J.R. McCARTHY
BACK IN THE HOLY BRONX
JR McCarthy
I am back in the Holy Bronx,
where my father and his father
and his father rest in what peace there is
Im back in the Holy Bronx,
carrying on in the name of shadows
as they gather into legends. Noble Antecedents!
I am driving by your graves and wondering
if you really listen to the things we say,
and really watch all the things we do. .
Am I thinking of you because youre thinking of me?
Do you signify to me that Heaven
is no better than the Holy Bronx, so
I should stay put, and Mother should, too?
Holy Bronx, you too have been ensnared by
the encroaching anonymity of American cities.
Your German delis implode into snapshot temples,
and your beauty schools become vegetable maxi-marts.
Your dimly lit bodegas sold beer to minors,
but who sells minors to beer more quickly than
the Videodrome and the Smoketeria?
Holy Bronx, I swear you
kept your children out of your saloons:
they shivered over cheap beer in the pits
of your arcane masonry until they came of age.
Holy Bronx, I swear you
sent your children off to worship on the many
Sabbaths, but they sneaked off to the park
to share kaiser rolls, and thats not your fault.
Holy Bronx, you have more
Ravishing Latin girls than San Cipriano
could raise from the sea foam on Orchard Beach.
Holy Bronx, you have more
Glorious Irish girls in County Woodlawn
than the White Brothers can hypnotize
with their famous blue eyes.
Holy Bronx, you have more
Magnificent Italian girls in the Curio shops
of Arthur Avenue than the world may know.
Holy Bronx, you have even more
Fascinating Black girls than you know yourself:
why are your poets too proud to
shape sweet lyrics for their bangled ears?
Holy Bronx, you rock with reckless wisdom.
Holy Bronx , you damn cowards to invisibility.
Holy Bronx, you breathe history and
your rooftops are littered with homers.
Lilt of the Holy Bronx upon my tongue;
Bounce of the Holy Bronx in my walk;
All the way up Webster Avenue from now
Until Yonkers, amen.
I am back in the Holy Bronx,
driving badly in one of the many
family cars I have squired to Death.
I am back in the Holy Bronx,
crawling from Jerome to Gunhill
because my lady dreads I 95, or
double-parking on East Tremont because
people in Nyack are jonesing for canollis.
Lou Gehrig and Sal Mineo
Virginia Clemm and Leatrice Joy
Billie Holiday and Big Pun, would you give
up the Elysian Fields to get a glimpse
of dinosaurs lumbering up Fordham Road,
or spaceships docking at Ferry Point Park?
Holy Bronx, you are giggling like a school girl
at the thugs of the Third Millennium,
tripping on their clown pants, cramming
baseball caps on top of bandannas on top
of dew rags. What happened to satin-backed
singing marauders, to gangs with soul,
and soul with shape and shape showing
up with her friends just in time to make you
forget you were mad? Angry Young Posers!
What does it take to embarrass you?
Do the Knights of Columbus have
to brandish their swords before
you sit down and enjoy the show?
Meanwhile the ravishing Latin girls
are dressed up for Mardi Gras and
teaching each other spectacular dances. .
Meanwhile the Glorious Irish girls
have charmed a fin from each bagpiper,
and this keg of beer is magically replenished.
Meanwhile the magnificent Italian girls
have squeezed into one stretch limo
for the mother of all Bachelorette parties
Meanwhile the fascinating Black girls
are rapping like warrior poets,
and those who do not rhyme do listen closely.
( And under a hand-carved arch on Castle Hill Avenue,
Two homeless teenagers cradle their newborn son. )
Holy Bronx, you sway with righteous whimsy.
Holy Bronx, you call all choirs to perfect pitch.
Holy Bronx, you assume the proper posture,
and you wait for whatever happens next.
Lilt of the Holy Bronx upon my tongue
Bounce of the Holy Bronx in my walk
All the way up Webster Avenue from now
Until Yonkers, Amen.
I am back in the Holy Bronx,
and I dont know about you, Monsignor, but
I still see the grandeur of the Grand Concourse.
I am back in the Holy Bronx,
and you Swells of Riverdale can just stop
pretending that you live in Westchester.
I am back in the Holy Bronx,
Wishing that I could drop everything
and venerate the Stonehenge
gazebo off Allerton Avenue, or
fathom the terracotta hieroglyphics
of Parkchester, or leer like Leif
Erikson as I leap off my dragon and
claim City Island for Odin.
Holy Bronx, you are what you are
as the names of illustrious Jews baffle
the denizens of Co-op City.
