Jack McCann has honed his prolific creative concentration with commitment and enthusiasm

REVIEW: The Child Grows Up. Poetry Collection by Jack McCann. Pbck. 99pp. Published by Galway Academic Press. ISBN 978-9928-04-281-1
JackREVIEW by Maire Holmes

A skilled Surgeon; Jack McCann has honed his prolific creative concentration with commitment and enthusiasm. We are moved by the heart of a man who has helped patients through difficulties and now once again, he is guiding poetry readers towards a healing light.
Playwright and poet, his art captures his inner vision and insights on the external world. His themes vary. He engages in a quizzical, sometimes playful manner, gently deepening our appreciation of life. His journeys through memory or reaction to immediate observation carry us closer to understanding the universe or questioning reality.
Jack McCann’s passion for life and dedication to creativity is evident, not alone in the amount of poetry books he has published, but also in the film and drama scripts that are in line for future productions. Smitten by word, he has written in a very short space of time what can take a lifetime to achieve.
A compassionate poet, his feelings and thoughts are shared in this collection and when he reads in public, his words leave a lingering flame. His prolific output is a response to an examined life.

The Child Grows Up

The swing flies in the breeze
as if you are still on it.
Gone is the laughter,
the shouts for “higher and higher”.
Even the dog dreams you will ride it again
so he can pull you back and forth
while you stand on the seat,
never doing anything normally.

The tree house lies empty.
No clambering on wooden rungs.
No sticking out window of smiling face.
No climbing on roof and up tree.
Quietness pervades there and here.
No more, “come and catch me,
find me if you can”. Of course, I can’t.
I wish we could play those games again.

The rocking horse stately stands still.
No rider found to rock him awake.
No one to comb his mane or pull his tail
or dress him up with hat and coat and other stuff.
No one to call his name, to come out and play
Yet he stands at the ready fighting his misery.
Not liking the loneliness playing on his imagination,
he wishes his days away, rocking generations.

Life moves on, moves out, moves me.
Paths change, some dark, some beautiful.
Companions too as time catches up.
We used to move mountains – nothing was difficult.
Now the thought of action swamps all energy.
The dog looks at me and wonders why
time moves on with tear in eye?
I have no answers for what’s gone by.

The Swan

What happens to the swan
when his partner is gone?
Does he bow his head?
Never raise it again?
Does his appetite go
as he sits alone in the nest?
Does he bother preening his feathers?
He must suffer heart break
for he has tasted love!

The Isolated Poet

I am an isolated island
sitting in the flow of the river of life,
sometimes almost submerged by its torrent,
other times glowing like a lantern in the night.

I stand back and look from afar.
I see through microscopic eyes for clarity.
Hem and haw over word selection
before committing to the page my direction.

I have known the isolation, the depth of emotion,
the mountainous solitudes, the hermit times,
highs and lows, ingredients for a working poet’s poem
to turn on the tap of the reader’s psyche.

I am master of my isolation. I have chosen,
yet I am still anchored to those that make a difference.
Do my poems make a difference? Touch a chord?
Or do they clog the gutters of the mind?

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