Thirty years ago I joined the Connecticut Writing Project and haven’t recovered yet. Since then, I've tendered my drafts almost monthly in a writing group of other recovering CWP teachers. There’s a closeness among us we get nowhere else, as we share bits and pieces of our lives — our trials with truculent pianos, unpredictable children, and failing parents. Part is honing our craft, part is shaping our experiences, part is understanding who we are.
On the Isle of Inishmore
Back in the land of my forbears, I find
my foot tapping out jigs and reels, discover
again my fondness for bitter wit and ale.
I find my tongue with strangers on trains,
in pubs. And on the Isle of Inishmore
I find my faith. The sturdy rock walls
of a church, no door, no panes
left in the window casements,
no roof. No altar, pews, or congregants.
Just the laughing cries of seagulls and a
shell open to drizzle and fog and whatever
glimpse of sun should show itself.
© 2018 William McCarthy
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