B.J McCoy - A Tribute

Watching specks responding
obediently to fingered keys,
shape the form of words and sentences,
I remember you;
making stately progress
through the classroom,
loose hung gown and hazel cane –
brandished frequently, but never used.
Falteringly, we sought the letters:

J...     U...     J...     space...

“Sit upright,
find home keys!”
Clacking
Smith-Coronas, Royals and Remingtons.

J...     Y...     J...     space...
F...     R...     F...     space...

That day you introduced the gramaphone,
the cane became a baton,
while we struggled for the rhythm;
a foxtrot, I remember,
though I can’t recall the tune.
You, I know, were more at home with Gigli,
Bach, Beethoven.

At ‘sos’, you smoked your cigarettes,
in a way that gave the habit dignity.

Then, back once more, to progress,
patient foxes leaping over lackadaisy dogs,
and parties anxiously in wait of
goodly men.
How could we both know
that for one whom you had urged toward
rhythm, speed and accuracy,
                           ever and anon,
a spangled page like this would bring
remembrance.
 

Misery Hill

No tourist coaches trolling by,
with guides explaining as they go
what happened here, the reasons why
this vacant lot is long named so.

That here, on hope-foresaken ground
had rotting gibbet-bodies swung.
‘Mid city din now, calm profound
where once the lepers’ bell had rung.

When brier, nettle, dock have sway,
so hard to guage that grief, the fears
which could infest a far off day;
the traumas of the middle years.

Now mind alone may see what’s seen,
may hear a bell call out, “unclean!”
 

Farewell Saigon

The war is done:
the surest sign is when
the lights have gone –
the soft red lights
which signalled
home from home for
G.I. johns.
They lit a place to kill
the pain of killing,
surrender, willing
vanquished victor and forget
for some brief time
the nights outside,
the gunflare brilliance.
To tell her all about
the stars above
the homeland hills.
That home where they had
shared the conflict
as a drama
played out on little screens.

But now
the lights have gone,
the soft red lights.
New ways have come
to Ho Chi Minh.
 

At Garrycastle*

Sile
of the stoney heart
stone everything
mouth and vagina agape
in common
with your sisters

For how many generations
overlooking passage
of Mac Coghlans
Armstongs
others
Eaves-dropping on history
Remaining yet
an enigma

So utterly revealing
yet
so wholly mystery
 

*Garrycastle, Banagher, Co. Offaly, chief site of the Mac Coghlan clan. 
It sports a Sile na Gig effigy high on its walls.

Prince Monolulu*

“I’ve got an ‘orse!” the black man said,
standing outside Aintree gates,
ostrich feathers on his head:
assuring us we could shape fate.
Parted there with sterling pound,
from given three, two best forgot.
But now the third one came around –
and who had heard of Mr. What?
Positioned well beside the Brook,
I noted strength, his special pace.
Once more by (the raw earth shook),
it seemed he knew it was his race.
What then, of luck which gave a winner –
was it princely, or beginner’s?

*A racecourse tipster, popular  in Britain in the 1950s.
Noted for his flamboyant mode of dress.