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| Extracts from "The Ordinary Miracle" |
YESTERDAY
There are winds here
come in off the sea suddenly
catching you off guard
so that you founder
in the wreckage of your own memory
where whiskery men in wellingtons
come striding like heroes up the garden path
home from their world
of sheep and hills and hay reeks;
a woman with white hair scatters
grain for chicks in the haggard
she turns, her face
as familiar as the one in your mirror, the
voice you have known it forever.
A sheepdog sleeps fitfully
in a pool of light by the front door;
a tethered donkey brays
in eternity
from the shade of a holly bush.
You steady yourself then
against the white wall of the house
a part of you breaking free
to realise that
yesterday was 1963.
Copyright Mark F. Chaddock 2007
There are winds here
come in off the sea suddenly
catching you off guard
so that you founder
in the wreckage of your own memory
where whiskery men in wellingtons
come striding like heroes up the garden path
home from their world
of sheep and hills and hay reeks;
a woman with white hair scatters
grain for chicks in the haggard
she turns, her face
as familiar as the one in your mirror, the
voice you have known it forever.
A sheepdog sleeps fitfully
in a pool of light by the front door;
a tethered donkey brays
in eternity
from the shade of a holly bush.
You steady yourself then
against the white wall of the house
a part of you breaking free
to realise that
yesterday was 1963.
Copyright Mark F. Chaddock 2007
Mark is a poet, playwright, writer, and photographic artist. A founder member of
Castlebar Creative Writers Group, he is currently a member of Achill Writers
Group. In addition to publishing four collections of poetry, his writing features in
the anthologies "A Year of Mondays: 24 Mayo Writers" and "Present Tense:
Words & Pictures".
He is currently working on a new collection - "The Ordinary Miracle", to be
published in summer, 2008. His play, "The Quiet Room", is due to be performed
at Belmullet Arts Centre, Co. Mayo, in March 2008, by Phoenix Theatre Works.
Castlebar Creative Writers Group, he is currently a member of Achill Writers
Group. In addition to publishing four collections of poetry, his writing features in
the anthologies "A Year of Mondays: 24 Mayo Writers" and "Present Tense:
Words & Pictures".
He is currently working on a new collection - "The Ordinary Miracle", to be
published in summer, 2008. His play, "The Quiet Room", is due to be performed
at Belmullet Arts Centre, Co. Mayo, in March 2008, by Phoenix Theatre Works.
Poetry
OLD ACQUAINTANCE
I came upon your hulk unexpectedly,
upturned and abandoned,
crumbling at the forgotten end of the harbour,
among buoys and rusting anchors,
grass stalks bending from oarlocks.
Sun light and salt storm
had bleached cream paint
white as a whale's collarbone,
flaked parts to curls,
revealing scars you suffered too
beneath your curving timbers.
Blessed carcass.
Vessel of the ocean.
You hold memories of life and death
too deep to ford in a poet's line.
In gravid rumen
you harboured the prayers and deeds of
fishermen,
who braved the storms and rode the waves,
ran the lanes between the isles,
who sculled their days
to set rope nets and jig bright lures,
turning hunger beyond the doors,
of Achill women and children.
Copyright Mark F. Chaddock 2007
I came upon your hulk unexpectedly,
upturned and abandoned,
crumbling at the forgotten end of the harbour,
among buoys and rusting anchors,
grass stalks bending from oarlocks.
Sun light and salt storm
had bleached cream paint
white as a whale's collarbone,
flaked parts to curls,
revealing scars you suffered too
beneath your curving timbers.
Blessed carcass.
Vessel of the ocean.
You hold memories of life and death
too deep to ford in a poet's line.
In gravid rumen
you harboured the prayers and deeds of
fishermen,
who braved the storms and rode the waves,
ran the lanes between the isles,
who sculled their days
to set rope nets and jig bright lures,
turning hunger beyond the doors,
of Achill women and children.
Copyright Mark F. Chaddock 2007
| UNDER THE RAINBOW When she smiles the sun shines When she frowns it rains I'm waiting for a cloud to show Before offering my rainbow Copyright Mark F.Chaddock 2008 |
| ROWAN TREE FROM THE OLD HOUSE From your grand-father's ruined house you took your wand of heritage a rowan whip rooted in the crumbling stone planting it carefully, ritually, into dark homestead loam, something in you believing, perhaps, its yearly gift of bright orange berries might lean across the gulf of time like a brilliant beacon, or lure - a decorative divining rod guiding ancestors to the new home. Copyright Mark F.Chaddock 2007 |
THE MORNING OF YOUR FUNERAL For Dad
was grey and overcast - a raw winter's day
the right weather for the occasion,
you would have approved;
the sunny day funeral is hardly worth your while
Frank McCourt might have said.
I wore dark sunglasses and couldn't smile
Mark Banks was an usher; years ago you
gave him a lift to Rudyard Lake; a gang
of us went fishing for bream. It seems
I hadn't seen him in forty years. He's a man
now you know with greying hair, balding,
adult children.
You would have liked the way
the funeral director walked solemnly
before the hearse; would have appreciated
the sense of occasion, doubtless made
some quip about her being a woman,
wouldn't let that pass.
Watching from the following black limousine
windows running with raindrops,
drizzle set in,
something capsized in me -
I clung to my hip-flask helpless.
Did you know you stopped the traffic
at Hibel road lights?
And the next three roundabouts
over to Prestbury road?
We'd only managed that previously
those winter nights staggering home
after a few beers.
Six of us men shouldered your coffin
into the Crematorium.
I don't know if you were there to see it;
you always said you hoped you wouldn't be.
A woman called Sue from Oldham read a fine eulogy
and a hired singer read the hymn Morning Has Broken;
he could sing - you would have liked him.
I don't remember walking out
but it was darker.
A dark dirty day of winter rain.
Worth turning out for Mark, I heard you say.
On the way to The Pack Horse
Fenton and Steven were drenched;
we all laughed then despite the pain,
- said you'd had your revenge.
Copyright Mark F.Chaddock 2008
was grey and overcast - a raw winter's day
the right weather for the occasion,
you would have approved;
the sunny day funeral is hardly worth your while
Frank McCourt might have said.
I wore dark sunglasses and couldn't smile
Mark Banks was an usher; years ago you
gave him a lift to Rudyard Lake; a gang
of us went fishing for bream. It seems
I hadn't seen him in forty years. He's a man
now you know with greying hair, balding,
adult children.
You would have liked the way
the funeral director walked solemnly
before the hearse; would have appreciated
the sense of occasion, doubtless made
some quip about her being a woman,
wouldn't let that pass.
Watching from the following black limousine
windows running with raindrops,
drizzle set in,
something capsized in me -
I clung to my hip-flask helpless.
Did you know you stopped the traffic
at Hibel road lights?
And the next three roundabouts
over to Prestbury road?
We'd only managed that previously
those winter nights staggering home
after a few beers.
Six of us men shouldered your coffin
into the Crematorium.
I don't know if you were there to see it;
you always said you hoped you wouldn't be.
A woman called Sue from Oldham read a fine eulogy
and a hired singer read the hymn Morning Has Broken;
he could sing - you would have liked him.
I don't remember walking out
but it was darker.
A dark dirty day of winter rain.
Worth turning out for Mark, I heard you say.
On the way to The Pack Horse
Fenton and Steven were drenched;
we all laughed then despite the pain,
- said you'd had your revenge.
Copyright Mark F.Chaddock 2008