Callum J. McCready is an Irish artist temporarily based out of Fisterra, Spain, as well as travelling across Galicia. When not working by day in retail at night he moonlights as a writer.
His poetry has been published by numerous journals including A New Ulster, Bindweed Magazine, The Galway Review, has a number of projects in the works and an intention to cross over into other disciplines.
When not bound by the ball-and-chain he enjoys gardening, exercising, reading, listening to music, watching movies and spending time with family and friends.
Pieces from an unpublished novel
Loop
night-writer,
low-life,
rough-rider,
chasing tail,
hoping to grab
hold of
something;
constantly,
continuously,
on
and
on
a
cascade,
an endless charade.
parades marching down streets,
banging beat of drum,
looking at you
to march along.
instead
there’s a different song
inside your head.
it’s this tune you
follow,
this battle you fight,
the forces outside,
person(s) within,
indicative,
representative of,
winding,
spiraling,
wrapping their way around,
burdening with weight;
you’re
forced to work
within their grasp,
get along,
make sense,
Sarah’s Silence
says
more than
a thousand years.
echoing
down
chambers,
bouncing off walls,
running
down halls,
rebounding,
reverberating,
it hits me in the face,
open-handed palm,
closed fist,
chop
severing
what’s left of
my heart.
I
take
one look
in her eyes,
everlasting glance,
flickering lashes over
hooded lids,
and
long for
what’s lost.
I want to cry,
but
the tears never come.
no release,
anaesthetic,
pleasure wrought.
Stoic,
she stares,
blank
picture-book,
read, interpreted.
Questions, answers derived,
crossword puzzles,
smallest gestures.
Furrowed brow,
narrowing gaze,
judgement condemning,
damning,
life-sentence.
Slow inhalation,
rising breast,
patient torment,
resignation.
You cross your legs,
Close
the cellar door,
narrow passage to
your mysteries.
Treasure trove,
warm
milk and honey,
sea of bliss
no more.
children whisper when they walk and run, play in woods, hide in the shade of branches, crouch behind pillars, barks, as the wind blows, howling through hollows, rustling leaves;
the place,
sealed from the inside
by a gatekeeper.
The house,
Loud.
I wished the voices would leave.
Now
I want them back.
Broken
Fractured elbow,
chipped tooth,
scarred knuckles,
athlete’s foot,
stiff back,
sore tailbone,
damaged groin,
smashed knee,
torn bicep,
bottled chin,
slicked finger,
weak hands,
bust nose,
split head,
skull end…
various injuries, niggling ailments, physical bother. I carry this dangling garment of fishhooks hanging from my skin. They dig in, bury deep, open fresh wounds every time I move. Blood runs in long streams. I wince, but keep going.
“What difference does it make…”
… the second-to-last line I wrote in a poem scrawled into the wallpaper above my bed with a black byro. Interior decorating at sixteen. Now I get my furniture from IKEA.
falling sand. Each drop ages years, indeterminate.
I create imaginary worlds to compensate for dry, dreary reality.
None of this is an accurate reflection.
Lost Days
i sit up late
staring into screens,
wondering when it went away.
memories fade,
echoing in the dark.
Everything I’ve worked for’s
come and gone.
I was a happy child.
years pass,
the face coarsens,
the brow thickens,
a set scowl,
hard jawline,
snarling mouth,
lips pulled back,
teeth
threatening to
bite,
perusal, judgement,
damning,
I walk these streets,
go into shops, spend money on
needless things.
haunting,
stalking,
vibes of
focus, purpose, intent.
not fooling anyone.
Moving out of my way,
afraid of inciting
the beast,
loosening shackles,
chains of bondage,
unlocking full
potential, ability.
posture, stride,
freak,
psycho’s path.
something I’d planned’s
fallen through.
I go
down that
corridor,
through the
hole
in the floor.
Instead of
saving for a rainy day,
i throw it away,
live life on a tightrope,
dance delicate,
balancing on
heaven’s blade.
When I
lean inwards,
tilt towards
the edge,
cut deep,
is it
a wound of
no returning?
fantasies,
beauty and beast scenarios.
depraved creature,
torn, shattered, broken by vassals,
playing the role they’ve assigned;
all it takes is the right person
to –
But that’s
just another dream.
I spend nights
listening to electro/synth-pop,
imagining what could’ve been.
shoddy semblances of art,
acts,
odes to nostalgia,
memories,
I put down on paper,
etch
the hurt
into permanence.
I am the thing that crawls from
the swamp of being.
Afterhours
Pushing, pulling,
paper in hands,
a sick, depraved child.
Rumpled, ruffled,
crushed within it’s grasp,
torn apart repeatedly,
endlessly.
The pieces float in the air
before gliding to the floor
resting place;
fragments scattered.
Sitting up late at night in dark light meditating on the nature of things.
No matter how much I surmise, ponder, I’m no closer to the answer;
don’t know how it began; don’t know how it stands; don’t know how it ends.
The Galway Review 