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Nicholas McGaughey

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the poet

Nicholas McGaughey lives in Wales. He has new work in Lighthouse, Poetry Wales, And Other Poems, Bad Lilies, Stand and The London Magazine, as well as in Like Flyering for the Revolution: The VERVE Anthology of Protest Poems.

the poems

The Ring

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                        The old ring was lost or stolen,

                        bought on the never-never

                        on the eve of our empty chapel.


                        This new band has been forged

                        out of many declarations, spilling

                        from a box of old commitments


                        to be smelted in a crucible of clasp and chain:

                        one eternity, a keepsake that lost its charm

                        and the uncoupled links of a gold wristwatch.


                        Tokens given at font and altar,

                        that glowed on clutched pillow and sheet,

                        chucked or soaped-off by morticians …


                        All the muck of life is veined there 

                        in the circle of surname and children. 

                        A century of unions, paper, silver, ruby or gold.


                        I twist its weight from my finger, 

                        another ring is left: a transparent tattoo,

                        which heals, then disappears too.

der Stollen

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                        A town has slept in a hillside 

                        for a century. Men who left 

                        their livings for the Kaiser:

                        butchers, teachers, a clerk of works;


                        some two and a half hundred  

                        stooped in feldgrau, where blue firs 

                        have canopied the craters   

                        and spoil that tombed them.


                        There have been looters here

                        bent on old coins and trench-art, 

                        on watches that looped on

                        a week after the air expired.


                        Deep in the dug-outs, pictures 

                        of kinder, they never saw marry, 

                        watch over tables set with benches,

                        tin steins and chargers for a meal.


                        A strop hangs under the mirror

                        in the latrine, where a bone razor 

                        brush set and a nub of soap

                        anticipate a morning.

Anthem

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                        They stand for Wales in wind and rain,

                        impervious to elements that might

                        conspire to quell them. He, strumming his lyre, 

                        she, sturdy, plaited, our Lady of Verse.


                        In a town renowned for its bridge and song,

                        these monuments are springtime flocked

                        with daffodil and druid. In black bronze, 

                        they wait for The Prophesied Son, 


                        on the green acre of Ynysangharad, churned now

                        like a battlefield, limbed with trees,

                        where something dear was almost drowned.

                        After the flood, a nation stirs in a park.

Publishing credits

The Ring: Scintilla Magazine (No. 23)

der Stollen: And Other Poems (Issue One)

Anthem: The London Magazine (March 1st 2023)

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