victims
of this poisoned soil, uncatalogued,
unsurveyed, without any papers to
prove ownership

as the ship sails away, puffing
steam, a dream in grey tones,
off for the Argentine, or some
similar clime, where the sun

sears over the ground, relentless,
and there she is again, dressed in
green and proffering a plate of
fruit cut to fit my mouth

so it goes, in every season, hot and
cold, the taps running to fill the
bath, scalded or frozen by turns, oh
most intemperate of visitors!

Red River

another genocide carried out
with German efficiency, the
knives flash as the river flows,
bloodied, choked with limbs,

a Queen killed too, under
the broad sky, beside
the faithful retainers who
raised the first alarms

the bonfire on the border
is the only light I see, the
dawn still hours away, withholding
herself from me

neighbor upon neighbor in the
terror of the night, who will
be left to speak when they
knock upon my door?

So Like the Phoenix

so like the phoenix,
rising, unexpectedly,
to crack the
blue of the sky,
feathers only slightly singed,
soaring to invisibility

as you rise from
your rest to make the
coffee, and later, leek soup,
copper ladle rattling round the pot,
a dull bell, a call to supper,
spooning sustenance into each other,

the jolt of realization, yes, you
and no one else, opening and
shutting windows blinkered by curtains,
bolting the door against despair,
ourselves alone, together

Tea and Ham Sandwiches

they said that he
was gone, gone as the
trees bloomed pink and
later, faded

still he visits her,
dream-enlarged, a little
grave, holding the bluebooks
while tea and ham sandwiches
are served upstairs, the
folding chairs arranged in a
specifically random manner,
the women scowling and
shaking their hair in a
manner meant to convey, at once, great
righteousness and probity

hollow sound of soles slapped against
the wooden boards of the subway
station overpass, the billboard
bleared over by rain, still says
want me, need me, love me

Stained Glass

and does he read my heart
as the choir sways as one:
I like to think so--the
print is plain to me, either

in Times Roman or Garamond,
the time of our union, these
fifty something minutes (and
mornings and evenings besides)

in quick snatches for sanity, oh
help me.....
when far removed from the ivory
of lilies or the crimson of

blood, so red as the sun penetrates
through the stained glass heart,
leaded but not heavy, that
repository of light for all time

Thom McAn

the shoe salesman guarded by
his sister and two other, unrelated women,
glowering and adjusting the chains

.....so many years past, and
the shoeboxes long since gone
and him in his blue shirt,

sneaking cigarettes in the storeroom....
now craters pock the ground and the
rhythmic grinding of machinery marks

the time. The trees all gone, from
the stumps upward, the worst insult,
this wholesale holocaust, the

smoothing of ground to make it
asphalt-ready, malleable

Early Morning, Walking

this domestic round, this
wheel of fortune ever turning she
surveys as storefronts, empty
one by one, the signs, hand-
lettered or printed appear

the brisk walk on the broad
boulevard, the double-parked
rushing in for their laundry, the
vegetable delivery from a
green van, the sidewalks
open up to receive this bounty

as stroller-wielding mothers amble
to the park, wheels clicking over
interruptions in the sidewalk,
the cracks in the map, the
veins spelling out yes, you are
here, here, and nowhere else

Breaking Eggs

one, two, the cracked eggs stare
up from the bowl, perfect
specimens before being beat

into milk for scrambling or
perhaps French toast, as he
slowly waked to

twisted sheets and last-night
debris, a stocking here, a shoe
there, the alarm switched

off in greedy anticipation of a
late morning lie-in, waking to
hear the dawn chorus only

to sleep again, clutching at those
dreams of blue-black twilight, the
voices bleeding from the radio into

our ears, the black of night edging
away to grey morning, the sky
not yet blue, still unwarmed by the sun

Call for Submissions....Mount Vernon, NY and bordering cities....

Mr. James "jAFa" Fair is organizing and editing an anthology of Mount Vernon, New York poets (and also those living in cities bordering upon Mount Vernon).

