Eugene J. McCarthy: Selected Poems

by Eugene J. McCarthy

This book offers a selection of 100 poems written by Eugene J McCarthy. His love for America has blessed us with political hope, and as a poet, his fine poetry provides a nourishment for our imaginations; poetry s critical role in culture. His experience as a U.S. Senator and a presidential candidate, along with other experiences are expressed well with the poems he shares here.

• Format: Hardcover
• Language: English
• ISBN: 1883477158
• ISBN13: 9781883477158
• Release Date: January 1997
• Publisher: Lone Oak Press
• Length: 154 Pages
• Weight: 0.95 lbs.

Customer Reviews

Poet Politician

Eugene McCarthy went to Lyndon Johnson's ranch and refused to shoot one of the tame deer Johnson kept as hunting stock. Perhaps that was a factor in Humphrey's being selected rather than McCarthy as LBJ's running mate. McCarthy spent some time in a monastery as a young man before he entered public life. His antiwar position galvanized the nation and caused the withdrawal of Lyndon Johnson from the presidential race. There is never an excess word in McCarthy's brilliant and compassionate poetry. THE DEATH OF THE OLD PLYMOUTH ROCK HEN -by Senator Eugene McCarthy- It was tragic when her time came After a lifetime of laying brown eggs Among the white of leghorns. Now, unattractive to the rooster, Laying no more eggs, Faking it on other hens' nests, Caught in the act, Taken to the woodpile In the winter of execution. A quick stroke of the axe, One first and last upward cast Of eyes that in life Had looked only down, Scanning the ground for seeds and worms And for the shadow of the hawk. Now those eyes are covered By yellow lids, Closing from the bottom up. Decapitated, she did not act Like a chicken with its head cut off. No pirouettes, no somersaults, No last indignity. Like an English queen, she died. On wings that had never known flight. She flew, straight into the woodpile, And there beat out slow death While her curdled voice ran out in blood. A scalding and a plucking of no purpose. No goose feathers for a comforter. No duck's down for a pillow. No quill for a pen. In the opened body, no entrail message for the haruspex. Not one egg of promise in the oviduct. In the gray gizzard, no diamond or emerald, But only half-ground corn, Sure evidence of unprofitability. The breast and legs, The wings and thighs, The strong heart, The pope's nose, Fit only for chicken soup and stew. And then in March, near winter's end, When bloodied and feathered wood is used, The odor of burnt offerings Above the kitchen stove. -Eugene McCarthy-