Happy birthday Eugene McCarthy


If any of you are secret poets, the best way to break into print is to run for the presidency.  Eugene J. McCarthy

Eugene Joseph McCarthy was a poet who had a political career. Congressman from Minnesota, he sought the presidential nomination five times.

He is not to be confused with Senator Joseph McCarthy who ruined many an artistic career as Senator from Wisconsin, chair of the committee on unamerican activities, promulgator of the infamous Hollwood blacklist and “reds under the beds” attitude to Communism, Socialism, Trade Unionism and things Russian.

Here is a poem about the prettiest of hens.  I seem to have tapped a rich vein of thematic poetry of late.  Fowl poetry.

The Death of the Old Plymouth Rock Hen; by Eugene J. 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.