Born in Rush, Co. Dublin, Ireland. He is a retired Plastic Surgeon living in Co. Galway in the West of Ireland and was on the European Board of Plastic Surgery. Some of his poetry is inspired by his Medical work in Ireland, Albania and Kosovo.
Been writing seriously for the past ten years and attends The Writer’s Res in Spiddal ( Maire Holmes) and Oughterard Writer’s Group ( Pete Mullineaux). Has published three collections of poetry, Turning on a Sixpence in 2011, Escaped Thoughts in 2012 and The Child Grows Up in 2013. He is included in four anthologies, Off the Cuff (KARA) in 2012, Oughterard Voices in 2013, Whispering Trees (KARA) in 2015, By the Lake (Oughterard) in 2016 and Shadows (Oughterard) in 2018. He has written plays and is currently finishing a novel.
Depression Follows Recession
Depression follows recession so deep.
The world loses words, part of its music,
buries the person under worries as a heap,
puts pressure on Love, of which no one speaks.
Do not flirt with Love,
it may be your saviour.
Do not play with emotions,
it is not loving behaviour.
Do not murder Love
though it eats at your core.
Caress it, let it grow, let it flower.
Don’t fence it in, don’t close the door,
give it time, give it space,
set it free, let it find its own place.
The song in my head is of a Love so strong,
brings tears to eyes if Love has gone.
You stretch out your hand, catch me falling.
It’s the first step, in my recovery.
Jack McCann
La Pieta
La Pieta! The Pity!
The pitiful sight of a mother
and her dead son
lying across her lap.
The almost too young sad face
holding the sorrow of all mothers
wondering why,
why my Son?
Because it is written?
Give her space, privacy,
let her grieve her Son!
Let the white bluish Carrara marble weep
as the creation comes alive
in the hands and chisels
of the twenty three year old Florentine,
his name, the only time written
for all to see for ever more.
A momentary show of youthful ego!
You are allowed Michelangelo.
We are all proud of you.
Yellow Stars
Yellow stars herded into cattle trucks
in the dead of night to the waiting train,
no star knowing where they are bound.
Their faces know it is not the seaside.
They speak the same language
yet nothing is spoken, even the children are silent.
The music of their lives is already dead.