If you would like to submit your work, please email your submission to:

james.fair@verizon.net


or drop off/mail typed copy to:

AC-BAW Center for the Arts
128 South 4th Avenue
Mount Vernon, NY 10550

Rendition

sparks glow under the
ashes banked up in
anticipation of morning light

the long night, stretched-out,
elastic, pours down around
her head, four-legged
stool her only support,

as she whispers, lips pressed
tight to the wall, how have I
come, how have I come, to
be, to be, to be

cool, the wall, plaster-white, daubed
with the last dirty protest, it
soothes the cheek seared over
with the flush of blood
concealed by black

while electric remembrances flash,
limbs thrashing through
the brainpan, the signs for arrivals
and departures are still evident
on the airport concourse, the
last embrace a sweet, a
sweet devouring

Triumvirate

triumvirate curling from
the wall with
Monica thrown in
for good measure

the kitchen gods who
oversee the tines
breaking through egg-yolks
after the whites were
finger-strained, separated

searing flames, this
molten centre, carrying forth
burnt offerings on
crackled Limoge, the

flowers are
so delicate

when all are asleep
the crickets sing to her
in the deep dark
punctuated by fireflies

Shaking the Sand from Her Shoes She Sees.....

accidental abstractions, the
towels piled one upon
another,
catalogue colors--
rose pink, marine blue,
loden green,
sunset layers confined
to the linen closet

this final confinement, and
release, to the rain spotting
the pavement, splotching wet,
a study in contrasts

freshwater--rain--so unlike the
seasalt kissed from your
cheek

on this curving stretch of
sand, sand she later
shakes from her shoes,
heels clattering on the
aluminum, smoothing
damp curls back into
tortoise clips

September

sense memories thick and
fast, the jam spilling
from the jar, the
sweet-sick odor of floor
wax in the auditorium,
the clean smell of wood shavings from
freshly sharpened pencils,
the inky essence of
purple-wet worksheets,
the air of sour milk
in the cafeteria

push pins and printed
notices, edicts for our
edification, the sheen
of notebooks new without
a blot, a jot of writing in them

September, new and old,
upon us once again, the
quilts of dried leaves, red,
gold, brown, cover the
grounds, whispering to us
as we walk

Sunday Business Post

video box blares, the
sleek, incomprehensible heads
babble away, blonded, tipped,
lipstick-spackled,
charting the daily cacophony,
battering our ears with
all manner of words

how many column-lengths in
the Sunday Business Post, how
many thick-inked pages to
wrap fish with?

the words rise, aromatic,
and fill her mouth, tickling
her throat as they trickle
stomachwards, woman does not
live by bread

but by the words that
enter through: her eyes, her
mouth, her ears, to feast
upon pages torn and tossed, like lettuce,
into a fine salad

MaryAnn McCarra on Ustream.tv!!!!

MaryAnn McCarra will shortly be broadcasting on Ustream.tv.......


http://www.ustream.tv/MaryAnnMcCarra



Search "MaryAnnMcCarra" no spaces to reach her webpage on Ustream.tv

Stay tuned......

Coddle Pot

A witty, wonderful, new website....by four of the best Irish bloggers.....check it out!!!!

http://www.coddlepot.com\

Citizen Journalist

so the green flag slaps
against the grey of the sky

the ropes of red pearls spot
the pavement, each larger than

the next,
thick-stranded tears

but still, wrap the green flag
round me boys.....to die were
far more sweet

than to live without liberty,
the blood of life, the cup supped

eagerly in spite of the
hands of despots striking at
your throat

Irish American Poets group on Facebook......

There is now a group for Irish American Poets on Facebook......post poems, upcoming events, promotions for forthcoming publications, videos, photographs........


http://www.facebook.com/

Poetry Podcast Updated!!!

MaryAnn's poetry podcast -- available on Podbean -- has been updated!!! A link is available on this website.

