Eugene J. McCarthy: Selected Poems (Library Binding)

~ Eugene J. McCarthy (Author), Ray Howe (Author)

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Product Description

This book offers a selection of 100 poems written by Eugene J McCarthy. His love for America has blessed us with political hope, and as a poet, his fine poetry provides a nourishment for our imaginations; poetry s critical role in culture. His experience as a U.S. Senator and a presidential candidate, along with other experiences are expressed well with the poems he shares here.

About the Author

Eugene J. McCarthy, author of nearly 30 books on such diverse topics as poetry, humor, non-science fiction (economics) and children's books for Certified Public Accountants represented Minnesota in the U.S. Senate and House of Representatives for more than two decades.

Product Details

• Library Binding: 154 pages
• Publisher: Lone Oak Press, An Imprint of Finney Company (January 1, 1997)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 1883477158
• ISBN-13: 978-1883477158
• Product Dimensions: 9.1 x 6.1 x 0.7 inches
• Shipping Weight: 11.2 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
• Average Customer Review: 5.0 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (1 customer review)
• Amazon.com Sales Rank: #1,881,379 in Books (See Bestsellers in Books)

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

3 of 3 people found the following review helpful:

5.0 out of 5 stars Poet Politician, March 8, 2006

By	sarvai - See all my reviews

Eugene McCarthy went to Lyndon Johnson's ranch and refused
to shoot one of the tame deer Johnson kept as hunting stock.
Perhaps that was a factor in Humphrey's being selected
rather than McCarthy as LBJ's running mate.

McCarthy spent some time in a monastery as a young man
before he entered public life.

His antiwar position galvanized the nation and caused the
withdrawal of Lyndon Johnson from the presidential race.

There is never an excess word in McCarthy's brilliant
and compassionate poetry.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD PLYMOUTH ROCK HEN

-by Senator Eugene McCarthy-


It was tragic when her time came
After a lifetime of laying brown eggs
Among the white of leghorns.
Now, unattractive to the rooster,
Laying no more eggs,
Faking it on other hens' nests,
Caught in the act,
Taken to the woodpile
In the winter of execution.


A quick stroke of the axe,
One first and last upward cast
Of eyes that in life
Had looked only down,
Scanning the ground for seeds and worms
And for the shadow of the hawk.
Now those eyes are covered
By yellow lids,
Closing from the bottom up.


Decapitated, she did not act
Like a chicken with its head cut off.
No pirouettes, no somersaults,
No last indignity.
Like an English queen, she died.
On wings that had never known flight.
She flew, straight into the woodpile,
And there beat out slow death
While her curdled voice ran out in blood.


A scalding and a plucking of no purpose.
No goose feathers for a comforter.
No duck's down for a pillow.
No quill for a pen.
In the opened body, no entrail message for the haruspex.
Not one egg of promise in the oviduct.
In the gray gizzard, no diamond or emerald,
But only half-ground corn,
Sure evidence of unprofitability.
The breast and legs,
The wings and thighs,
The strong heart,
The pope's nose,
Fit only for chicken soup and stew.
And then in March, near winter's end,
When bloodied and feathered wood is used,
The odor of burnt offerings
Above the kitchen stove.

-Eugene McCarthy-