Mary Mc Carthy holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Limerick, where she graduated with First Class Honours in January 2020. She was shortlisted for the Patrick Kavanagh Award 2022. Her poetry has appeared in SWERVE magazine, Crossways Literary Magazine, Skibbereen Historical Journal, Riverbed Review, Spirituality, The Southern Star, The Echo and in the anthologies: Washing Windows Too and Washing Windows 111, Chasing Shadows and A World Transformed. She has completed two poetry collections.
My Grandmother
Another soft day,
My mother’s mother, Jane,
Baked brown bread,
And with her hands, kneaded dough
Until she knew it was just right.
Her kindness and her gentle laugh
Survived, as she survived
Once from infection, her life in danger,
A cure from penicillin, the last resort;
She carried on until she was old and grey.
Every day, she baked at the kitchen table,
Placed in the oven a tin,
A round cake with markings of a cross,
Knew when it was ready,
A fresh smell lingered in the air.
And I thank from my heart
That Alexander Fleming in a distant past,
Not tidy like she was,
He spotted a difference in agar plates
He thought important and famously said,
‘that’s funny’ – penicillin made history.
Still, I would not be here,
Except for that fortune,
You never know what way the wind blows,
One day my grandmother slipped away,
In silence, I am alive to her presence.
Radio Breaks the Silence
It is the war years, the radio
brings news and music,
Powered by two batteries, wet and dry.
Dry batteries costing a half crown to charge,
And 17 shillings and 6 pence to buy at a bicycle shop.
I never imagined a radio,
Size of the TVs of tomorrow,
Taking a minute or two to heat up,
Its aerial – higher than the house
On the eaves shoot carrying wire to the kitchen.
That time, broadcasts are 15 minutes long,
Run from dinnertime to 10pm,
Mitchelstown cheese and Jacob biscuits sponsored adverts,
I hear football matches on a Sunday, mad to know
If Kerry wins the All-Ireland Final, it is September 1946.
In the wild expanse of home while tuning the signal,
Hearing old songs played, conversation passes to and fro,
About the latest on The News at 6pm or 9pm
of this fallen world, its danger, and its darkness,
Transmission possesses the stuff of story.
Dead and Gone
After the Lord called him,
And he mounting up the years, he went quick.
He had a big funeral, the neighbours
Shook hands to sympathise with the family.
Sorry for your trouble, the good song.
Everyone walked behind the open hearse
On the way to the graveyard,
The horse and cart, a lilting motion,
And those watching on saw this.
The priest was before the cortege,
Next the saddle horses riding,
Traps and butts,
Followed by walkers
Crying big lumps of tears.
They said he was a good man,
In hushed voices,
They all knew what the devil was really like,
But prayed that God
Would grant him a bed in Heaven,
Against the surrounding hills, a sky of torn clouds,
A long silence rested on the land.
The Galway Review 