Thainig mo ghra-sa

my love came to me
as I wielded the hot
iron, pressing the creases
from a sleeve, steaming to

the end of the cuff, the
drops sprinkled like rain
on the blue
helps too

and did his hands
encircle her waist
as sun dappled the
greenery she sees

so near and far,
fence-separated from
the rattle-hum of
highway roaring on

Friday evenings, and did
his breath blow lightly
on her neck as the
curtain, breeze-billowed,

embroidered with baby
vegetables, flounced, inhaled
and exhaled,
oh my love, my lost one

and yes, his fingers tapered round her
waist, as if marking rough
measurements of her longitudes
and latitudes, pale geography sparked

with silver,
the mapland of the
brainpan, the unknown territories
yet to be traversed while thick
with sleep

and freshly pressed
shirts hang and move,
almost inperceptibly,
in wind-breath

The Year in Paris

Bluebeard wheels down the street
on his bicycle, spokes a glittering
blur

the haunches of his six wives rest
beneath the flowers, the pink,
red, purple circling over them

the year in Paris was grey
alternating with red, behind
the barricades the students

made a great noise, the
fashion that spring for
insurrection, a fine show

for simple, simpering tourists clutching guides and
leather valises, thin volumes of
poetry, letters of introduction, letters of credit,

tearing off pieces of scenery with
American teeth, gnashing them
into a fine paste to spread on paper

and still they slumber, still
with arms crossed decorously
across their chests, entombed

beneath the evergreen tree, looped
over with electric orbs as we
wait for the birth of our

saviour, the air is brittle-
cold, her breath cracks it,
her boot, too, on the thin

skim of ice in the parking lot,
hands clasped behind the
green fence circling round

as Bluebeard speeds past again,
on his way to another assignation,
taciturn, close-mouthed, hard-eyed

Any Honest Housewife

fragrant green, the color of
grass out in the damp morning as
the dawn chorus trails off, sun
still unborn

next the hedges, the green
shoots who rise up must
be cropped back to regulation
length

the roar of their machines, pushed
by the red-shirted men seep in
at her windows, splitting her
splintered sleep yet again, riven,

rousing her to wakefulness and
twice-boiled coffee diluted with
cream and cracked ice, the blear of eyes
looking at these few acres, the

flowering bushes, sad topiaries leaning,
lopsided,
as she rattles her keys and counts the
store of sugar, the preserved fruits

and wraps, wraps her arms
about the quilt she folds--
the sheets a different matter--
these billow out like sails, shaken

out before they are neatly squared--
any honest housewife, he
said, would sort them out--
perhaps.

the circulars are collected, the
list of provisions made on the
backs of old page proofs--such
are her economies

as the red men, ant-like, move
and mow again, the green green
scent a welcome one, to sleep
oh to sleep, in the brittle-gold hay

sunbleached, clean

Submission Guidelines

Figure 1:

a line drawing in black
and white,
a punch bowl overbrimming
(frothing, agitated by a silvery ladle),
hands joined
under the woodplanked table

still, wheels grind and whine against
the metal, wailing through
the night punctuated
by electric lights (crimson, grass green, jaundice-yellow)
and the shouts of
young men wheeling down the street


Figure 2:

color photograph tinted
with green, magenta, royal
blue, royal-est purple, the
gold-buttoned
image is fixed, inserted
into the reprints, no
afterthoughts here,
no errata slip--
the dyes are set, they are fixed for all time

wool grazes against the cheek
this dark is cool

engineers have long since surveyed this
patch of ground
while we escape measurement, the
quality of quantification, counting
lines

the moon silvers over your face
a light is switched on in a sitting room

too little time, entirely


Submission guidelines:

no, not here, there
no, not this, that
--the meat of the meaning
a disinvitation


Under the electron microscope:

anonymous strings of letters, the
dna spirals onto the page,
table-heavy, explaining those
generations who struck
the soil, names scratched
down in the black-bound bible,
crossing county lines, across the sea,
that narrow band of sickgreen sea

the black
and white of her eyes, the
contrast is the thing that is
noticed, finally,
the face that matches those still unknown