Holy Bronx, you are what you are
as Richard Wagners Opera All-Stars
are strangely commemorated in Throgs Neck.
Holy Bronx, you are what you are
as thoroughfares named for great French
Generals run past your hospitals and cemeteries
Holy Bronx, you are what you are,
as the Virgin Mary shows up at the Grotto,
looking much younger than pictures suggest,
and teaches a few words of Aramaic
to black-clad little old ladies
Who were once Ravishing Latin girls
looking out for one another and bringing
their pay envelops home unopened.
And who were once Glorious Irish girls
coming to the door in their grandmothers
sweaters to say that they were grounded
And who were once magnificent Italian girls
loosing the very brothers they used to
smack around on the neighborhood bums.
And who were once fascinating Black girls,
utterly un-self-conscious, hopeful even
as the room filled up with empty promises.
And the power of Grace is precisely that
they are what they were, and will always be so.
Holy Bronx, you nod with all-knowing.
Holy Bronx, you laugh with rueful recognition.
Holy Bronx, you wish your Ponce Deleons well,
and leave their house keys in the mail box.
Lilt of the Holy Bronx upon my tongue.
Bounce of the Holy Bronx in my walk.
All the way up Webster Avenue From now
Until Yonkers, Amen.
JR McCarthy
I am back in the Holy Bronx,
where my father and his father
and his father rest in what peace there is
Im back in the Holy Bronx,
carrying on in the name of shadows
as they gather into legends. Noble Antecedents!
I am driving by your graves and wondering
if you really listen to the things we say,
and really watch all the things we do. .
Am I thinking of you because youre thinking of me?
Do you signify to me that Heaven
is no better than the Holy Bronx, so
I should stay put, and Mother should, too?
Holy Bronx, you too have been ensnared by
the encroaching anonymity of American cities.
Your German delis implode into snapshot temples,
and your beauty schools become vegetable maxi-marts.
Your dimly lit bodegas sold beer to minors,
but who sells minors to beer more quickly than
the Videodrome and the Smoketeria?
Holy Bronx, I swear you
kept your children out of your saloons:
they shivered over cheap beer in the pits
of your arcane masonry until they came of age.
Holy Bronx, I swear you
sent your children off to worship on the many
Sabbaths, but they sneaked off to the park
to share kaiser rolls, and thats not your fault.
Holy Bronx, you have more
Ravishing Latin girls than San Cipriano
could raise from the sea foam on Orchard Beach.
Holy Bronx, you have more
Glorious Irish girls in County Woodlawn
than the White Brothers can hypnotize
with their famous blue eyes.
Holy Bronx, you have more
Magnificent Italian girls in the Curio shops
of Arthur Avenue than the world may know.
Holy Bronx, you have even more
Fascinating Black girls than you know yourself:
why are your poets too proud to
shape sweet lyrics for their bangled ears?
Holy Bronx, you rock with reckless wisdom.
Holy Bronx , you damn cowards to invisibility.
Holy Bronx, you breathe history and
your rooftops are littered with homers.
Lilt of the Holy Bronx upon my tongue;
Bounce of the Holy Bronx in my walk;
All the way up Webster Avenue from now
Until Yonkers, amen.
I am back in the Holy Bronx,
driving badly in one of the many
family cars I have squired to Death.
I am back in the Holy Bronx,
crawling from Jerome to Gunhill
because my lady dreads I 95, or
double-parking on East Tremont because
people in Nyack are jonesing for canollis.
Lou Gehrig and Sal Mineo
Virginia Clemm and Leatrice Joy
Billie Holiday and Big Pun, would you give
up the Elysian Fields to get a glimpse
of dinosaurs lumbering up Fordham Road,
or spaceships docking at Ferry Point Park?
Holy Bronx, you are giggling like a school girl
at the thugs of the Third Millennium,
tripping on their clown pants, cramming
baseball caps on top of bandannas on top
of dew rags. What happened to satin-backed
singing marauders, to gangs with soul,
and soul with shape and shape showing
up with her friends just in time to make you
forget you were mad? Angry Young Posers!
What does it take to embarrass you?
Do the Knights of Columbus have
to brandish their swords before
you sit down and enjoy the show?
Meanwhile the ravishing Latin girls
are dressed up for Mardi Gras and
teaching each other spectacular dances. .
Meanwhile the Glorious Irish girls
have charmed a fin from each bagpiper,
and this keg of beer is magically replenished.
