Martin Patrick McCarthy
Martin Patrick McCarthy Poems
Here we shall wait, you and I,
And settle our heads against a pillow as we lie
Waiting, waiting for love...
...
Am I too young to contemplate death?
With youthful hue and long of breath?
Death is something that is foreign to a child;
He lives his life reckless and wild.
...
Today I set aside my rhyme,
I trade in my sabre for a club,
To iterate the wrods in my heart;
I feel dissonant today.
...
When I heard the news, I imagined you lying in bed
Troubled by the uncertainty of what lies ahead.
I imagined you looking at your legs, cursing
Their fickle use, while a stranger stands over you nursing.
...
In spite of my protest, a new day is born,
Sun chases moon; I am forlorn.
If the Sun were considerate, He would give me leave
So that I may have ample time to grieve.
...
Ay me! Why does Poesy wish me to draft;
To wilfully engage in this sullen craft?
Ill-begotten I am, dull is my pen
For it has no power to wound the hearts of men.
...
The Great Dictator made the Fatherland great
With a strong regimen of violence and hate.
Speer builds, Goebbels lies
And all around, the Jew dies.
...
She keeps her heart locked up tight
Too many thieves in the night;
Many times the key was given, but each day
The thief opens the lock, takes the heart, and slithers away.
...
Proudly, vainly, prophetically, I imagined to see
A horrible rend between us that time could not mend.
The indignation of the Ages has settled upon me
That very day I was no longer your friend.
...
O, gentle night, rock me asleep,
Dry my eyes so I cannot weep.
I embrace thee, cold gentle night,
While I scribble poetry by candlelight.
...
Open your eyes to the ravings of a disordered mind,
Observe lunacy in its finest hour.
'I am but mad north-northwest.'
Random images flash across the canvas;
...
I see your eyes flicker in the candlelight;
I become intoxicated with their charms.
I feel myself melting away within your arms,
As we lie together in the restless night.
...
She walks alone on the moonlit beach
Her feet slide in the ever-yielding sand
(It is the only thing in her life that gives) .
The waves wait anxiously, calling her,
...
The Best Poem Of Martin Patrick McCarthy
The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock's Mistress
Here we shall wait, you and I,
And settle our heads against a pillow as we lie
Waiting, waiting for love...
J. Alfred! Why doth thou hesitate!
I need thee now, I cannot wait!
I am aroused when I see him ascend the stair
(And see that glistening bald spot in the middle of his hair)
And yet you tarry; come love make speed
For it is you I desperately need!
At night, with the cat by my side
I ask, 'If he loves me, why does he hide? '
It is true he is not apt with speech
But those ready-made words are within his reach.
He may not be Hamlet, but who needs to be
When all he has to say is that he loves me!
I pray for the day he will take my hand
And upon my finger fit a wedding band.
Had we had world enough, and Time,
This coyness, J. Alfred, would be no crime.
And while my beauty today would glimmer
(That's what you'd say) , Tomorrow, it shall be dimmer.
I want everyone upon this spinning rock
To see me as Mrs. J. Alfred Prufrock!
But J. Alfred, could it be
That I am not worthy for thee.
Do you look upon me
And not like what you see?
During my daily stairway vigil
I wonder whether dwelling upon you is criminal.
If it is, I accept the fetter
For there is no thought that could be better...
But J. Alfred, could it be
That you lookupon me and not like what you see?
I look into a mirror
And see I made a grave error.
The beauty I think I see
Are just the words you've said to me.
'Your hair is beatiful and fine...'
(It looks like seaborne brine) .
'Your body is soft and fair...'
(It is oddly shaped like a pear) .
I truly want to be
The image in the mirror you wished to see.
No! I am not Helen of Troy!
My grotesque self is why you are coy.
It is in bed, Meneleus would stay
If, by Paris, I were whisked away.
These blistered and chapped lips
Could never set sail a thousand ships.
I grow dull; I am past my prime;
I'll use coffee spoons to measure out time.
I'll bid men nearly grown
To gaze upon me and turn to stone.
And I hoped, hoped for the ring
And for minstrels to dance and sing,
But hopes (it is their nature) are surely dashed
Like a mighty Barque upon the rocky shore; crashed.
(7 July 1994)
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