Kinder, Kuche, Kirche

world reflected in the round
belly of the teakettle, silver
pressed smooth, funhouse
mirror of the kitchen shining back
to show patterned tea towels,
a map of names, the coats of
arms slickpolished by the
blood of many battles

as she stands,
slippershod, combing out tangles
before the gold circled
mirror, a face to meet the
faces she will meet, the
lips stained red (the stockings
stretched to the breaking point
by thin elastics snapped
against her thighs....)

and such is life squared by
five, five by five, the
green zone leafed over by
newly sprouted trees,
canopied green, blessed shade in
August

...

the furniture was moved out
a week before the
night of the great conflagration
(how the sparks flew up,
how the flames were reflected
in his eyes...)

flowers primly border the trees
hemmed in by grey squared stones

meters yield up their tinkling
cache of coins

as the window-washer promises
a streak-free shine

the deliveries of flour and
cabbages, fresh fish, too are
made to cool basements

she takes the fruit, ripening fast,
and places it in a
dish, her sole poor offering
going unclaimed, unwanted

...

she is in charge of the
charnel house, the bones
are heaped up, sunbleached,
stripped of their meat, the
scraps scraped from a plate
into the black garbage bag,
bulging, larval, with all our
waste

ennumerating now, one, on a
paper towel--
the truth in certain nursery
rhymes--pudding and pie gorged,
she goes to bed with a sick
stomach

two--that the sun also rises in
Coventry--and the birds there sing
as sweetly

Asleep, now, she dreams of a
Mouth full of ashes--
Doubtless, she has had her fill of
Grasping memories by the neck, but will wring some warmth from them yet.....

Navigator

We welcome you with open arms,
Ten fine fingers, your rosy face
Mewling for milk, nightly alarms,
Curling toes to navigate with grace
your world, yet unknown, to traverse
Without my hands to guide your way
The lessons learned in prose and verse
Must be your surest compass, day
And night, the vessel of your choice
Reaching that land of milk and honey
Where hunger is not known, your voice
Free to sing your songs, a sunny
End to your days my constant prayer,
Life, love, and happiness without care

Mo Bhron (My Grief)

oh love (the rain is falling)
will you look on me when
I lie long upon your grave

eyes blinded by salt water,
tracing the letters of your name,
over and again until the

letters rhyme with the beat of
my heart echoing back, a
sad refrain, oh love, my

lost one, my soul will fly
across the sea to meet yours,
to comingle in the mist

at once together and apart,
watching waves crash upon the rocks
while seabirds wheel and cry

The Great Unanthologized

the great unanthologized
still scribble their way across the
internet, the html
crawling, relentless, across the
page.....

and in spring, Just
spring the trees
bloom equally, the
dogwood, cherry blossoms.
forsythia, too,
delighting the eye

as he checks his
mailbox for the common
slips daubed with
black ink, so polite

he has papered his walls
with them, they wink
back at him as he
diapers the child

he, too, can
mimic short vowels

NewPages.com

McCarra/Poetry has been included in NewPages.com's directory of "Blogs by Poets and Writers."

Check it out at:


http://www.newpages.com/

Hyacinths Crowning

the hyacinths are crowning
through the blackloam soil,
just past Eastertide and
the trees blooming into pink clouds

(the crocus, too, and the daffodils and tulip
bulbs bursting through black)

on Birch Street. And still, you
refuse to come to me, the
days double and again
double as the

moon looks down upon her
twin, wreathed, not with
fog, but with the shining
script of what is yet to come

ah, April, you cruellest of months,
making me wait to see your face
swaddled round with
the first linen cloths,

scanning the sky, star-pocked,
for some sign

as the Bronx River flows
swiftly past, overgorged after
the rains, under the arched stone
bridges, past the hospital

carrying the branch broken
from the tree to the ocean-
mother of us all

as I burn, burn daylight
and I wait, and will wait,
to look upon your face