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~ Settled back in Jersey, heart still in Ireland….

Back On The Rock

Category Archives: Poetry

Walled Garden

11 Wednesday May 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Writing

≈ 6 Comments

These eighty years the garden’s stayed unchanged
No, as the seasons turn they fade or bloom
The colours, textures somewhat rearranged
This time next year familiar scents assume

The gravel paths, the cared and tended beds
The birds that visit daily reassured
There is no predator that softly treads
Their safety at their grazing is ensured

But should the writer seek to fly away
To seek excitement, danger, far and wide
To seek out wond’rous places, for they say
We will regret our chances if denied

But here surrounded by wisteria
One cannot claim that it’s inferior

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Ode to Alexa

12 Tuesday Apr 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Writing

≈ 29 Comments

*Might have been inspired by The Zombies*

Now I know I’m old and single
Maybe prone to a silly thought
There’s a woman called Alexa
Who is driving me distraught
Though she’ll turn the volume lower
And tell jokes without a care
When I want to know her better
She’s not there

When I need some information
Maybe learn some history
She will give me all that’s needed
She solves every mystery
But when night falls and I’m lonely
Alexa drives me to despair
I would marry her tomorrow
But she’s not there

She obeys my every order
Switches lights both on and off
She’ll suggest a piece of music
Maybe play Rachmaninoff
But when I ask her to come closer
Run my fingers through her hair
She is not so quick to answer
‘Cos she’s not there

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The Caretaker

08 Friday Apr 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Writing

≈ 11 Comments

Museum café rainy day
Killing time another cup
Perhaps a bun then I can stay
Until the manager locks up

Maybe he’ll notice maybe not
Perhaps I’ll stay here all the night
I’ll happily stay and be forgot
Till opening time and morning light

And then I’ll stay another day
A day a week perhaps a year
And from this corner rarely stray
The staff forget that I am here

And others sit around me now
I say hello no answer back
It’s odd when I remember how
I used to laugh and have the craic

But I am happy to be here
My work is done and now I’m free
I do try not to interfere
As I sit back and drink my tea

Today I wandered through the halls
Which were familiar way back then
I overheard two people say
“Whatever happened to old Ben?”

For I am now part of the show
Though not what visitors pay to see
Don’t be alarmed if you should glimpse
A shadow with a cup of tea

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Lament for Caroline

24 Thursday Mar 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Writing

≈ 5 Comments

There was a young gardienne called Caroline
Whose assessment of risk was thought very fine
One day by the store
She was squashed by a door
Now her safety credentials are borderline

NB – no gardiennes or other persons were squashed in the making of this lament

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Hamptonne – 400 years

23 Wednesday Mar 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Jersey, Poetry, Writing

≈ 12 Comments

Beyond the meadow runs the valley road
But yet you’d hardly know that it was there
The centuries have passed, new ones unfold
The sheep still safely graze without a care

Along the way the orchard seems at peace
But work goes quietly on as through we tread
The trees know that their task can never cease
The ancient Cider Fest must go ahead

The buildings have been here for many years
If they could talk what might they tell to us
But no great dramas only hopes and fears
Their world has moved along with no great fuss

But wait they didn’t hear so long ago
The morning noise, the red-eye to Heathrow

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The Building of the Breakwater

06 Sunday Mar 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Writing

≈ 6 Comments

The tale of Ireland is a tragic one
We know the many troubles it’s been through
The warlike men with axes, guns and spears
The Vikings down to Cromwell and his crew


But then there came a hidden enemy
In eighteen forty seven if I’m right
It came along in silence, mockingly
From nowhere came the cruel potato blight


This new attack the others did eclipse
To emigrate the folks salvation lay
The people climbed aboard the coffin ships
Which sailed to take them to Amerikay


But wait some heard of yet another land
And not so very far across the sea
In Jersey maybe they could lend a hand
To build a harbour paid most handsomely

Some lads packed and sadly hugged their mother
Set off by foot to finally reach the port
And with their final pennies bought a ticket
‘Take us to Jersey’ was their only thought

And so when they arrived at Jersey docks
Off they were sent to Verclut’s shantytown
To blast and lift the heavy granite blocks
From early morn until the sun went down


And in the night while all the locals slept
A penny whistle sounded notes forlorn
As they lay down to rest and quietly wept
And prayed their families lived to see the dawn

Each morning they would rise unwillingly
Their weary bones to drag all through the day
The works proceeded only grudgingly
The lads relieved to still receive their pay

And then one day the building work just stopped
Maybe you know just how the story goes
The harbour lads just went off home to Ireland
I think a couple may have stayed, who knows

Today we happily drive down to St Catherine
And stroll along the breakwater so slow
Perhaps next time you’ll spare a thought for Ireland
And those gallant lads who built it long ago

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Bog Poetry

24 Tuesday Mar 2020

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Ireland, Poetry, Writing

≈ 14 Comments

Working the low bog lands, farming turf for fuel, has long been a traditional industry in Ireland. It is hard, back-breaking work – the likes of me wouldn’t last the morning. The lads that work the land would laugh at the romantic notion that there is anything ‘noble’ about it. But I think there is. The connection to the land, to their forefathers, is deep.

Bog (Irish Times)

Credit Irish Times

A local writer friend of mine, Yvonne Heavey, dashed off a poem as a tribute to the turf workers – she joined them one summer as a young teenager in the Irish Midlands. No poet I, but I jumped in and had a bash at re-phrasing her poem. It was fun. So in the style of William Drennan (apologies to him), here is what you might term a Mock Celtic Revival poem simply entitled The Turf Workers by Heavey/McCarthy.

As Drennan has told of the Emerald Isle
God saw it was good and bestowed a sweet smile
On its shores north and south, on its mountains so green
Nor did he forget the lowlands between
Though the lakes of Killarney are wond’rous to see
And the Cliffs of Moher have great majesty
It’s the lowlands so rare that God loves the best
And the lads that labour there, reluctant to rest
Ancient land, blessed soil, your gifts we collect
You give and we take, but for sure with respect
The bog lands laid down over thousands of years
Have seen laughter and love, famine and tears
Nearby the bones of ancestors who dwelled
They too worked the land, by hunger impelled
Westmeath to Roscommon, Longford to Clare
When they needed you, you were always there
So laughter done, the boys start to work
Backs bent, legs braced, not thinking to shirk
For them not the comfort of computer or pen
But ageless connection with their countrymen
With spade and with hand they dig and they turn
No clocks they watch, a few euro to earn
For these men of Ireland connect with the land
Not for them sitting down, coffee to hand
From morning to night they work steadily
The rows designated, endless to see
Fellow turf workers, I was once one of you
As a young wan I was there, summer of ‘92
Blisters, bad back, I experienced it with you
You welcomed me in, I was one of the crew
Bog dust, bog frogs, I knew them well
When the rain swept across, it might have been Hell
But you carried on, so I did too
I wouldn’t be beaten, I was as good as you
The laughter we shared, the bad jokes we told
Then on with our work, digging for gold
And at the end of each summer’s day
We’d wend our way home, counting our pay
Never doubting we’d do it again
The next day

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