The Whole of the Story

Catherine McGuire

That’s what he said, and meant,

as he narrated the split

in terms of desire, betrayal, rote and boredom.

But did he mention his parents’ cold nights,

the cigarette tips glowing in silence?

Did he describe the hippie chick, 15,

who blew through his precious pot stash

then wouldn’t put out?

And did he even know about his wife’s vision

as she stood at the peak at sunset,

feeling herself melting into rock and sky?

Did he connect up the month-long flu,

the office putdowns, the comic books

still hidden in the garage?

Even the mornings of coffee, sparrows, breeze,

barely noticed but soaking into his core,

forming part of the crystal lattice

of a life, not ending there,

but connecting to the 

whole

story.

Image: Richard Mayer, Wikimedia Commons

Hedge School

Catherine McGuire

from 1702 until 1860, English penal laws prevented Irish Catholics from establishing schools or hearing Mass. They went underground, with hidden “hedge schools” and “hedge Mass.”

The biting Mayo wind cuts through wool,

scrapes our bare ankles as we hunch

in this old quarry, half-listen

to Master Joyce as he tells of Cuchulain.

He switched to that from sums, to hold

our attention, but I’m watching the hawk

that circles above, thinking how we are all rabbits –

if the soldiers catch us at lessons,

could we end up in Churchtown Gaol? Da says

I must study, leave the guns to the elders

and Sean, who turned 16 last week.

He says learning is rebellion too – if the King

doesn’t want us to read and write, to hear God’s Word,

then by God we’ll learn! Easy for him.

Da never had to sit on sharp stone,

listen to old Joycey who’s forgetting his thoughts.

He stops, looks behind himself, scared coney,

then mumbles and draws lessons in the dust.

Bridie and Maureen are good students,

Frances more scared still than Master Joyce.

Joe and I trade winks, shift our sore rumps.

I think of the bread and cheese,

Aunt Rose’s weak beer stashed for my lunch.

The morning spills light over the quarry tip.

Shadows slide along the walls like spies,

like informers who lurk in our pubs, our market,

willing to trade bloody English coin

for a neighbor’s life.

Image: Artist unknown, at The Fine Art Society, New Bond Street, London