Meanwhile the magnificent Italian girls
have squeezed into one stretch limo
for the mother of all Bachelorette parties
Meanwhile the fascinating Black girls
are rapping like warrior poets,
and those who do not rhyme do listen closely.
( And under a hand-carved arch on Castle Hill Avenue,
Two homeless teenagers cradle their newborn son. )
Holy Bronx, you sway with righteous whimsy.
Holy Bronx, you call all choirs to perfect pitch.
Holy Bronx, you assume the proper posture,
and you wait for whatever happens next.
Lilt of the Holy Bronx upon my tongue
Bounce of the Holy Bronx in my walk
All the way up Webster Avenue from now
Until Yonkers, Amen.
I am back in the Holy Bronx,
and I dont know about you, Monsignor, but
I still see the grandeur of the Grand Concourse.
I am back in the Holy Bronx,
and you Swells of Riverdale can just stop
pretending that you live in Westchester.
I am back in the Holy Bronx,
Wishing that I could drop everything
and venerate the Stonehenge
gazebo off Allerton Avenue, or
fathom the terracotta hieroglyphics
of Parkchester, or leer like Leif
Erikson as I leap off my dragon and
claim City Island for Odin.
Holy Bronx, you are what you are
as the names of illustrious Jews baffle
the denizens of Co-op City.
Holy Bronx, you are what you are
as Richard Wagners Opera All-Stars
are strangely commemorated in Throgs Neck.
Holy Bronx, you are what you are
as thoroughfares named for great French
Generals run past your hospitals and cemeteries
Holy Bronx, you are what you are,
as the Virgin Mary shows up at the Grotto,
looking much younger than pictures suggest,
and teaches a few words of Aramaic
to black-clad little old ladies
Who were once Ravishing Latin girls
looking out for one another and bringing
their pay envelops home unopened.
And who were once Glorious Irish girls
coming to the door in their grandmothers
sweaters to say that they were grounded
And who were once magnificent Italian girls
loosing the very brothers they used to
smack around on the neighborhood bums.
And who were once fascinating Black girls,
utterly un-self-conscious, hopeful even
as the room filled up with empty promises.
And the power of Grace is precisely that
they are what they were, and will always be so.
Holy Bronx, you nod with all-knowing.
Holy Bronx, you laugh with rueful recognition.
Holy Bronx, you wish your Ponce Deleons well,
and leave their house keys in the mail box.
Lilt of the Holy Bronx upon my tongue.
Bounce of the Holy Bronx in my walk.
All the way up Webster Avenue From now
Until Yonkers, Amen.
Please check out our friends websites on our LINKS page. If you have any comments or questions, please EMAIL US.
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CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ALL THE MUSIC AND ARTWORK ON THIS WEBSITE IS DISPLAYED UNDER A
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE
READ MORE OF HIS GREAT POEMS AT
POETASTER
POETASTER
The Stations of the Cross (1
through 5)
I
At Saint Patrick’s Cathedral
in midtown Manhattan,
I worked as an usher,
and a maintenance man:
we were called 'the support staff'.
One day a Rabbi
who saw my lapel pin
asked me to tell him
why Catholics light candles
whenever they pray.
I said, “Well, we light one,
and lean over the flame
so that God will be able
to see who is praying –
d'you want me to show you?”
The Rabbi said, “Really:
you all pray to Jesus,
but you act more like Judas.
Thanks so much for your trouble,
and have a nice day.”
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on cold winter nights,
I ejected the homeless.
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on hot summer nights,
I ejected the homeless.
II
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral,
in midtown Manhattan,
I was taking a break
with two other ushers.
(All of us smoking.)
A ancient chanteuse
(who was still a headliner)
bid us all a good evening
and said she'd forgotten
which door was the exit
I showed her a door
and said “This is an exit
for those who are leaving,
and this is an entrance
for those who are coming.”
She said, “You’re awfully fresh,
but I knew Cardinal Spellman.
and if he was alive,
you would surely be fired -
I hope you’re ashamed.”
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on cold winter nights,
I ejected the homeless.
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on hot Summer nights,
I ejected the homeless.
III
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in midtown Manhattan,
I worked with a man
whose wife and five children
lived in Costa Rica
He worked Monday through Friday
in a bank as a teller,
and with us on the weekends.
When he had enough money,
his family would join him.
He told me all this
as we walked to the subway,
and he added, “Thees evening,
I go see my Bride
On the Upper West Side."
I said, “Oh, that’s awesome,
your wife is in town!”
and he replied, “GEE – AHH,
my wife ees my wife,
but my bride ees my bride.”
