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Best Poems Written by Mary Guckian

Below are the all-time best Mary Guckian poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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One Man's Retirement

In Oxford we watched for three months
the old man, his leg in plaster,
lean against the wall outside the building
where the Simon people cared for him.

He always gave a friendly greeting,
with his Irish accent, putting some life
back into our tired bodies,
as we rushed by on our way to work.

His younger mates preferred
the benches further down the street,
where they drank the bottle of cider,
hidden away from the night before.

Later in the day, senile old ladies
gathered on benches and listened
to the lilting of his Irish brogue.

Details | Mary Guckian Poem

The Master's Bicycle

A second hand bicycle
was all the master could afford,
when he came to teach
in our country school.
After years of cycling
the four miles in the rain,
it disjointed.
The saddle sat loosely,
padded with papers and rags
during lunch hour the boys
loved to pull it apart,
leaving the saddle at an angle
that made a pyramid
on the well-worn seat.,
it was all they could do
to get back at him, as he
lashed their growing hands
with the sally rod.

PUBLISHED in PERFUME OF THE SOIL, SWAN PRESS, DUBLIN l999

Details | Mary Guckian Poem

One Man's Retirement

In Oxford we watched for three months
the old man, his leg in plaster,
lean against the wall outside the building
where the Simon people cared for him.

He always gave a friendly greeting,
with his Irish accent, putting some life
back into our tired bodies,
as we rushed by on our way to work.

His younger mates preferred
the benches further down the street,
where they drank the bottle of cider,
hidden away from the night before.

Later in the day, senile old ladies
gathered on benches and listened
to the lilting of his Irish brogue.

Details | Mary Guckian Poem

Ironing

IRONING

Years of ironing starched shirt collars
for my father and the aprons
we wore for cookery class in school,
gave a polished surface to the clothes iron.

The end opened like the lid of a box
and out came the large stone which
we buried in the centre of the open fire,
until it turned pink-red, like a slab of jelly.

With the tongs we lifted the stone
from the fire, transferred it to the iron
and began ironing the clothes.
As we moved it over and back

on the garments, the creases vanished.
Every fifteen minutes we placed the stone
back in the fire, until clothes for seven of us
were neatly ironed and stacked,

ready for another week

from PERFUME OF THE SOIL, SWAN PRESS l999

Details | Mary Guckian Poem

Fair Day In Carrick

Jostling between the cattle
as they crowded the street
with steaming bodies
I steered my bicycle to school.

Fresh manure lay
in puddles on the ground,
plastering my shoes 
with sloppy mush.

Men with caps and hats
at all  angles, slapped hands
and bargaine, buying
and selling all day long

Many shop windows
were nailed with slats of wood, 
to prevent the glass
being gored by horns.

A few livelier beasts might
wander into pubs and shops,
causing consternation.

On my way home,
shopkeepers with buckets
of water and yardbrushes,
tried to clean the street,

but it still reeked of beasts
and a day of dung.

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Picking Potatoes After School

During October and November,
after the bitter four mile cycle
from the school,
I'd eat my dinner,
then face the job of picking potatoes
from the long ridges
my father had dug with a spade,
in one of the fields during the day.

The bigger spuds were put in clamps
in the field, neatly covered with clay
for the winter,
to keep away birds and mice.
Sometimes, my sisters had picked them,
leaving the poicins for me
to be boiled later for pigs and hens
in the great pot on the open fire.

Details | Mary Guckian Poem

Autumn In Oxford

Walking into meadows,
we wandered across the

steep bridge and watched
the students rowing.

The narrow boats moved
smoothly under the tall

trees and the oars glided
gracefully on the river.

as the instructor called
out from time to time.

Keeping their movements
in tune with nature, they

floated into the landscape,
and we moved further along

the rich carpet. Crackling
sounds filled our ears,

the burnished leaves fell
gently at our feet as our

time together evaporated.
Years later, memories

stir in the landscape
of our drawn out silence.

From Perfume of the Soil.  Swan Press,  1999.

Details | Mary Guckian Poem

The Weir At Lucan

In their coloured anoraks
I see young people canoeing
swinging their oars as they cut and dip
into the frothy waters.

Around me, daffodil bulbs
shoot stalks out of damp earth,
and falling water clears my head
of office banter and tedious days.

Details | Mary Guckian Poem

Creels

CREELS

My father spent hours
trimming the edges
of the newly cut sally rods,
to make creels fore taking the turf
over the soft soil of the bog,
so that the horse and cart
could bring it home
for the winter time.
I watch how he scalloped
the edges, tightly tied
and intricately weaved
the fresh wood.

He was always making tools,
repairing them.
Birsy with his hands,
he wasted no time,
toook no holidays,
or trips away, except once
a year, cycling to Mohill
for the Manachan Day Fair
with my mother.
When they got home,
the sun was a low ember,
the cows milked.

PUBLISHED in PERFUME OF THE SOIL, SWAN PRESS, DUBLIN l999

Details | Mary Guckian Poem

Frosty Morning 1

Plants stiff with frost,
a solitary rose edged with delicate lace:
the night air has tightened the earth,
prevented birth,
but the sun's heat starts to melt
the shimmering specks away.

All is peaceful on the grass,
the ice is cracking on the river,
ducks swim out
to stretch their feathery bodies,
after a cold night on the river bank.




From Perfume of the Soil.  Swan Press, 1999.