In the heart of Redruth, amidst the tranquil Cornish landscapes, lives a remarkable man named Patrick. He has written over 100 poems, each one a glimpse into his heart and soul. Patrick takes care of his disabled wife every day, showing endless patience and love. A few years ago, he was diagnosed with cancer, and the medication he takes now lowers his testosterone, changing how he feels and acts. Yet, in the face of these changes, Patrick discovered solace and strength in the written word, penning over 100 poems and has become Patrick’s escape, a way to find peace and express his deepest thoughts.
We were very grateful when Patrick agreed to come in and read some of his poems out loud for us to record. His voice, filled with emotion, made his words come alive. Each poem shared a piece of his journey – whether this is around Redruth, in his back garden or while in deep reflection.
We are honoured to have recorded Patrick’s readings and to share his wonderful work with more people. His poems remind us that even in tough times, creativity and resilience can shine through.
“Hello. I’m Patrick McCarthy. I live in Wheal Rose and have done for 25 years. My wife has been there for 55 years and I’m quite old now at 73. I’m a carer for my wife who is disabled, and this is one of those rare, uh, respite times. So, this is how I spend my respite. I started writing poems, last year when I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. And despite this, there’s radiation therapy and all sorts of stuff that goes into that, but one of the things they also do is put you on hormone therapy. Hormone therapy means that they give you an injection that stops
the brain from producing hormones in the hippocampus, which should give the signal to produce testosterone. So, I virtually have no testosterone, and it’s changing me. Obviously, it’s changing me, and as soon as they did that, I started writing poetry and I’m now at 102, and now a day – a week – hardly goes by without me writing a poem. I am proudly – though sadly. I’m not Cornish – but I’m very proud of living here in Cornwall and love it here, dearly. I hope I put that into my poems.
Murdoch Day 2024
Boom, boom, the drums are thumping
Ageing rock star wailing
Yummy cakes somebody’s a-baking
Streets crammed full of people pushing
Everywhere air of celebration
Selling, buying, identifying with ‘Druth
Murdoch seems so long before
What I ardour is town alive once more,
Colour noise and people’s voices
Odour, things a-frying, burger grilling
This is thrilling, my home town zinging
Miner gazes down upon the scene
He knows his explosives
Would not dent this mood
He did all he could as Cornish folk do
To build this town for me and you
This is the town we build soul by soul
A new Redruth family, one and all.
Patrick
15 June ’24
Friday Mornings With Sarah
Twinkle Twinkle little star
Redruth Library is where we are
in magic circle of parents and infants
in memory now, so long ago, distant
when we sang together and clapped
the little hands of toddlers
proud gramps and granny carers
in innocent joy a new generation
surrounded by love in a temple of knowledge.
John Edwards his name, Passmore his mother
gave these buildings to us and eight others
Blackwater by; proudly Cornish
he gave something precious to all of us.
I’m a dingle dongle scarecrow
now I sing this song for you
all the things I learned back then
are very much still true
like love is unconditional, hope can be revived
our children are our future weave
the pattern of our lives, so
Redruth will always be their home
that’s all we need to know.
18th June ’24
HoneyBee
Everywhere there’s a hum of excitement in the air
born aloft on wings so slight, they’re almost not there
Yet still at that impossible speed, they lift your bodies high
You can fly; WheeeeEEEeeeEEE-oh Honeybee
You must always be busy and free, pollinating friend of flowers.
The wonder of your being life-enhancing
I could listen to you for hours, that hum of expectancy
Communicating with me, sharing
And in the hive, your sound sings the sounds of all summers,
you expect hummers
of ecstasy, tell the tales of lavender nectar
You wonderous pollen collectors
deeply cosmological connectors
Together, your hive is a hive of alive
within territory circumscribed
Hyperion of community pleasure
I wonder and treasure how wise the queen must be
with her fifty-thousand eyes.
Dream
(1) I was lying in the road
relax, no immenant danger
I had made my bed by the curb
like a car, parked; absurd.
Pocketbook in hand
but my pen just would not
make its mark upon the paper
This dream gets stranger
Just a street like any other
the kind of place where you find
dwellers converse with neighbours
my wife alongside, then gone missing
That she had made for our entertainment
(2) but not just static, whirling movement
all alive, energetic, visual wonder
And then I awoke from vivid slumber
untroubled by this curious dream
that still moved within my head
I understood its meaning in an instant
it was all about the words
dream pen could not turn into sentence
black lines of ink on paper
become vibrant image of my retina
(3) Words are pictures each and every one
no matter their size, words exercise
the imagination, each a world
that whirls and dances
life enhancing, library shelves
entrancing in their wealth
and like my dream place in the street
in library, we meet the like-minded
(4) Imagination our greatest asset
and books without a doubt
our most fabulous treasure
Just open a book and the pictures appear
turn one more page and I fear
You will not put it down
words and words and words profound
author and reader in spellbound merry-go-round.