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on cold winter nights,
I ejected the homeless.
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on hot Summer nights,
I ejected the homeless.
IV
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
In midtown Manhattan,
we emptied the cashboxes
under the candle stands
into big canvas sacks –
One night, as I dragged
A sack full of cash
past the shrine of Our Lady,
A large dirty woman
lumbered up to me
and asked for the money:
she said one bag of cash,
wouldn’t make that much difference
to Dear Mother Church,
but could certainly help her.
As I started to answer,
She grabbed hold of the bag
and she wouldn't let go.
I dragged that poor woman
to the cross of St. Andrew.
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on cold winter nights,
I ejected the homeless.
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight forty five
on hot summer nights,
I ejected the homeless.
V
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
an elderly man we called
Handsome Jack Brophy,
broke me into the ushers.
Handsome Jack was a bruiser:
he had once been a cop,
but he beat up his sergeant,
and they had to expel him.
On our first tour together,
we came upon someone
who appeared to praying,
but was actually trying
to pleasure himself.
I could tell he was sorry
as I showed him the door,
and he would have gone quietly
if I'd let him go sooner:
before I could release him,
Jack started to punch him.
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on cold winter nights,
I ejected the homeless
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on hot summer nights,
I ejected the homeless.
through 5)
I
At Saint Patrick’s Cathedral
in midtown Manhattan,
I worked as an usher,
and a maintenance man:
we were called 'the support staff'.
One day a Rabbi
who saw my lapel pin
asked me to tell him
why Catholics light candles
whenever they pray.
I said, “Well, we light one,
and lean over the flame
so that God will be able
to see who is praying –
d'you want me to show you?”
The Rabbi said, “Really:
you all pray to Jesus,
but you act more like Judas.
Thanks so much for your trouble,
and have a nice day.”
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on cold winter nights,
I ejected the homeless.
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on hot summer nights,
I ejected the homeless.
II
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral,
in midtown Manhattan,
I was taking a break
with two other ushers.
(All of us smoking.)
A ancient chanteuse
(who was still a headliner)
bid us all a good evening
and said she'd forgotten
which door was the exit
I showed her a door
and said “This is an exit
for those who are leaving,
and this is an entrance
for those who are coming.”
She said, “You’re awfully fresh,
but I knew Cardinal Spellman.
and if he was alive,
you would surely be fired -
I hope you’re ashamed.”
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on cold winter nights,
I ejected the homeless.
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on hot Summer nights,
I ejected the homeless.
III
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in midtown Manhattan,
I worked with a man
whose wife and five children
lived in Costa Rica
He worked Monday through Friday
in a bank as a teller,
and with us on the weekends.
When he had enough money,
his family would join him.
He told me all this
as we walked to the subway,
and he added, “Thees evening,
I go see my Bride
On the Upper West Side."
I said, “Oh, that’s awesome,
your wife is in town!”
and he replied, “GEE – AHH,
my wife ees my wife,
but my bride ees my bride.”
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on cold winter nights,
I ejected the homeless.
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on hot Summer nights,
I ejected the homeless.
IV
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
In midtown Manhattan,
we emptied the cashboxes
under the candle stands
into big canvas sacks –
One night, as I dragged
A sack full of cash
past the shrine of Our Lady,
A large dirty woman
lumbered up to me
and asked for the money:
she said one bag of cash,
wouldn’t make that much difference
to Dear Mother Church,
but could certainly help her.
As I started to answer,
She grabbed hold of the bag
and she wouldn't let go.
I dragged that poor woman
to the cross of St. Andrew.
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on cold winter nights,
I ejected the homeless.
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight forty five
on hot summer nights,
I ejected the homeless.
V
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
an elderly man we called
Handsome Jack Brophy,
broke me into the ushers.
Handsome Jack was a bruiser:
he had once been a cop,
but he beat up his sergeant,
and they had to expel him.
On our first tour together,
we came upon someone
who appeared to praying,
but was actually trying
to pleasure himself.
I could tell he was sorry
as I showed him the door,
and he would have gone quietly
if I'd let him go sooner:
before I could release him,
Jack started to punch him.
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in Midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on cold winter nights,
I ejected the homeless
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral
in midtown Manhattan,
at eight-forty-five
on hot summer nights,
I ejected the homeless.
READ THE STATIONS OF THE
CROSS - COMPLETE AT
POETASTER
CROSS - COMPLETE AT
POETASTER
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